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taegyuun · 3 years

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finally, the wings took off | pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3

genre: angst, fluff

pairing: sunghoon x reader

warnings: mentions of depression probs swearing

word count: 1.8k

“ok this is a great start already! you woke up... 5 minutes before you usually do....” sunghoons voice gradually faded out from being happy to disappointed after checking the time.

a week has passed since you met the said angel and the whole time he’s been trying to “fix” you, his words, not yours. and sure, you’ve made some improvements like waking up at different times and... well that’s about it. sunghoon thought that after a few days or so, you’d gradually grasp the concept of normal life or something in your brain would click and you would’ve had some grand epiphany that the way you’ve been living for the last few years of your life aren’t normal - but contrary to his beliefs, you were nothing of the sort.

you were also very difficult to work with; and incredibly stubborn. you’ve gotten more accustomed to living with the boy but listening to him tell you what to do was not exactly very entertaining on your behalf. sunghoon personally thought that ordering you would be the best way to go about your little situation, considering your life is based on routines and authoritative figures that came from school - but perhaps his idea wasn’t so great.

“sunghoon, i already told you. i don’t need some ‘guardian angel’ or whatever, i’m fine with the way that i live my life even if it isn’t whatever you would call an avergae teens life. i know that. you’re just wasting your time being here.” you sigh dejectedly. you were secretly hoping that somehow you would mange to get out of this hopeless routine. it was often a pain, reliving the same day every single second. but you yourself couldn’t do it. you had to have some sort of help; sunghoon just wasn’t great at it.

“well no matter what you believe, i have to stay here up until you live a normal life. and before you say anything, even if i go up to the upper angels and try to talk to them, theyll just instantly send me back down, because believe me... i’ve tried it many, many times.” his face wasn’t the usual soft almost nonchalant look that he typically wore, instead he seemed more aggravated.

“ok then. what if i just live my life “normally” for a week and then you can move onto another person because i’m “fine” and then i can go back to living my life the way i want to?” you ask after sitting up from bed, getting ready to do your usual stretch before heading to the bathroom. but before you could even reach your arms out, sunghoon was already pushing them down back to your sides before speaking himself,

“y/n you moron, the upper angels aren’t stupid. they literally see everything.” he stares blankly at you as you roll your eyes at his actions before looking around your room and mulling over the idea of actually contributing to his work and trying to change your life.

“fine i guess. i’ll try harder this time.” the sound of his cheering almost made your lips form a smile.

“so what now, huh?”

“well... maybe let’s go shopping? yeah i think that’s a good start. personally, i’m not very huge on shopping but that’s because i’m indecisive but you need to go food shopping and then we can go buy more clothes. y/n you need to start eating more various foods, alright?” sunghoon talks to you almost as if you’re a child, it gets irritating but you understand his reasonings behind it. you like to follow routines, and your routines have to be simple therefore he speaks to you simply.

“alright then, what food should i be eating?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“honestly anything but a balanced diet is the best,” and then sunghoon goes on about all the carbs you need to eat and what sort of proteins there are and all the other things that you already knew except didn’t own, or eat. as he talks to you, you’re already putting your shoes on and taking one of your jackets down from the hooks before quickly grabbing your car keys.

even though you didn’t seem like it, you felt excited for this new change. you were a complicated person. even though you had to have routines, you got bored of them quickly and sunghoon has somehow managed to spark some excitement into your life.

as you both walk down the block to get to your car, you get a few stares from the passerby’s. ok, maybe it wasn’t you who got the stares and it was perhaps the model that was beside you, but that’s just a minuscule detail that you could easily miss.

“sunghoon?” you hear a hum in reply.

“you do realise you’re really pretty? like, incredibly good looking.” instead of a normal reply, you hear a choke and then a fit of coughs. “don’t tell me you’re about to die from choking because someone complimented you? you’re an angel right? you’re meant to be pretty or something.”

“i dont usually get compliments from people alright? i’m not used to it, the most i get is whines from the higher ups or some old pervs trying to hit on me when i get some weird cases,”

“do you wanna talk about it?”

“there isn’t much to talk about, it’s not like they can actually touch me considering i’m an angel so theres nothing to ever worry about.” neither of you realised that you were already in the car, driving and almost at the supermarket. he looks over and sees your brows in a furrow, an obvious sign of confusion. before he gets to ask anything, you beat him to it.

“wait so... i cant touch you? like not even high five or anything? that’s so cool! you’re like... i don’t know, the things in movies- you’re like a ghost!” sunghoon was going to tell that you can actually touch him, only when granted permission, but your expression and the contrast in your voice from usual monotone and bored, stopped him as he instead hummed in agreement and softly smiled, grabbing a shopping cart and heading inside the store.

you huffed as you set down the last bags full of food that you had either never tried or forgotten the taste of down onto your kitchen counter. you then started taking the products out of the bags and placing them in their correct cupboards or shelves in the fridge and some in the freezer.

after you were finally finished with the tedious job, you look over at sunghoon who was leaning against the door frame to your kitchen, as you beamed proudly at him. he lets out a soft laugh as he walks closer to you and looks at what you did to your kitchen.

“you see, look how many choices you have! all the cupboards are full and the possibilities you have with all these ingredients!” you’re surprised at how excited he seemed for you and your now discovered love for placing things away. “whenever you get hungry, tell me so i can teach you new recipes, alright?” you quickly nod at him as he walks off, letting his large wings appear out of his back. he rolls his shoulders and releases a loud sigh and groan, softly propping down onto your couch.

“yeah, why do you even do that? y’know... keep your wings in. isn’t it painful?” you ask as you walk closer to him, before sitting down onto the seat next to the angel.

“i wouldn’t say it necessarily hurts but it’s more like when you sit in one position too long and then you stand up and stretch. i have to do it so i don’t make myself invisible and make you look like you’re a fool speaking to yourself.”

“then... whenever we don’t go out, just have them out! whenever we’re here alone just leave them how they are, let your back rest.”

“i think that’s a good idea,” he then softly smiles at you as his arms extend across the back of the couch, before letting his head roll back and fall onto the the soft cushioning below

more weeks pass, and it has finally reached the mark of sunghoon being your gurdian angel for almost 4 months. you’ve changed an indescribable amount - it occurred to you after a deep talk with sunghoon that routines bored you, but you simply didn’t know what to do with yourself and how to live your life.

you were honestly glad to meet the guardian angel.

you now went out at random times simply for your own will, and you cooked different recipes almost everyday - trying new food constantly. you changed your style and did a whole 180. but sunghoon didn’t want you to completely change, he only wanted you to live like a teen. so, he obviously let you keep certain things the way you liked it; the days you did your laundry or which days you went shopping.

it was nice having him around.

but, the dreaded question had to be asked.

“sunghoon... are you going to leave soon?” you quietly asked, as you went out to latch onto his sweatshirt - another thing you learnt which you could do, only with his consent.

“i’m not sure, y/n. but why ask?” he stopped stirring his coffee with the tea spoon and instead looked down at you with a confused expression.

“it’s just... aren't guardian angels meant to only stay till their case is better? i mean, you’ve figured out why my chart was empty and now i live how i should've lived all along. is there anything you can even do now?”

and then it was silent. it didn’t even occur to the boy that he had completed his task. he had nothing else to do in the human world that was correlated to you. he plainly had no reason to stay, even if he wanted to.

“... do... do you want me to leave?” you almost tug at his arm in anger at the stupid question.

“are you insane? of course i don’t want you to leave! you’re the one who made me finally feel happy, there- there must be a way you could stay... right? or do you want to go?” now it was sunghoons turn to latch onto your arm in disbelief.

“why would i want to leave? i love it here, y/n. being here with you completely changed my life. i’m not chained to some random criminal and i don’t have a crap ton of responsibilities that i couldn’t care less about, it’s literally heaven down here for me... ironic i know, but it is! if i could stay, i promise you, i would.” during his words, his hands moved up from holding onto your arm to cupping your face in his warm and gentle hands. you leant into his touch, with a coil of unfortune building up in your stomach; as if your body knew this might have been the last times you’d feel his soft touch.

“sunghoon please... don’t leave me.”

“i’ll stay for as long as possible, even if it means my wings are taken off.”

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lonelyshrimp · 4 years

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What happened with your roomies if you don’t mind me asking...?

Yknow what I’m in a mood and they don’t know my tumblr (haha they think I’m a cisstraight girl lol) so let’s get into some shit. Imma put everything under a read more bc imma rant a bit and this is gonna get long.

TW: food, unsanitary (general things not being kept clean, typically bathroom and kitchen related), drug use, fighting, slurs

tl;dr if you dont feel like reading this beast:

They steal what food i dare leave out in the kitchen rather tan keep in my room

They slam doors excessively, fight, yell horrible things to each other, have friends over yelling at like 2 am (last night for example)

Leave the doors unlocked and open?? We cant even lock the front door anymore??? (Dw the doors to our rooms all have locks. If I’m in my room or out of the house, my door is locked)

Constantly throw around the r slur. Like. All the time. Including one person having called me it. Y i k e s

One person keeps smoking in the house even though i’ve asked numerous times (and even have a note on my door) asking people to please smoke outside, it gives me headaches. You are physically hurting me stop.

Don’t Clean Anything. The kitchen is a wreck. The toilets are constantly clogging, I Am In Hell.

For context: the house is a one story house divided into a main floor and finished basement. It’s a rooming house and the basement is largely seperate from upstairs. (They have a kitchen door that they keep closed and locked.) The stairs to the basement are split into two smaller flights, with a landing in between the floors. That’s where the side door is. The public spaces upstairs are the kitchen (connects to stairs), the hallway, and the two bathrooms (big main one, tiny water closet by the front door). The rest of the upstairs is split into five rooms. For comprehension sake, we’ll call my roommates: The Couple (M&F), A, T, and J.

Mmkay lets start with the least egregious and move our way up, shall we? Theft! Of anything and everything! No one can have anything out in the public areas if they actually care about it. It. Will. Get. Stolen. Now, I have a mini fridge and the second biggest room here, so I’m lucky in that 99% of my groceries, as well as all my other belongings, fit in my room. There’s just a wee problem: I don’t have a freezer. Not to fear, past naïve me thought, I’ll just clean out and use the locked freezer since I still have the keys for that fridge! (We have two fridges and food theft was a problem beforehand and so me and my friend who lived here cleaned out the second fridge to use as our own and kept it locked.) I decided to do this after I had bought myself some ice cream, wrote my name on the top, and put it in the main freezer. I go to have some ice cream later that week, I open the tub for the first time (as in I removed the seal holding the lid onto the tub) to find that someone eaten half the tub of ice cream while making it seem like it hadn’t been opened. I know it happened at home bc the spoon marks were clear as day and I have to walk 20 minutes back from the grocery store. That woulda melted by then (Also I would’ve noticed at the store that. The tub was hella lopsided??? And way too light???) So yea of course I’m ticked now, I spent 6 bucks on that bro like just ask or get ur own??? So I put it the other freezer, and for a while it’s fine. Next month I decide to treat myself to some frozen waffles and some chicken strips and come home to find that the hinges holding the locks onto the doors of the fridge were torn out of the fridge/freezer doors. Like. The screws were pried outta this metal door rendering the locks completely useless (to the point i wouldn’t even be able to put the hinges back on.) And the cherry on top?? My ice cream was gone!!! Hope u enjoyed it, asshole. So whatever. Fine. I put my food away and. a week later?? Im like “Man i could go for some waffles rn”. I bought 2 8 packs. One chocolate chip, one cinnamon (y’all i literally buy the cheapest ones Zehrs sells. 2,19$ a box y’all. not even eggos). Surprise surprise!! The entire box of choccy chip ones GONE. Mind u, i wrote my name on all of these boxes, as well as a very large “DO NOT EAT”. so i begrudgingly had a couple (note that, 2) cinnamon waffles and move on. A couple days later I go to have some more and. The waffles are completely gone. Out of a total of 16 waffles, ya boy got a solid 2. (It’s worth noting that there was a single waffle left, but at 0,27$ a waffle, I didn’t mind leaving the box on the table with a note basically reading “these are cheap af, buy ur own bitch”.) (I didn’t swear that much tho)

I’d add the bike to the list but i can’t confirm nor deny that one of my roommates stole my tires and seat off my bike (although M does work on bikes all the time so man idk.)

Next up: wow people here are l o u d. I’m talking slamming doors all the time, slamming things around, yelling, playing music wildly loud. It’s awful. Like. You can just. Close the door quietly? Stop slamming things around please? It’s awful because loud sudden noises make me panic and lemme tell ya, wakin up at eight am bc your a-hole roommate decided to slam the door eight times bc the front door is broken because someone took the border around the jamb off instead of fixing it so we can actually?? lock that door?? because it doesnt quite fit in the jamb and so the only wat to lock it was the chain lock and. someone took that too so thats fun :)))))). The side door isn’t that much better. We have a code lock and. No One Ever Locks It. Like. I’ll come outta room and?? It’s just open????? Close the door???????????

The worst, however, is the fucking fighting. The Couple love to argue all the time. and yell at each other and slam the doors or smashing shit and they yell pretty awful things to each other. Like. I’ve heard M call his gf some awful shit. It’s worse when they have people over too. The other day there were like. 14 cops in here bc of them at like 2 am. Cue me, 2 am, trying to watch a livestream and seeing like??? Six cop cars pull up????? Wh a t????? Not fun not good for my brain.

God and. What is with everyone and the r slur??? Like what?? there are so many words you can choose stop using that word. Like okay the other night someone?? took the dc adapter for the wireless modem and one of the dudes downstairs as well as the couple were looking to see if they had a compatible dc adapter and so i just decided to wait?? and i just spaced out a bit okay whatever i was lookin at the wall like i do and fuckin. the couple had a couple friends over and one of em was chillin between the kitchen and the hall and M yells out from his room “Hey don’t you feel weird with this creepy ass bitch standing next to you? Like what is she, m*ntally r*tarded?” like wow okay dude i’m literally not doing anything. Luckily his friends reaction was basically “?? She lives here?? She can stand there if she wants??” (wow referring to myself as she feels weird and wrong).

A big problem I have is I feel like theres a community in this house that I just don’t fit into? Part of it is I’m like. the only person here who doesn’t do drugs of any kind?? Like I have nothing against ppl who use drugs like whatever bro, but it feels super othering to me when i can’t relate to anyone here because of it. That and. Getting T in particular but really just anyone but A to respect me asking that if you’re going to smoke anything to do it outside because weed and to a lesser extent cigarette smoke trigger my sensory disorder and causes me pain and causes sensory overload and I still find myself asking people to smoke outside.Like I’ve never been unreasonable and said “no drugs in the house” or some bs. I’m just asking u to respect my disability thanks.And like?? I’ll get into this in a second but there were needles in the toilet?? Bro throw them out properly.

And now: Hell.

Can no one clean up after themselves?? Do your dishes. If theres food left on your plate, throw it out first, don’t dump it in the sink. Seriously the kitchen sink is fucked. The kitchen is gross. The microwave ugh ugh ugh no thanks. No one can clean everything. This is why all my cookware and dishes are in my room. That way I can make sure I 1) Still Own It and 2) Its clean and usable. I clean them as I go and just use my own shit.

Nothing compares to the bathrooms, though. It seems like every other day one of the toilets are clogged. Last week there were spoons in the sink?? Like at least 10 spoons. In the bathroom sink. The floor is dirty because no one owns a mop and?? there was one in the kitchen?? I haven’t seen it in like a month. And the worst of all. Okay, it’s really bad when every one up here is between like. 16 and 19 I think? And I had to put up a sign in the bathroom asking people to flush when you’re done??? And I still have to flush before I can use the washroom???? And it feels like every week or so. The toilet’s clogged. Oh! I forgot to mention that the water closet doesn’t even have a doorknob anymore. Someone took it. But wait, it gets worse. Seriously if extremely unsanitary things bother u, stop reading now.

Twice in the past month I’ve had to contact the landlord because the toilets were beyond clogged. The first time was bad but oh lord nothing compares to the second time (aka last week). The first time was your pretty standard toilet clogs and backs up and its very gross. I contacted the landlord and it was fixed the next day and it was fine. For. Two Days. Im serious. See. People here have a real issue it seems of “The person before me didn’t flush so neither will I”, leading to a toilet bowl full of like. a half a roll of toilet paper and waste. F u n. What that led to was the toilet clogging, people not doing anything about it, and continuing to use it. Eventually the toilet bowl was full, so trow a shopping bag over the lid to mark the toilet as “Out of order” and move on to the other one.Both toilets were completely unusable. I emailed the landlord and i don’t know if either they or one of the people living here contacted them, but the old landlord and old property manager were here the other day to clean them out and fix them?? and yea among all the standard waste you’d expect in a toilet, there were needles? Like buddy theres a trash can right there? I know u had the needle caps bc they were in there too. just... disgusting...

bro this is just what i can think of off the top of my head i know theres more but oh no this is so long now. just. this is a lot more detail than u wanted but i wanted to get this out of my brain??

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dont-offend-the-bees · 4 years

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for the ask game: 1, 29, 22, 8

1. if someone wanted to really understand you, what would they read, watch, and listen to?

Read: Can’t think of much off hand right now that particularly connects to my self-identity, but to understand the roots of my creativity and the worlds/stories I like to enagge with and make I’d recommend the Edge Chronicles series!

Watch: to understand a bit of my mental state/creative struggle growing up, definitely Whisper of the Heart. For identity stuff, I agree/identify with Daniel Howell’s Basically I’m Gay a LOT, although we had very different school experiences. I also have more gender dysphoria than he does, but agree that I also might as well be called a formless blob.

Listen to: See answers to 29/8!

29. three songs that you connect with right now.

I have a whole playlist of music that connects with/describes me from my lowest to highest self esteem lmao, but if I had to pick three from it I’d say... Hugs by the Lonely Island is gonna be me the s e c o n d it’s safe to go around touching people again, Bored by Tessa Violet is sorta my permanent struggle/mental state (when I’m not just in sheer bloody panic about the state of the world kfhdfk), and pretty much all the Ezra Furman’s are a permanent mood for me but right now I’d say Can I Sleep in Your Brain is the biggest mood, I’m sure in that ‘lemme just stop thinking and hand over the reins for a while’ kinda state.

22. list the top five things you spend the most time doing, in order.

I could fill this entire list with variations of ‘watching stuff’, so to be fairer to myself I’ll lump those into one lmao

Watching stuff (largely rewatches atm, no thoughts, head empty, theres a lot of Taskmaster and Hbomberguy in there)

Scrolling twitter/tumblr semi-obsessively- I’m always on the alert for petitions to sign, I’m sort of building up my own spreadsheet of useful links and resources too

Reading- I’m tryna get back into this, I re-read the Hunger Games lately and now I’m on the prequel, plus I’m doing a lot of fanfic! Gotta read/comment on another Beginner Bang fic tonight ^^

Fic planning/writing. Largely in small doses atm. I also keep trying to come back to some original stories but they’re a lot harder to get started with.

Thinking about clothes to make/customisation. Hopefully when I’ve got my sewing machine co-operating I can turn this point into actually making/customising them lmao.

8. what musical artists have you most felt connected to over your lifetime?

It’s more recent but I feel very connected to Ezra Furman’s music, it really hits me where my gender euphoria/dysphoria hits. Going back further I was definitely raised on a lot of David Bowie, and that appeciation stayed when i started questioning my sexuality/gender. I loved a lot of the 60s-70s music I was raised on but a lot of the music I sort of identify with has come to me with more recent discoveries, like cavetown and Hozier and Dorian Electra. I’d also give a shout-out to MIKA, who was one of my faves in the mid-2000s and has grown in overt queerness with me!

Thanks for the ask lovely!! <333

Send me an identity ask! Or any ask, tbh, I’m fucking done with everything today and I’m trying to distract myself a lot

#therightprometheanfire #ask game #answers #about me

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cottoncandyshawn · 6 years

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Babydoll Dancer (Part 2)

Synopsis: Shawn hasn’t heard anything from y/n since the night he saw her on stage. Becoming fed up of waiting, he takes matters into his own hands.

Warnings: Mentions of smut in the start, but thats about it I think!

Word Count: 2k

Like and reblog if you enjoyed this xx

He had tried to busy himself with paperwork. Tried to occupy his mind with thoughts of anything other than her, but it always found its way back, causing his heart to skip a beat and his chest to flush. He couldn't help but remember the way her hips had swayed to the music playing over the speakers, or the way the light coating of sweat on her chest shone under the bright lights. The way her eyes held contact with his, like she was trying to figure him out.

It had been almost two weeks since he gave her his name and number, bolting out of the hidden burlesque lounge soon after so that he could tend to his throbbing length, which had been trapped in the confines of his tight pants.

He found himself checking his phone more often than he would on a regular business day, disappointment settling deep within his chest when he found no texts and no missed calls. He wondered if the unspoken chemistry they shared that night was just all a part of her act, and that he'd read too far into it in the moment; too caught up in the lust and butterflies of it all to notice.

It wasn’t often that he got restless when he was alone in his penthouse, but restless was an understatement of what he was feeling this evening. Had this been any night prior to watching Babydoll dance, he would have busied himself with office work, signing papers, finalising deals; anything to keep himself occupied until he was ready to retire for the night.

Some nights he would settle himself in bed even earlier than usual. His underwear neglected somewhere on the floor as he tugged at his leaking cock desperately, his head alternating between tipping back and exposing his throat as he gasped and moaned, and watching the naked woman on his laptop screen take whatever her man was giving her. The act leaving him satisfied as he would wonder into the ensuite bathroom to clean up the mess of a painting he had created across his chiseled abdomen and flushed chest.

Tonight was different though, he couldn’t concentrate on anything, with the memory of how her lips had wrapped around her index finger clouding his mind. The image of how she had sucked away the champagne, holding eye contact with him until it all became too much and he had to look away had embedded itself in his brain. It replayed vividly every time he closed his eyes, keeping him awake and as restless as the flickering Toronto city lights.

Sighing heavily, Shawn pushes away from his kitchen counter, his fingers combing his messy curls away from his face. He wasn’t angry or frustrated, he was simply confused. Everything her body language was telling him that night in the dimly lit room was saying that she was as interested as he was. He’d left the ball in her court. Grabbing a water bottle from the refrigerator, he leaned against his cold, marble bench tops and sipped from the glass vessel. He wondered if the reason she hadn’t called was his own fault. Had he given her the wrong number? Did she not see the note?

Placing the bottle down on the counter, he pulled his phone out to check the day.

Saturday, 10:05 PM

Remembering that she said she danced every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, serving every other day; a knowing smile crept up onto his features. Pushing off the bench he made a beeline for his room to change into his black jeans and a maroon button down shirt, his excitement building as he grabbed his car keys and headed to the out towards his Jeep.

The club was exactly how he remembered it as he payed his entry fee and pulled back the thick, ruby red curtain. The strong scent of sweat and cheap cologne hitting him all at once as his eyes adjusted to the dim lights. Searching the room, there was no sight of her, only other waitresses and older men with their hands covering their crotches and their eyes glued to the dancers on stage. Making his way over to the bar, he had to pause for a moment as he spotted her. There she was, looking so cute as she moved around behind the bar, a concentrated expression falling over her features as she appeared to be mixing a drink. It was busier tonight, the atmosphere in the small burlesque lounge buzzing with adrenaline and lust. She looked stressed and it made him worry that now may not have been the best time to interrupt.

Pushing his thoughts and hesitation aside, he made his way to the bar, standing in front of her, taking note of how her lips pouted ever so slightly as she dedicated her focus to the task at hand. She must have felt eyes on her as she smiled and looked up, her expression dropping as they locked eyes. She remembered him, how could she not?

He realised that he was staring, a blush finding its way to his cheeks and his hands becoming clammy as he battled with the excitement bubbling over in the pit of his stomach… what the hell was happening to him?

“Hi,” he spoke first, his teeth showing in a relieved smile behind his pink lips.

“Uh, hi! Nate, our bartender will be with you in a moment-“

“I’m actually not here for the show. Do you- do you have time to talk?” He played with the ring on his finger, a nervous habit he had picked up over the years as things started getting serious at work.

“I’m working,” she spoke bluntly as she made her way out from behind the bar, grabbing her serving tray and beginning to weave her way between tables to serve drinks to patrons.

He couldn’t help himself as his eyes travelled south on her body, appreciating the curve of her hips with a low hum deep in his chest as she sauntered away from him.

Realising that she was moving farther away from his at a fast pace, he made the quick decision to walk fast and catch up to her, apologising to audience members as his large frame momentarily blocked their view.

“Can we please talk for a moment? I promise it’ll only be quick, please-“

She fought back the urge to smirk as she interrupted him… was he begging?

“Shawn, I said I’m working! Come back another time,” she spoke louder, frustration evident in her tone.

‘She said my name. So, she did get the note,’ Shawn thinks to himself.

Just as she decides to continue walking away from him, his hand reaches out and gently grips onto her upper arm. He looks at where his hand is placed and notices how soft her skin is, small bumps arise under his warm grip and it softens the mood slightly.

His eyes trail up slowly, meeting her’s as he searches for any signs of hesitation.

“I really need to talk to you. Please.”

His eyes bore into her’s, pleading her silently to agree to a quick conversation.

She pauses, as if she’s thinking. Weighing up the pros and cons of being one-on-one with him. She’s nervous, he can tell. It runs through her like electricity, lighting up her gorgeous eyes with worry, or maybe that was just the spotlight searching the room for the current performer. Either way, it didn’t matter to him. She was in front of him, and she was beautiful.

She lets out a huff, and it’s as if they’d both been holding their breath, waiting for the other to react first.

“Go wait at the bar, I’ll be there in a few,” she sighs out in defeat.

A thankful grin crosses his features as the look in his eyes screams a million thanks.

Sitting at the bar, he orders himself a rum and coke. The alcoholic liquid calms his nerves momentarily as he sips on it slowly, not at all phased by the performance on stage as he scrolls through his phone, waiting for her to finish up serving drinks. He can feel eyes burning into him and when he glances up, he’s met with a pissed off glare from Nate, who is standing on the other end of the bar as he dries a few martini glasses. Thinking nothing of it, he looks down at his phone again, until he hears Nate clear his throat and he looks up, yet again meeting his burning eyes. Shawn raises his eyebrows and offers a friendly smile, only to be scoffed at. Before he has the chance to react, he feels someone take the drink out of his hand and place it on the bar-top, relief washing over him when he realises that it’s y/n and not some stranger looking to start a pointless fight.

She grabs his hand and leads him behind the bar into a the storage room, locking the door behind her before she crosses her arms over her chest and turns her body to face him. His cheeks are flushed when he thinks about the position he’s in; locked in a storage closet with the girl that drives him wild. He felt like he was at a trashy college frat party again.

Silence fills the room for a few seconds, the tension in the room almost too much to be able to breathe. Shawn opens his mouth to say something but she cuts him off before a sound can push its way out of his lungs.

“Just so you know, theres a massive difference between a prostitute and a burlesque performer. My body isn’t for sale,” her voice stern as her eyes hold a sense of dominance.

“Wait… what?” Confusion evident as his body language and tone of voice shift.

“You said I didn’t have to dance for money and you gave me your number. I got your note. I got the message loud and clear, Shawn.”

“You think I thought you were a prostitute? No, I wanted you to call me so that I could ask you out on a date, y/n,” he laughs out, a little bit shocked by her assumptions. Of course this would happen to him, he’d find a girl who intrigues him and she thinks he wants to hire her for the night.

“Oh… Well- well what about saying I don’t have to dance for money?” She stumbles over her words, the embarrassment of misunderstanding the simple gesture making itself known in the form of a warm, pink stain across her cheeks.

“That’s something I’ll explain to you if you let me take you to dinner?”

“Alright then, Wednesday night. I finish up here around 8, we can go for a late dinner?”

“Sounds perfect, I’ll pick you up!”

“Oh no, it’s okay I can-“

“Let me? Or is turning down my offers kind of your thing?” He questions playfully, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes at her, as if he’s trying to figure her out.

She laughs in front of him for the first time tonight, and it’s almost as intoxicating as the rum and coke he didn’t have the chance to finish earlier in the night.

“Oh my god, I wish we could start over! You probably think I’m so rude,” she giggles out, her fingers pushing her stray hairs out of her face.

He offers her his hand as if he’s introducing himself for the first time. Her eyes trailing up to look into his eyes questioningly.

“Hi, I’m Shawn. I don’t think you’re a prostitute, but I would really like to get to know you if you’ll let me.”

She bites her lip and looks down at his extended hand as she smiles, fighting back a squeal of excitement. Placing her small hand in his as she locks eyes with his. The lighting in the storage room allowing her to take a proper look at his features. She takes note of his eye colour, a deep hazel; easily mistaken for brown, but she sees the green and yellow flecks in his sparkling orbs.

“They call me Babydoll around here, but you can call me y/n if you want,” she says, amused by how ridiculous they must look.

He leans down slightly, bringing her delicate hand towards his face and looks into her eyes with a smirk as he presses a slight kiss to her knuckles, causing her blush to darken and his heart to skip a beat.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes x y/n #shawn mendes x reader #Babydoll Dancer #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes series #shawn mendes fanfic #please like and reblog if you enjoyed #cotton candy writing #shawn mendes blog #sm #shawn peter raul mendes #fan blog

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crewhonk · 6 years

Text

Glovebox

Warnings: Swearing, Fluff, bad poetry (w the first poem, not the second)

Pairings: Billy X Reader

Words: 4,000

AN: There’s a little bit of reference to the brain storming convo the Gorilla Gang had on Friday, and theres a specific reference to the thing that makes Annie (@dacre-thotgomery) want to die, so theres that! Enjoy! xx (shoutout to Rupi Kaur for Y/N’s poem)

Tag List: @veronica-lodge-photography

Billy Hargrove had moved into Hawkins in the beginning of October. He rolled in with cold fall air, and the smell of Camel cigarettes, and with the motivation to dominate everyone in Hawkins high school. He started with Steve Harrington, belittling him in the hallways and on the basketball court, later beating him near death in later November and facing three months of community service in the soup kitchen. He also dominated most of the girl in Hawkins, minus a few and the few consisted of one girl in junior year who looked a little too much like his little sister, Max, Nancy Wheeler- as she was dating Jonathan Byers, the rest of the girls in happy relationships and then there was you. You, who was the Pom team captain, decathlon leader, and tutor of physics. You had healthy hair, you had a gorgeous smile, you had a sparkle in your eye and you volunteered on Saturdays at the soup kitchen. You weren’t exactly a stranger to him, you volunteered on the same days and he gave you rides to and from the kitchen. So why did Billy seem to almost avoid asking you to do anything? Literally, if he even wanted to hold hands you’d be down.

You pushed your tray away from you and smashed your face into the lunch table. The cool surface of the lunch table froze your face and you kicked your best friend, Jo when she laughed loudly at you. You straightened up after a few minutes and wiped away the forehead-shaped foundation mark from the table with your sweater sleeve.

“I mean, why doesn’t he even look at me outside of the Kitchen. I don’t understand? I’m hot, I’m talented, I’m fun, I’m down to make out and let him grab my butt I don’t understand.” You whined quietly. You didn’t want anyone outside of this table section to hear about your low-key obsession with the King.

“Honestly, I don’t know why he hasn’t even spoken to you because he’s literally undressing you with his eyes right now.” She laughed, sucking on the straw to her orange juice box. You turned around on the bench and caught Billy’s eye before his head whipped his gaze away from you.

“Oh, whatever, Joanne. You slept with him what? Two weeks ago? He’s obviously hung up on you.” You wrinkled your nose at her and held your apple in your hand like a Shakespeare skull. “Where for art thou is Joanne’s self-respect?”

“In my vagina-crevice.” She smiled back, taking your apple from your hand and biting a chunk out of it and slamming it back on your tray, making sure to bruise it.

“I hate you.” You sighed, shoving a handful of Goldfish in your mouth. Joanne laughed at you and swung her legs over the bench, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and pointing behind you.

“Incoming, dude.”

You were forced to turn around and came face to face with Billy Hargrove’s belt buckle. “Eye’s up here, Y/L/N.”

You felt blood rush to your neck, ears, and chest quickly and the room became very hot very quickly. You looked at him through your lashes, and he parted his lips at the angle he had of you.

“What do you want, Hargrove?”

“I want you to make coffee for us tomorrow.” You looked up at him, craning your neck to look fully up at him. His hand came up to hold your chin in-between his thumb and the crook of his pointer finger. You grabbed his wrist and shoved it away from you. “You can pick me up early and we can get coffee on the way— I’ll buy.”

“Well, I can’t let you do that the girl is never supposed to pay for the man.”

“First of all, that’s sexist. Second of all, you need to save for rent if you ever want to get out of that god-forbidden house. Third of all, I want to pay.” You said, standing up and pushing him away from you. He only smiled down at you and he picked your books up from the ground, leading you to your next class and walking in, placing the books down on your desk and ruffling your hair.

“See you tomorrow, then?” He asked, walking backward and biting his bottom lip while he smiled at you.

“I expect you to be half an hour early.” You confirmed. You sat down and twirled your pencil between your fingers and smiling to yourself. Carol, however, hadn’t looked away from you since the moment you two walked into the room. She popped a large bubble and chewed on the gum loudly.

“Finally, he got the balls to ask you out?” She asked, leaning over and kicking your calf muscle. You looked at her, brows furrowed and blinked slowly.

“Pardon?”

“He finally asked you out? He’s been planning to ask you forever, he just loses his mind whenever he sees you. He’s so freaked out because he doesn’t want to just fuck you.” She said, twirling the string of gum around her finger. You felt as if your heart and stomach dropped to your feet, leaving cold caverns in their place.

“He— um, he didn’t? We have uh, we have to volunteer tomorrow at the soup kitchen downtown. We didn’t start anything.” You blanched, feeling as if your eyes were going to fall out of your head. Carol’s eyes widened in fear and regret before she turned her body fully towards the front of the class. “Carol, what the fuck are you talking about?” She didn’t reply, only gripping her pencil harder in her hand and clenching her jaw tight.

When Billy showed up at your house the next morning half an hour early, you would have liked to be more prepared. You were trying your hair into a ponytail at the nape of your neck and no matter how hard you looked you couldn’t find your left shoe. Billy honked the horn once more and with a loud groan you gave up and shoved your foot in a similar shoe, hoping to any higher power that was out there that Billy wouldn’t notice.

When you got into his car, you had to look over at him and remind him that he needed to drive the car to get anywhere. When you looked at him, however, you were struck speechless by the look on his face. His mouth looked like there had been a smile carved into it so wide it showed all of his teeth. His blue eyes were shining with laughter that had yet to burst from his chest and there were wrinkles sprouting from the outer corners of his eyes like roots from a tree. As you caught your breath, he reached over and wiped a bit of toothpaste from the corner of your mouth.

“Who knew that someone who was so well put together and who was as cute as you could also be such a hot mess.” He laughed, pulling out into the street, not looking over to gauge your reaction at his compliment. Your jaw hit your toes, and you directed your attention out of your window to hide the giddy blush that was spreading over your entire body.

The drive to Starbucks was a quiet one, but the silence that you two sat in was anything but uncomfortable. The soft sounds of whatever pop radio station Billy was playing crooned words you didn’t bother paying attention to and the windows had been rolled down, letting the fresh late-spring air flood through the car. It smelled like water, and dew, and blooming flowers and smelled more and more like fresh coffee the closer you got to the cafe. The sun was shining down on the blue paint, and it glittered in response, shining in your eyes and warming your skin.

Billy pulled the car over and asked you what you wanted, grabbing his wallet from the glove box and dashing into the store— the desperation for caffeine making him rush. You waited for five minutes before he came back empty-handed.

“They’re just grinding the beans, and warming up the pastries for us— they said it would be about ten minutes before we get everything. Apparently, they’re technically not open yet-- but only a select few can resist the charm of Billy Hargrove.” He laughed, leaning on the driver side window. “You good out here while I make sure they get our orders right?”

“Yeah, I’m good in here. Be nice to the barista’s, William.”

“Okay I told you my full name in confidence and you’re using it against me, Doll?”

“I’m not stupid enough to believe that your mother signed off on a birth certificate where your name was Billy.”

“Billy is a perfectly fine name, you know!” He retorted, his tongue slipping past his teeth and running across his bottom lip. He tapped his hand on the car twice before straightening up and sauntering into the cafe, making sure to swing his hips just enough for your eyes to drift down to them. God, you were whipped and he didn’t even know it. Sure, you had found out yesterday from Carol that he apparently felt the same way, but she was known for stirring the pot when things got too quiet. She saw the way you reacted to Billy being in the room, and she especially saw the way your eyes sparkled when he talked to you. You were a smitten kitten and Carol was just shitting around, right?

You pondered the way your life was in Carol’s hands for another five minutes before you got restless and began seeing what you could entertain yourself with for the duration of your stay in this car. You picked the dirt from under your nails, but that only took fifteen seconds tops. You checked to see if your mismatched shoes (god help you) were tied, and you re-tied them. Then, your eyes drifted to the glove box. Billy made sure to always keep his favorite and most dear things to him in there if the need to flee ever came up. You knew opening it was a breach of trust and privacy and he had told you that if anything went missing from the box, he would probably die. (“jesus, who raised you to be so dramatic?” “mom watched a lot of soaps— it’s basically bred into me.” “please don’t say it like that.”)

Your fingers brushed along the handle of it, one final chance to turn back on your decision. You pulled on the handle, and the hatch swung down so quickly you thought that would have all spilled onto the floor. (you’d have to run away then, probably move to Canada or some other far away place so he wouldn’t kill you). The contents, however, stayed tucked into the nook and you reached forward to root through the contents. There were a few developed pictures, one of Max and The Party sleeping in the basement of the Wheelers house. There was one of a younger and much chubbier Billy smiling next to a woman, his mother you assumed (they were spitting images of one another) on a pier in California. There was another one of the same woman— now bald with skin almost clinging to the bones underneath— sitting in a hospital wheelchair as Billy (now filled out, but still soft around the edges) rode on the back of the chair, smiles wide over both of their faces as the breeze from the speed of the chair racing down the hall blew his hair back. There was another picture, of him and the basketball team after they won championships this year— Billy had a thick arm wrapped around Steve’s shoulders and Steve was laughing as the flash went off.

Underneath the stack of pictures, there were three large packets of Marlboro cigs laying still in their plastic, you laughed as you moved them aside, revealing a pack of hair ties, a pair of scissors and finally, a thick leather journal.

It looked like it had seen some hard days. The spine of the book was missing, having detached from the cloth underneath. The revealed spine had a handful of staples and duct tape holding it together— as if someone had offhandedly tried to fix it, not caring too much about how it looked. There was a cut on the back, slicing the leather in half and revealing the back page. You opened the book and flipped through the pages that had flowers, and leaves and grass taped to the pages. There were tiny words scrolled between the flower-frames Billy had made, complete with a title, and the date at the very top of the page. You flipped the pages slowly, not wanting to break any flower stems or lose any pictures he had taped on the back of the poems he had written. You flipped until you reached the last page he wrote on, because holy shit, there was a picture of you. It had been a cutout from the local newspaper, and it was from the Christmas Eve meal you had volunteered for, and Billy was beside you, smiling down at you as if he was the sun itself. The article was talking about the philanthropic demographic that was raising its head in Hawkins, and you had known that there would be a piece done about the Kitchen, but you had never expected to be the main article picture and you certainly didn’t expect your picture to be in Billy’s journal. On the adjacent page, there were some yellow wildflowers you had picked one day and given to Billy as he filled the car up with gas. You had tucked them into the mirror above his head and he had only commented about how they took away from his masculinity. You had told him to suck it up and enjoy them, as one's masculinity was fragile if he was put off by the sight of wildflowers.

Your fingers barely traced over the indentations his pen made, feeling the pressure of his hands, and feeling the way the pen tore through the page as if he was writing it down in a hurry. There was a poem there.

“I can see you running around your house, Your hair resembles something like a nest and you have a blush on your cheeks that makes your skin glow. And I wait. You tie your hair into a rubber band that I know you’ll complain that it's going to pull every strand of hair from your head as I drive you home. I will wait. You turn around now, one foot in your front door and you wave your hand back at me, the shadows from the front porch light casting shadows over your face that I want to memorize. I will always wait. I wait until I see your silhouette against your white curtains. I wait until the light goes out in your room. I wait until I can catch my breath, and I wait until my heart stops racing. And I’m still waiting.”

You felt as if the air had been knocked from your lungs. Your fingers had since grown cold, and you struggled to breathe for a hot second. It was as if the world around you had melted away, and the only thing in the world that existed were the flowers on the page and the words that he wrote. You noticed a movement from the corner of your eye, and your head whipped up to see Billy with a handful of coffee and muffins and bagels and yogurt.

You slammed the glovebox closed, and shoved the journal into the bag in your lap without thinking. He opened the driver's side door and you gave him a nervous smile. He was waiting. He was always waiting, and so were you and now that you had read the poem he had written about you, and you had forgotten how to even interact with another human being.

“Blonde caramel latte, and a cheese danish for the Princess. Oh, and I got a yogurt for you— it’s strawberry, but I wasn’t sure if you like strawberry yogurt, so if you don’t I will trade my vanilla.” He said, handing your the paper bags and putting the coffees in their cup holders. He didn’t even bother to hand yours to you as he had been reminded multiple times that you were afraid of burning your tongue— you only drank lukewarm coffee. It was a detail you hadn’t realized he had remembered or even noticed.

When you didn’t respond, he nudged your knee with his fist. “You okay?”

“I’m perfect.”

You had kept the journal. You knew it was bad, and you knew that Billy was probably losing his god damned mind about not having it in his glovebox. You knew he wouldn’t talk to you about it, and you knew he wouldn’t come over until the following Saturday morning because you still weren’t friends. You were volunteer buddies, and holy shit you’ve stolen Billy Hargrove’s poetry journal and there was a poem written about you in it and you were pretty sure it was literally burning a hole through your side table.

It was Sunday night when you took it out the first time. It looked innocent enough, its stapled spine pressing into your palm and the weight of it not enough to make your hand sink. The crinkle of the stale pages echoed around your room, and you almost wanted to shove it back into your drawer like it was something dirty you needed to hide. You placed it at the bottom of your bed, and you sat for some time curled up at the head of it, staring at it like it was a severed hand.

It was one in the morning when you finally reached for it, flipping through the pages to a new one— the page after the poem where he said he would wait. You taped a few scraps of lace you had found in your mother's sewing kit, and secured it with some hot glue you had found in your old craft drawer. The white lace bordered the middle of the page and you picked up your favorite (it was lucky) purple pen and began writing. You didn’t know what you were writing until it was finished, and when you tried to re-read it, the words didn’t sink in until you forced yourself to read them out loud.

“The universe took its time on you Crafted you precisely, so you could offer the world Something distinct from everyone else. So when you doubt how you were created You doubt an energy greater than us both [Do not doubt that energy It’s one smart mother fucker].”

You left school the next day early. You ignored the look your teacher gave you as you stood up in the middle of class, and you ignored the way Billy watched you leave. You ignored the way his expression shifted from boredom to interest, then from interest to worry when you didn’t look back. You pushed your shoulders back and walked out of the class and down the hall. You walked out of the school and into the parking lot and stopped in front of the iconic Blue Camaro.

You thanked whatever God was out there when you tried to open the front door and it opened without the alarm blaring. You placed the journal on the seat and you let out a frightened squeal when a polished hand smacked the top of the roof.

Carol.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Returning something that doesn’t belong to me.”

“Mmhmm.”

“To you happen to have any nice perfume?” She responded to you by digging through her bag and handing you an old bottle of something. You opened the book to your lace page and spritzed the perfume across the page.

“Okay, so do you like him back or somethin’?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Alright then.”

You left school after that, choosing to walk home and enjoy the chill in the wind that reminded you it was not quite spring, but the promise of something warm around the corner was on its way. You didn’t live too far from the high school, so you knew your walk would be short. You took your time today, however. You pondered if this was about to change the last three months of your high school life— or even how it wasn’t. You kicked a rock on your way home, even stopping to kick it between your feet as if it were a soccer ball. You were stopped when you heard a familiar rumble ignite in the distance, followed shortly by a silence, and then a sound that resembled the of a Nascar tearing down a dirt pathway. Billy.

You picked up the pace, suddenly afraid of the consequences you had brought upon yourself and just as you turned the corner to your tiny cookie-cutter cul-de-sac Billy’s car pulled over in front of you, almost knocking you out by the knees. You didn’t know what Billy’s intentions were when he stormed around the car, a pin on his jacket catching the rays of the sun and glinting in your face. He didn’t slow down when he got closer, and he forced you to take a few quick steps back for fear of him bowling you over.

You were pleasantly surprised when his hands wrapped around the back of your neck and pulled you to him. He pressed his lips hungrily to yours and they danced messily with yours. He grasped at your face, head, and neck desperately trying to get you closer to him as if he wanted to drink you in. When his arm wrapped around your waist to pull your torso closer to his, you let out a surprised gasp which allowed his tongue to snake into your mouth and lick the back of your teeth, only wanting to finally get the chance to taste you. And boy, did you not disappoint. To Billy, you tasted of mint gum, and coffee and warmth— and he knew that you needed air but there was no way he ever wanted to pull away from you.

You pressed your hand against his shoulder, pushing him away just enough so you could breathe. You gasped for air when his lips popped away from your swollen ones, and you looked up to his face. His cheeks were redder than usual, his lips were swollen from the hard kiss he had given you seconds before and were glistening in the golden sun from spit. His pupils were large, making the blue of his eyes stand out more in a thinner circle. His ears were red as well, from nervousness, or attraction, or adrenaline and his hair was mussed from your hands. His shaking breathe hit your face, and he leaned in once more to press his lips gently to yours, pressing you onto the car behind you and cradling your face softly his rough hands. Your lips danced together, barely touching but enough to take both of your breaths away. You let your hands drift— from his waist to his chest, over his shoulders where you cupped his neck briefly. They then drifted to his sticky-outy ears where they traced the shell of them briefly before your arms wrapped around his shoulders in one of the softest hugs had ever felt.

Before you, his glovebox was where he kept his most important items. Where he kept his addiction, where he kept his thoughts and his heart.

You were his new glovebox.

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astrals-and-pirates · 4 years

Text

The Dawn Chorus rambling/theories

i havent finished it yet but i have so many thoughts about that chapter 1 dream

• A faceless woman opened a jar, and out poured seven golden streams

- we know tbs is a Prometheus and Pandora reimagining, and if the streams represent human clairvoyance (since there are seven streams and seven orders), then the woman unleashing them could apply to both titular characters of the myth:

- Prometheus created a race of beings, and the faceless woman could be seen as the creator/unleasher of voyants, a sub-group or humans

- Pandora releases the world's evils from a jar and voyance is seen by a large amount of the amaurotic population as evil, so the creation of voyants could be seen releasing evil into the world

• A shadow-bear lumbered over the threshold – its claws were like ten swords, each tipped with blood – and ruffled my hair with its breath. When it roared, black moths and honeybees erupted from its mouth.

- as someone pointed out, the ruffling of the hair could be seen as a sign of protection or care

- Warden's chosen first name and Paige's surname are bear-related; the latter's is literally derived from a name meaning "bear"

- the moths and the bees could be mythology references

- iirc from somewhere that Pandora's unleashed evils took the form of moths when freed, which is most likely why Paige is so freqently associated with moths

- the bee thing — and this is a stretch — could be a reference to Orpheus and Eurydice? the only thing i could think of is how tmf's part III is titled Eurydice and Eurydice had a suitor/stalker who was the god of beekeeping? idk. theres also a myth about Apollo getting his prophecy from bee maidens, so theres that

- my overall theory is that its either Paige or her mother, the latter particularly so because of the above and also how mysterious she is; i just feel like theres a connection between her and the origins of clairvoyance

• A disembodied mask drifted up to me and told me it looked forward to our meeting.

- i have this theory that tmf's title is a reference to the Rephaim being exposed, as their mask of hiding behind the government is blown somehow. theres also the fact that tmf's part II is "Turn the Anchor" and ms. Shannon's tweets hint that tbs5 has more voyants from around the world; which to me means (a) the above is true and there is a global attempt to fight back against the Rephaim, (b) the mysterious Domino Programme is larger and global in scale or (c) both

- the thing that ruins(?) that theory is the fact that the mask in the dream literally gives Paige advice/foreshadows stuff, meaning that the mask is a real person and is on Paige's side, which makes their foreshadowed fall more ominous

• other thoughts

- theres something interesting to how this dream happened back in Sheol I, or its described to be a dream Paige dreamt back then

- another stretch but "Look to the all-gifted for the key." vaguely reminds me of the fact that Paige banished a poltergiest/powerful spirit in the previous book and recieved this vision despite not being a guardian nor soothsayer/augur/oracle might be something? although the implication that the all-gifted is someone else throws me off.

- the all-gifted could also be a Rephaim, who have more powerful capabilities than human voyants, and the use of the word "to" instead of "for" might mean Warden?

- "Knowledge has a terrible price." and Eurydice scream foreshadowing so theres that

thats all my brain can put together but like heck im excited for tmf

#the bone season #the dawn chorus #samantha shannon #paige mahoney #the mask falling #the mime order #the song rising #tbs

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kendrixtermina · 7 years

Text

Typing Misadventures - IN edition

So, typing and the difficulties therein.

Aside from person-specific ad-hominems, some that have been elaborated upon in attempts to explain them on this very website.

Sensors: Bad Sensor descriptions written by NPs, combining with the fact that Sensors rely a lot on developing a practical experential “feel” for things. A bad, vague and overly abstract description that doesn’t relate to their life is gonna be not very useful. (especially for SFPs for whom what they relate to is srz bzness) - Interestingly I’ve seen a lot of Sensors saying that they easily indentify particular types once they have encountered them IRL. (Speculation: With intuitives it probably depends more on wether they have their definitrions straight.)

Ne-Doms: Type-hop and doubt their type alot because they know they always could be mistyped and possibilities are the primary facet of reality for them. The “creative” nature of the auxillary, and their auxillary being a function that generates and handles belief systems, means they can always reinterpret the evidence by redoing their reasoning or reassigning meaning, also the lack of Si leads to less constancy in their thinking, they change opinion easily, which is normally an asset, but not so much for self-typing as every input generates new ideas. (The auxillaries also have this but to a much lesser degree - b/c)

—

But today, I want to talk about INs (I know, boring - but those are what I know the most about since I am one.)

You may have seen me caveat my posts with “Unless I am actually an xNFP or something” as of late Yeah. It went about like this:

Troll: Haha you’re mistyped!

Me: Why?

Troll: because X.

Me: I have an alternate, more fitting explanation for X and a lot of things which my current typing explains betters especially when you get into the nuance of mbti theory.

Troll: (*hamfistedly applies overreductionistic function definition*) “Anyone who ever quotes a source ever is a Te user”. Just like anyone who ever mentions memory is a SJ amirite?

Troll: *shifts the topic to my person and then accuses me of talking about myself*

Me: *blocks troll largely to curttail own tendency to waste time & energy with internet arguments*

So at my best, I believe in not dismissing inconvenient PoVs and double-checking, and the main point of replying them was to leave an alternate opinion for future readers hence no point in continuing after that had been done.

At my worst damn inf Fe makes it hard to ignore input even if I don’t believe it’s justified (except when it fails to pick them up - as inferior functions are wont to be its either sluggish or AHH with little inbetween. ) and that lil 8 fix of mine doesn’t want to “stand down quietly”.

So I ask a few reasonable, knowledgeable, non-troll person, one of which said “Hm, could be, you anecdote alot which X type also does”

I believed this was better accounted for by simple ol’ Si and w4-self revealing tendencies, but, how could I know for sure? I never denied having a pronounced 4wing and fix, but I thought that sufficiently explaining their perceived discrepancies insofar as I found them consistent with reality and indeed all data collected so far. Too much would just be filed away as “inf Te” as a blanket term, the way any sign that [fan favorite character] is ST rather than INFJ is “inferior Se” though that supposed “inferior” is 80% of what she does and all moments claimed for F or N are the sort of situations where anyone would display emotion or philosophizing and what intuition they display is distinctly Ne instead.

Like the proverbial man who dreamt of being a frog I couldn’t cast the doubt from my mind and went over reinterpreting my thought patterns throughout the day. How do I know I’m NOT X type? After all my idea of and criteria for type are based on the definitions I extracted from various mbti sources when first familiarzing myself with the topic… how do I know I understood it correctly? How can ANY human correctly understand a definition if they have to deduce/reconstruct/guess what the other meant with their own flawed mind?

(At this point the non-INs in the audience might be rolling their eyes)

I still thought my type made the most sense but the person, through trolling in that particular instance, was not alltogether clueless and had some good insights, and also, some ppl agreed with them (theres that Fe again) - I was pretty sure I was in the holographic-panomramic thinking style but I could be wrong, thats a fairly rarely used concept which I simply started using cause I thought it made sense. ENFPs can mistake themselves for introverts. I have been mistaken for extrovert b/c of my lack of filter… but I was pretty sure I was a very pronouncedintrovert and had Fe, and so I went over it over and over again.

They said I didn’t comprehend _ i had some theory as to why they thought the way they did (not just bias against xNFPs but assuming all Ti is like aux Ti. After all, an introverted function as a dominant builds a framework and may be reluctant to accept or need time to withdraw when said framework clashes with reality to the point of needing a full revamping, purportedly resulting in a certain stubbornness particularly if it’s a Ji function. )

but what if I really Didn’t comprehend? Then all my reasoning would be worthless! I dont think I have the skills of an INFP, but what if i misunderstood those? Was a lot of what I’d attributed to Ti just Ne? i thought I had rather typical Ti speech patterns (it was hard to unsee, like my brain used a highly predictable parsing alghorithm to make thoughts into words) but they disagreed and pointed to what they thought was Fi.

I thought that despite all the differences introduced by shared preferences and there were differences between I and the Fi doms I knew. The 9 and the 6 were much more lowkey, non-confrontational than I and way more perceptive in line with how socionics describes Fi as the “Ethics of Relations” and how Nardi calls it an “Inner state of listening/reacting”; I mostly listen to the contents of someone’s words; I’d spot a liar by contradiction or unbeliavable statements, or by deducing what beliefs they are operating from. Feelers supposedly use primarily tone of voice... but I have sure noticed tone of voice a few times, and this is a qualia. I can’t compare what “Fi” or “Ti” feel like without making assumptions of which one I am using.

Supposedly

The 4! INFPs should be the most similar to me, on the other hand, they tend to have a certain...absoluteness in their beliefs and statements in a way I wouldn’t be comfortable with. I’m more hesitant, more relativizing, adding qualifiers etc so bI don’t say anything incorrect.

I don’t mean to bash the INFPs here, they are usually just processing their specific feels and do not mean to imply things about others. (Tumblr INFP: “I, an INFP, experience X.”. Tumblr xxFJ: “Are you saying that other types don’t????? You can’t say that! How self absorbed are you?” Immature Tert Fe User:*distantly feels the same urge toward ,moral condemnation as FJ,but couldn’t care less if INFP offends anyone - settles for calling them a snowflake instead. * TJs and Ti doms: *roll their eyes, half-assedly consider correcting whoever they disagree with but ultimately just keep scrolling*) Of course Team Fe sometimes has a point if the INFP in question is young and/or irresponsible.

Example:

One INFP 4w5: “I be those shallow fake bitches look down on you just because you don’t wear as much makeup. I don’t think anyone who wears makeup can be trusted, unless it’s like,halloween makeup or something like that, they’re just putting up fake faces to be popular.”

Me (let’s say, presumed INTP 5w4): “I dunno... Like I agree that those girls are shallow bitches,if they had spines, they wouldn’ perform arbitrary fake behavior just to be popular.* But not everyone is the same - maybe some people might just wear makeup because they like how it looks. The real problem is people being judged by arbitrary conventions on principle. What does is matter whether someone wears makeup or not? Its a made-up convention with no real reason. It’s none of anyone’s business.”

* for the record I have since realized that there’s nothing bad about wanting to be popular as long as yopu dont harm anyone, and that for some people its genuinely what they want. I was, like, 13. Common (w)4 pitfall I guess.

As you see both I and this middle school friend of mine are expressing 4-ish povs, but I used to think the difference in our reasoning highlighted some differences.

Granted this is more 5w4 vs 4w5 than necessarily Ti vs Fi, Could just be the 5′s general disconnect toward action and desire to “know more first”.

There are 5 INFPs. after all. Mostly sx 5s and as such differentiable from the relatively intense, dramatic sx 4 as long as you’re certain enough that they’re sx. Thinking about how to describe them. More second-guessing and ‘drifting’ than the 4 ones but like them in their analytical nature. A different kind of contemplative. Still reasons distinctlylike an INFP - See, One of them was religious, for example, and I’m pretty sure an INTP would have had more posts about why they were religious or not, though it’s one of the types most likely to be a non-believer, the religious ones tend to have a theological bent and talk about the perfection and incomprehensibility of god, how god is totally logical etc. (Thomas Acquinas is a famous example) - their faith will be an ordered self-consistent system. A bit like that example of copernikus assuming the orbits must be perfectly circular because natture as he understood it would tend toward the most “perfect” forms. I’m not religious and I could likewise talk about that at lenght.

Arguments that convinced me: “This is how these beliefs came from, not an actual god” and “If were made out of single celled organism who die all the time as shed skin cells, how would the rest of them dieing at once be different?” “Even if your religion is true that means many, if not all others are not. So at least all some must be myths. How is your “true” religion different from them?”

Arguments made by famous Te-Fi users: “Occams Razor.” “We can’t disprove a giant sucker on the back of Pluto either, but its no reason to suppose one.”“Belief in god hampers human development and creates dependent, slavish mentality”

That 5!INFP’s attitude toward their belief reminded me more of another Fi dom I know (albeit an ISFP). “Yeah, I know the common objections, but look, it’s what I believe. Don’t come into my house and be a jerk to me about it.” or “[Assholish behavior] is not actually in line with my religion. My religion, and this aspect of it, are actually about love/peace/duty/etc”

If, while conversing, you hit a hard disagreement, that is, an axiom that’s not up for debate, your Fi-dom friend may change the topic/agree to disagree/ “It’s just the way I feel”

[This could apply to other moral or ideological questions religion is just an example; This is not supposed to be about religion it’s just here to illustrate a perceived difference. . I’m not implying all INFPs have the same approach to religion or even have to be religious.]

Another conversation I remember having with them actually on the very subject of Fi vs Fe. IDK how we got to that topic but I mentioned something I initially thought was an enneagram thing (my memory is vague on the details) but I mentioned something like lowkey feeling guilty for receiving praise that I believe was undeserved.

She deemed it a Fe thing and said that for her, as a Fi dom/ fe opposing type, a bit of praise she did not agree with might not cause any reaction at all unless she thought they had a point or otherwise had a reaction from her end, like deciding the criticism was unfair - why should she feel guilty b/c of what someone else says?

Granted that’s just an anecdote, but what am I to do? INFP 5s are not super common. Also I’m not making this decisionbased on any single of these examples but... not even from the “preponderance” so much as to how they can be best explained.

And of course, if I really did get everything wrong after looking into the topic for years, what guarantee is there that I typed any of those people correctly? None, as one of the trolls/claimants correctly pointed out.

After all what I want is the truth, it doesn’t matter what it is. Or at least that is what I strive for as much as human frailty allows. so what if I’m an INFP? INFPs are awesome. I even considered the type early on, I just thougnt INTP fit better especially once I found out about inferior functions. And I have always held that a person has no obligation to follow their “talents”. If I don’t have a “talent” for reason (which isn’t the same as mbti thinking anyways) all the reasons why I believe that it is a good way of life to aim for would still stand. Reason is a method to correct for human error and bias, after all, the error and bias we all have, no matter what Ji function we use.

Type insofar as it can even be said to be a real thing is a classfication of emergent qualities, not a hard measure you can get in an instrument.

As much as I’d want to figure this out, there comes a point where you just have to like step back and put it in context. it’s just a personality test/ little tool to facilitate communication in which “maybe this or that” is more helpful than nothing.

Striving for it despite not being handed talent at birth is all the more worthwhile - and if reason was only for certain kinds of people what’s the point of it? Regardless of what tropes people associate with “science” or “logic”, what they actually are by definition are simple basic methods.

Last but not least there was a moment

Soo, existential crisis. At least they can’t doubt that I’m a melancholic or an oldham ideosyncraticXD

Then, my doubt crumbled away to the “ mostly sure, dont think it could be anything else but im not omnicient” levels at which it was before.

What happened? Well, a rare event:

Well, I went outside and talked to people.

I visited my folks, saw new places, got into a few unscripted situations in other words.

I’ve seen one post detailing that INs may mistype because they analyze themselves as a whole, feature in less apparent traits and second-guess their reasoning worrying about bias, noticing what sticks out more than the norm etc. and so on and that may be it in part but I don’t think it’s only this relatively “noble”, too-much-of-a-good-thing mistake.

- It’s a matter about how we are all about ~extrapolating~ from data and using multiple data points and less about decisiveness and practicality. We brood away endlessly trying to come up with interpretations and conceptualizations that makes all the data points fit rather than just going with what they themselves largely seem to suggest.

One good description I once heard is that Intuitives think in networks while Sensors think in puzzle pieces - I went overboard trying to build ever more complex networks instead of going “Yeah, with all the puzzle pieces so far it’s probably this.”.

Sometimes the latter approach can be incomplete and miss game changing interconnections - but just as often, the former gets convoluted and therefore, both uselessly vague and too far removed from the actual data its meant to interpret.

Aaaand, well, almost every sentence I said was “Did you know that...?” or “I think so/ don’t think so because of [observation followed by possible deduction].

Sure, I could be biased in my observation or unconsciously “doing it on purpose to appear a certain way” even if I don’t think I am or care about that, , but some critical mass of “doing it on purpose” would itself be equivalent with 5 (or a 3)

I was a little afraid one time; I reacted by withdrawing and looking at the whole thing as an observatrion and it was a highly temporary thing. And as much as I complain about Fe users playing police, I may have been guilty of one moment of overreacting, unwanted/socially-chiding “help” myself there. (The person perhaps justly called me a know-it-all. They were wrong about one thing but I may have handled it all more constructively) I repeatedly expressed vague undifferentiated preferrences that were closer to analyzing what factors were at work rather than having clear like/dislike reasons readily available. .

I critiqued a TV show (myself and the local INTJ annoying all the non-NTs with our loud, animated critiquing ) and a big factor to being unabvle to enjoy it fully was the lack of High-Concept abstract sci fi content and mostly the lack of consistency - normally a lot of my enjoyment would come from extrapolatinmg and deducing what the world is like and how it, the themes and charactzers “work”, but here I coulnd do that because it was tacked onto a ‘verse it did not fit into. I observed how said INTJ and I reacted to us correcting each other on small things with like a brief thanks or apology & just moving on whilst similar things had gotten annoyed snarks out of our otherwise patient Feeler sister...

The nails in the coffin were those 2 tumblr posts, one about differences in how Fi and low Fe argue (the latter pile including 3 phrases I used verbatim in the last discussion with my SO just hours earlier) and a post by the afore mentioned “resonable poster” about, as she called it “oversharing in soc variants vs soc blinds” though the correct amount of sharing might well be in the eye of the beholder.

But that was the one objection of the troll I didn’t have a non-vague satisfactory reply to, what rly kept me wondering rather than “eh not gonna reinvent the wheel again”, something about “sp/sx woldn’t have long descriptions or emo rants” Apparently they do when they never have to dea with the person again (such as on the internets. )

IDK I did move the description so no one’s forced to read it but lots of peeps have one (This is like... a blogging site??) but the reasons for its existence had more to do with “completionist urges related to then-current obsession (typology)” and “So I like X, bite me.” sort of sentiment than whatever it was they presuposed.

Dear Causal-Deterministic peeps (ENTP, INFP, ISTP, ESFP): Instances of the same behavior can be caused by different causes! Look at this: 2 4 8.

What’s the pattern? - Could be “powers of 4″. Could also be “even numbers” or even “any increasing integer”.

Of course this whole mess is an example of where we H-P folks (INTP, ENFP, ISFP, ESTP) look at everything from multiple angels/Povs, (”Is it like this? Is it lika that? It COULD be seen this other way...”) rather than, well, decide which ones are most relevant here/ “Pick one”. At least the SPs have Se to “just grab one” or whatever it is they do.

Whereas we just stand there speculating XD The ENFPs sorta do it too but in a whole different way/ area of life?

Me: “Either he is nuts or I am nuts because we can’t both be telling the truth!”

ENFP: “Well I empasize with both of you so I don’t think either of you is nuts?”

Me: Sorry but this is a real dichotomy here for once. If he dun nothing wrong, then I would be wrong for accusing him thus, just as he says..

ENFP: Can we all agree to disagree and chil maybe? plz??

Might also be why there`s this overlap between ENFPs and Universalists? Though obviously not all ENFPs are universalists and vice versa.

So yeah. Kinda comical in hindsight. I started out all second guess-ey and entertaining both possibilities in parallel but in the end, well, I do think it’s INTP after all, at least, I’d say its the most probable by a considerable margin. Most definitely 5 tho. For all the occasionall 4 ness its by far the most overwhelming tendency in day to day life/thinking ugh cant I NOT spew nerd facts about everything in sight. What are other conversaton topics?

Bottom Line: By thinking about your own thinking you alter your thinking, and that way lie 2nd order chaotic systems, the Uncertainty Principle and Goedel’s Theorem...

So going outside both threw me out of that recursion and added new, raw data as a means to test the competing hypotheses. It forced me to see what I actually act like by and large in a natural setting rather than the many ways I could interpret or read the way I act like, which like, is not actually all that mysterious lol

#mbti #intp

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arsnovac12 · 5 years

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Blog Post 1

I go on runs from time to time when I’m back in Burbank, I enjoy keeping active, but it’s mostly an excuse to get out of the house. When I come home on holiday, I become confined to my parents house without any means of viable transportation. I have my drivers license, sure, but no car. My parents can’t afford to buy me one, and I can’t afford to get one myself. In fact, even if I could afford a car, I certainly couldn’t afford the insurance to go with it. Anyway, all this is to say I go on runs so I don’t feel too confined to my house.

That’s not very interesting, is it? Some things just tend to be that way. The life of a poor twenty-one year old white kid is never all that interesting in the first place. My life, my story, whatever it is, is not irregular. In fact, it’s one most people in America know very well, because it gets championed whenever one of us poor white kids gets rich and famous. Surprise, surprise, it happens pretty frequently.

So why write about it? I don’t know. Does it really matter if no one sees it in the first place? Maybe not. I guess I backed myself into a corner. If you’re reading this (if anyone is reading this) you’re probably expecting me to dive further in. Ultimately, you might say, there’s no point in agonizing over whether or not you’re going to talk about your life, because you already started writing a blog post about it, and it has to go somewhere. It does, doesn’t it? So why start with a lengthy preamble full of rhetorical questions? Besides being a clear literary crutch I’m struggling with, I think I feel indebted to having a conversation or dialogue about these things, as if to hide from some private guilt I have in telling any personal story. Writing has clearly become some sort of therapy to me, where I play both doctor and patient. The results are always inconclusive.

Anyway I should get back to the bullshit lede about running. Look, I like running, and it’s when my head is its most clear, so forgive me for using it as a starting point. Most of my ideas come to me when I run, so it was only fitting that it become the brief anecdote that starts a blog post that holds the kernel of what I’m going for. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, I didn’t really get to. Look at me, whining before I even finished my “insignificant thing is contorted into something profound” anecdote. Okay, I’ll finish the story:

I like to go on runs. I feel trapped at my house, and I like to get out. Anyway, whenever I run, I take the same path. It leads away from my house towards the park in the hills where people would take their prom photos back in high school. The path mostly runs parallel to the major streets and hits several large intersections on its way. In all, the run from the house to the park and back is about five miles. Yesterday, I reached the park and stopped for some water. This wasn’t irregular or anything, but I took my time and drank more that I usually would. Then, something compelled me to keep running. The hills in Burbank are filled with expensive homes, and near the top of the street, sort of tucked away, there’s a pretty large mansion that’s almost gothic in its design. Anyway, I guess it was my curiosity that drove me to keep going. To get a look at that mansion, and the others around it.

So, I kept running for another half mile or so to see this mansion. On the way up, the houses got larger and more impressive looking, and I was filled with a mounting sense of dread. Eventually I reached the cul-de-sac with the house on its end. Naturally the street, called Viewcrest if you can believe it, was the most decadent one yet. Their driveways were filled with expensive cars I don’t know the names of, carefully manicured lawns, and about ten security cameras lining every porch. I got closer to the end of the street where the imposing mansion was, but it was tucked away from the front and hardly visible. I didn’t get much closer than fifty or sixty feet. The drive way had a large black Hummer sitting in it; another, more psychological warning sign for someone like me to keep away.

I left pretty quickly after I got there. No one was out, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being unwelcome. Before I turned the corner and left the street completely, I had the strange desire for someone to come out of their house and scold me for even coming there. In this fantasy, would I stand my ground, or run away as is fitting for my station? My brain firing it’s typically small amount of synapses couldn’t quite make it that far. Instead, I was caught up in the swell of what righteous injustice such a thing should muster.

This story isn’t very interesting, I know. Nothing really happens in it and there isn’t much imagery to it, but it caught me off guard as I thought about it again today. I had the idea to write about the experience soon after it happened while I was still running, but I, ever the proactive one, put it off. In sitting down with it today, I realize how full of shit I am.

Before I go on, I’ll give a little more context for my life. As mentioned briefly before, I’m a poor white kid. My parents are loving if occasionally abusive, or maybe abusive if occasionally loving. We live in my (deceased) grandmothers house and can’t afford any necessary repairs on it to make the place livable. My dad lost his job about a year and a half ago that was going to take him to retirement, now he works at target. My mother is a hoarder, not to the extreme you may have seen on television, but certainly well beyond what the general society might deem as healthy. She works just enough hours at the Disney Corporation’s day care so that they don’t have to give her full time benefits.

Two of my adult brothers still live at home, crowding the house further. They could, should they allot their funds correctly, afford to have their own place, but my parents discourage that sort of thing. Coming from lower middle class families, both of them have really only known economic uncertainty their whole lives. To have their children live lives separated from themselves means certain uncertainty. Plus, when you don’t have the kids at home, there’s no one left to accuse of being a burden.

I, more than any of my brothers, struggled against my parents to have a normal life. For a while I was pretty damaged; my parents fundamental conservatism really did a number on me. I was a hateful kid, saying cruel things to people that didn’t deserve it. When I got to high school, it took a little while, but I became a better person. Still prone to bouts of selfishness, I began to try a little harder for things. I quit running competitively in high school to join the theater, much to my parents chagrin, and also started dating. Naturally my parents tried putting a stop to both.

By the time I finished high school, I had cut ties with most everyone that knew me there. By its end, I had partially realized that I hadn’t progressed all that much as a person and was still rather selfish. My assumptions that people did not like me were eventually proven correct when I had finally done something that had made me worth disliking. I receded further into myself, even more aware of my deepest flaws.

Eventually I made it to college where I became more depressed than I had ever been before. Towards the end of the semester, my mom ordered me to call after weeks of ignoring her. During that phone call, I told her that I wanted to kill myself. Horrified, she said that they could afford to send me to therapy, I said no, it would be too much of a hassle and it would get to be too expensive. She was relieved and thus the matter was settled and never spoken of again.

So today, I sit in my crowded bedroom in my decaying house (yes, there are rats now) and try and write a story, a true story, about how running in the rich part of town made me sad. So often I am desperately seeking a new lede, some way to ease into the story of my life, so I come up with the flimsiest ones imaginable as opposed to just starting from the beginning. I’m no one I tell myself, so why bother in the first place? No one will read it anyway. But so often, I’m met with the same dull idea that I have a story worth telling. The cynic in me is so embarrassed to want to explain away my life that it has to invent a dialogue with no one to justify wanting to tell an over told story. The poet in me wants to make something beautiful out of my life, and will find any excuse to do so in the most meaningless of events. The realist is here with you trying to make sense of these two voices.

I am obsessed with artifice. Look anywhere in my life and you’ll see it. I’m a theater performance major. I sit at home alone and watch movies that very few people like to gage some sensationalist position on. I go running by major streets hoping that someone, anyone from my past will see me and say hello. I run to the park I took my prom pictures at for the hope that some ounce of high school happiness will be absorbed back into myself, so that I can pretend I didn’t lose all my friends from those years by being selfish. I run further into the hills because deep down I know it might lead to something worth writing about. Only to now finally realize there wasn’t much of a story there to begin with. There, or anywhere.

Self pitying is probably what most people would call this. I’ll probably call it that too. Maybe it’s a cry for help. Maybe. Or maybe it’s a desperate plea for attention from an empty audience, because the author thinks that’s most poetic of all.

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