#would love to send a copy to anyone that contributes also

[transsexual-divinity]

Hey losers and losettes,

I’m in the very early stages of starting a little diy zine about horror movies! I have no experience in this so advice is appreciated lol. But I’m hoping to have it out by July. I’m calling it PHOBIA and the theme of this one is summer horror, so not strictly ones that take place in summer but they got the vibes. Along with the horror theme there’s also gonna be a smaller section about upcoming music/concerts/etc too. Going to attempt to have it in print but it may end up digital if that’s easier for me. And I’m having open submissions!

I’m open to all things, art, reviews and rantings, movie recommendations, original fiction or horror poetry, even your urban legends (got a story about a evil ice cream truck lol I’d love to hear it!). The subjects so far are:

House of wax 2005

Sharp objects 2018

X 2022

Texas Chainsaw 3d 2013, though I haven’t watched it yet..

Hopefully Maxxxine 2024 if one of my local theaters plays it when it comes out

Music, so if you want a shameless plug of your band hit me up!

And anything else I (or you) can think of

So if that’s something your interested in email me at: PhobiaMag@protonmail.com

[mpchev]

Dissertation on Fanfiction Bookbinding — Looking for participants! [EDIT: Thank you so much, participants found!!!]

[Edit continued: I'm still sorting through emails and setting up meetings, will reply to everyone very soon, I can't even begin to thank everyone enough for the visibility that's been given to this 💜 I'll keep the updates coming as I work on the dissertation (and learn how to bookbind), in case anyone would like to follow along. For any questions about the research or comments/suggestions/resources about ficbinding, my asks are wide open. Thank you thank you thank you!!!]

Hi! My name is Marie Chevrier, I’m currently doing my postgraduate dissertation on fanfiction bookbinding, and I’m looking for people to talk to about it!

If you’ve ever taken a fanfic from somewhere online and turned it into a physical copy, either for yourself or as a gift, I’d love to know more. From printer paper stapled together to typesetting and painted edges, nothing is too simple or too complex — I’m interested in the whole process, what motivates readers or authors to bring the story to a different format, and how it’s one more way to interact with stories actively and creatively. This will be the final project of my MLitt in Folklore and Ethnology with the Elphinstone Institute (University of Aberdeen, Scotland).

What to Expect

To participate, you must be 18 or older and speak English. I’ll give you more details and answer any questions you might have via email, and will then set up individual video calls with participants (if you happen to be in North-East Scotland, we could also meet at an agreed public location). I’ll tell you more about the dissertation and explain how what you share will be used, which depends entirely on what you agree to, including if you would prefer your contribution to be credited or anonymised. I will ask you about your experience with fanfiction bookbinding and if you have some examples to show me, I would love to see them! Meetings will last approximately 45–90 minutes and take place in June 2024. You have the right to withdraw your participation at any time.

Contact Information

If you’d like to participate or have any questions, please send me an email at m.chevrier.23@abdn.ac.uk

To know more about the Elphinstone Institute, please visit https://www.abdn.ac.uk/elphinstone/

To know more about me, here's an intro post for you.

If for any reason you don’t wish to participate but still have comments/suggestions/resources/musings you’d like to send my way, please do!

[andy-wm]

How to explain JK & JM and their endless coincidences?

Easy really, none of them are coincidences.

I'll admit that I'm not the quickest at reacting to what's going on around me. My poor ND brain takes a while to absorb it all and put the pieces together, but then I can't stop thinking and thinking and thinking about all those puzzle pieces.

Gotta get those thoughts out of my head to make room for new ones LOL... so here they are.

Everything is not a coincidence 🎶

I hear Jimin singing this in my head.

No, of course its not.

We've seen how intricately they plan their cocepts, outfits, stages and releases. We saw it in detail with the Artist Made Collection and the Photo Folios. The processes they went through were thorough and thoughtful. They considered everything.

For Jimin and Jungkook, aligning their message is nothing new. For years they've been coming out in matching clothes, jewelery, and accessories - including the cute and silly matching Pororo bandaids at the puma fansign in 2016 when neither of them had an injury (JK's idea, according to JM).

Sometimes the matching outfits are identical...

Other times the alignment is more subtle....

But it's so frequent, we barely comment these days.

When they aren't matching, they're swapping. Their shared wardrobe is legendary - especially for someone who doesn't like other people wearing his clothes (JK) and someone who has assured us they have different clothes (JM).

But I digress....

The gist is, we know they pay attention to the mesage they send with their clothes and styling.

AND...

They know WE we pay attention too - they know we notice it all. Every.Single.Thing.They.Do.

AND...

They tell us they know all the ARMY jokes and memes. They do and say things that correspond too closely to ARMY's conversations on socials to be a coincidence.

Everything is not a coincidence 🎶

So with the visual themes of their solo releases being so astonishingly similar, anyone with eyes in their head (and a moderately functional brain and heart) can't think it's accidental. And JK and JM can't possibly think they're being subtle either.

And I honestly don't think they're trying to be subtle. Not at all.

I think they are demonstrating very clearly that even when they're apart, they're together. They're always aligned*.

They share ideas, they work together (they certainly don't work in secret) and they agree on what they, together are choosing to show.

Everything is not a cooincidence 🎶

We know they've shared ideas for this because at no point has either of them shown suprise at seeing the other wearing a similar outfit, holding a similar pose, or adopting similar aesthetics. They're hyping each other's music and promo work, and sharing their pride and enjoyment with us. (JM posting on insta to celebrate JK's #1 on the hottest 100 was NOT for JKs benefiit. It was for ours 💜)

It's not a matter of who did it first or who copied...all of this they created together.

They're showing us their individual strengths and telling their own stories, but using an aesthetic framework they've planned together. The visuals overlap is enough to to unmistakablly link their narratives together without restricting their self expression.

It's genius really.

They're living their 'I am you, you are me' dream right now, but in such a way that they are also without a doubt independent individuals as well.

Personally I love this. I love them.

I love that they can contribute to one another's creative processes, each produce something wholly unique to themself, and still have visually connected stories.

One day this will become their shared history. With a brief glance, anyone who looks will be able to see how much they supported and cooperated with each other, and that they chose to reflect their personal relationship in these works.

This would be a very conscious decision - to be visibly connected, not just for the few months their solo work is on the charts but for as long as the record of BTS's existance remains.

And that will be a long, long time I am sure 💜

*They're always aligned, i believ, with regards to their goals. For their work but also in terms of their relationship.

I think they trust one another implicitly, both professionally and personally. I think they're honest but kind, and they have each others backs. They are each other's highest priority and I hope it will always be this way for them 💜

[emotionalcadaver]

Welcome!

My name is Laur. I am 23, use she/her pronouns, and am a fanfiction writer as well as a self-admitted film snob. Most of my fics are focused on OC x Canon pairings.

18+ ONLY. Minors do not interact.

You can also find me on Archive of Our Own.

I do not consent to my work being copied or translated to any other platforms or posted by any other accounts that are not my own. Nor do I give permission for any of my work to be used in the training of AI.

I am always happy to chat, so please feel free to send me an ask or DM anytime! Mutuals are welcome to ask for my Discord!

Dunkirk

Cold Waters & Sunlit Gardens

When she decides to accompany the Dawsons on their voyage to help during the evacuation of Dunkirk, Daisy Preston has little idea of what she is actually getting herself into. All she knows is that there's tea, the roar of planes overhead, and the blue eyes of the handsome, shivering soldier they just rescued from a shipwreck staring at her from across the deck.

In Time

The Shackles of Broken Time

Trapped in poverty and forced to contribute to a cause she doesn't actually believe in, Rose Mason keeps her mind focused on simply surviving day to day. Until a few reckless actions catch her the attention of Timekeeper Raymond Leon; the last person anyone would want to have as an enemy.

Inception

Hiding Here Inside a Dream

Alice Emerson has known Robert Fischer since they were four years old. Instant best friends, they were near inseparable until the meddling of an abusive father drove them apart. But perhaps they can find their way back to one another. And maybe, finally, admit that they've been in love with each other all this time.

Peaky Blinders

Love Me Where I'm Most Ruined (IN PROGRESS)

They call him the Devil. They tell her to stay clear of him. They warn her that he'll steal her soul. But Lucy Winters came to Small Health fleeing monsters and unspeakable trauma. And her soul seems but a small price to pay in exchange for the things that Tommy Shelby has to offer her.

Nocturnal Me

There’s something sitting on the edge of the bed, and it wants her husband.

The Dark Knight Trilogy

The Shadow Game

Broken, traumatized, and more than a little insane, Vanessa Sullivan and Jonathan Crane's childhoods were steeped in horror and loneliness. But when they are assigned as lab partners during their time in college, they realize that they may not be as alone in their madness as they'd both originally thought.

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[sugoi-writes]

Hi Party People! A Kofi question✨️

(Mentions of crowdfunding, perks, some personal stuff, etc!)

I want to do a lil somethin-somethin with my Kofi... I just-- kinda set it up and honest to God, I STILL dunno how it works all too well???

But, I think I want to try something...

Im currently wanting to/trying to help hazelfoureyes raise some money to get her mom some TEETH (Read about it here). I know that for some of us, it can be pretty tricky to find the means, or do much more than shares/reblogs... HOWEVER:

What if I told you that I wanna scratch your back, for scratching theirs? I'm thinking of making Kofi more... rewarding for you????

Here's what I mean... picture this...

--

Kofi could also work as a more ✨️personable experience✨️... for every Kofi, YOU, YES YOU-- will have a catered-to-you blurb written for ya! By me, y'boi, Sugoi👈😎👈

Want the Deer Man to scream your legal name with reckless abandon? YIPPEE🎊 Wanna have your OC ride his, or Luci's or SOMEONE'S face? DONE 💦 Want a kink so specific that you need to scream about it because it's not on paper yet? COOL-- WITHIN REASON!!! No Kink Shaming Here, Love ♥️💦

I dont-- I don't want this to be disingenuous, but-- I want this to kind of be a way of giving thanks, too? A way of being like "Thank you for crowdfunding for teeth, here is SMUT OR FLUFF OR WHATEVER💦"

Would... would anyone be interested in something like that? Would that be fun?

Some promises I could make:

I am so long winded so blurbs would probably be FULL-ON flics... and I write decently fast. Hell, your blurbs would become Priority Number One

They would be a Kofi-exclusive! Just for yall! 🎊

If you want a personal copy, I'll DM it to you and you can SAVE that shit, if you REALLY want to! FUCK IT, I'LL MAIL IT TO YOU (mostly jk on the last bit, but an enby can dream~)

I will try and write most ANYTHING at least once-- so, fuck it!!! SEND ME THE GOODS

I would be willing to write for things in the Hellaverse, BNHA (once I catch up lol), Dungeon Meshi, KNY, and... shit, hells, I might write for **redacted**-San again--

POINT IS... I love you guys, and I love Hazel. And I want to help a friend out. So if that helps YOU in the meantime... then, fuck yes???

If this is a good idea, comment or PM me because I have been wracking my brain about it and it makes me nervous AF

Please see THIS POST for direct contributions!!! Hazel would appreciate it: ANYTHING HELPS AND YOU WILL GET A VIRTUAL SMOOCH FROM MEEEEE

Thanks for coming to my TED-Talk✨️

[the-lark-ascending69]

russian robin au?

I find russian Robin so interesting because I feel like Robin has this complicated relationship with Russia, or the idea of Russia, that isn't actually relevant to the show but it's very interesting to me specifically. In the podcast, her english teacher gifts her a copy of Anna Karenina in russian because he knew she wanted to learn, and she's very grateful for it. She'd told him she was interested in russian, I think, in the first episode. It's clearly like... the podcast's way of drawing a connection to Season 3, but I also love it because... most people in that sociopolitical and historical context wouldn't have been so excited about anything that came from Russia. It was the middle of the cold war, after all. But Robin doesn't even think about that. It's like she forgot about all of that, and choses to instead focus on classic literature. You can tell she romanticizes Europe a lot as this place of culture and adventure and freedom and if she's looking at Russia exclusively through the lenses of its classical literature, it wouldn't surprise me if she often failed to remember they were technically like the enemy. I'm not saying Robin is the most deconstructed anti-nationalistic anarchist out there, I usually prefer to not go too deep into politics when it comes to fandom stuff, but her interest in russian literature and language is certainly striking. It's like she sees past all of that and chooses to focus on the most beautiful artistic contributions of a country rather than the war. She doesn't join Steve and Dustin in their mission because she wants to be an American Hero, she's just bored and has such a great passion for languages that she saw a chance to approach russian in a real world situation and she took it, entirely and fully because of her love of knowledge, which trascends the war. I find that fascinating about her.

So, knowing that about her, I wonder how she would fit in an alternative universe in which she worked as a spy for Russia. I have several ideas about this.

Idea 1: My first idea is to put her in juxtaposition to El as a victim of the cold war caught in the crossfire, something something innocents paid for their crimes and they took medals home. In the same way they the US made experiments with children trying to create weapons, Russia would have made similar experiments, Robin being one of the kids involved. She doesn't get powers like El, she has no connection to the Upside Down. The results of the experiment are different. She has a much higher IQ than normal, and she can master other languages incredibly fast. They didn't think she'd be of much use until they learned she'd taught herself french with only a book and a dictionary, reaching a C2 level in less than six months. She's also incredibly good at cracking codes. Codes complex enough that would take a professional weeks of work came apart at her hands after a couple of hours. During her childhood, they use her for these purposes. They have her translate communication between their enemies and break secret codes for a few years, while preparing her for her actual mission: go to the States and gather information about the Hawkins Lab. She's 14 when they send her, and her english is so flawless you'd think she grew up in Indiana. Anyone older than her might have drawn more attention, and anyone else her age would still struggle with pronunciation, blowing their cover. She's perfect.

She's taken in by Richard and Melissa, a clueless american couple that thinks they're just adopting an orphaned girl from a nearby town. She enters Hawkins High, learns their ways, keeps an eye on the strange events around her and, at 17, gets assigned to work in the shopping mall with a boy she's identified to be involved with the conspiracy: Steve Harrington. She'll get close to him, earn his trust and, once he tells her everything, report back to her superiors. But then she ends up getting overly attached, and with this boy, she experiences something she's never known before: friendship, trust, love. He seems to care about her deeply and genuinely, and she feels compelled to tell him at least a small and tiny truth about herself, one of the few things they couldn't take from her. She likes women, and that has always seemed unimportant to her because she never thought she'd find love, or that she could ever afford to desire something for herself, but today she feels free with this ragtag group of misfits, and she wonders if maybe, once this is all over and she gets to go home, she'll be allowed to live in a house, not in their lab, go to university and love a girl one day.

Idea 2: she's actually not russian. She's an american girl intercepted by the russians at 15 because she cracked their code and was going to tell the authorities. They planned to kill her, but when she soon proved to be a literal prodigy, they decided to take advantage of her talent. All her parents know is that she went missing for two years and that when she returned, she came back... different. She doesn't remember what is it that they did to her, but she knows she's to rely information to them.

Idea 3: she's not an actual spy, but she's so good at russian that, when they capture her, she convinces them she's a super secret russian spy, so secret not even they know about her because she doesn't trust that they don't have spies among them. And she's actually in the middle of a very important mission with that dingus, so she needs them to release him immediately so she can see where he's going and do her job, thank you.

[adamwatchesmovies]

Under Siege (1992)

I haven’t watched all of Steven Seagal’s filmography but I’m nonetheless confident in calling Under Siege his best film. It takes a somewhat familiar formula (it’s Die Hard on a boat) and delivers everything you want to see. There’s a lot of action and thrills, the stakes are high, the bad guys are terrific - so good they easily steal the show.

Aboard the battleship USS Missouri, Executive Officer Commander Krill (Gary Busey) is preparing a surprise party for the captain. No one suspects there's more to it than music and a hot lady busting out of the cake. Actually, it’s a ploy to get William Strannix (Tommy Lee Jones) and his crew aboard so they can commandeer the ship and its nuclear arsenal. With all of the sailors killed or captured, it's up to the cook (Steven Seagal as Casey Ryback) and "Miss July" (Erika Eleniak as Jordan Tate) to save the day.

Unsurprisingly, Steven Seagal is not playing some lowly cook. He’s got special skills; exactly the kind required to take the Missouri back from the terrorists who’ve captured it. Even before we learn his backstory, you believe Ryback is up to the task because the character is smart. He knows he can’t take all of these baddies down on his own/through conventional methods so he finds ways to even the odds. Booby traps, subterfuge, calling for help, freeing some of his shipmates, getting anyone who will be sympathetic to help him and - my favorite - he picks up the weapons of those he defeats. It doesn’t sound like much but it’s what anyone with a brain would do in real life and in the movies, you rarely see anyone pick up a gun, much less pick up a spare so they can arm someone else to help. Though Seagal doesn’t prove himself to be all that charismatic, he handles the stunts well. You believe it when he sends the opposing goons to Davy Jones' locker. There are a lot of great kills in this movie, many of which will make you yell “Damn!” out loud.

I know Seagal has fans, but he's never been able to elevate the material handed to him. Luckily, we're in the hands of Andrew Davis (who made The Fugitive a year after this film) and a great supporting cast. First, there’s Gary Busey as Commander Krill. What a perfect role for him. The second he appears on-screen, you know he'll be an antagonist but then he surprises you by being even more despicable, sociopathic and corrupt than expected. You love to hate him because because you can tell he’s been thinking about this day for a long time, mentally picturing how it would all go down, and the people he was going to kill. You can’t wait for him to get what’s coming and the same goes for Tommy Lee Jones’ William Strannix. Somewhere between the cold, calculating Hans Gruber and the fanatical Egor Korshunov (from Air Force One”, another Die Hard-like action picture) he’s also enjoying this heist a little bit too much but between the jokes he makes at his victims’ expense, he keeps his cool. He recognizes the threat Ryback poses and comes up with counter strategies that keep him - and you - on your toes the whole way through.

Finally, we have Erika Eleniak as "Miss July", who might think is just a pretty face - and a bare chest - to add to the “R” Rating but she contributes A LOT. She’s the avatar for the audience: brought onboard the ship under false circumstances, she is totally in over her head. She realizes her only chance is to stick around with Ryback and yeah… that’s what you’d do too! I’m surprised more films haven't copied this aspect of Under Siege to give the hero someone to bounce off of and help them when they find themselves in a jam there’s seemingly no escaping.

Under Siege is a surprisingly memorable take on the Die Hard formula. I know that sounds like a backward compliment - like it’s only good if you’ve seen Die Hard a thousand times and you want something new - but this picture is solid. It’s a great “dad movie”, something you and the old man could sit through and thoroughly enjoy any day of the week. It makes great use of its location, both villains are memorable, the action is satisfying, Seagall handles the stunts well, and his sidekick is a great new ingredient to spice up the recipe. When you catch it, feel free to stay until the end of the credits to get some bonus facts about the ship upon which the film was shot. (On DVD, February 11, 2022)

[skybristle]

as promised, a more in depth lorepost regarding my fake event story in regards to this post [go look it has tk drip]

once again copy/pasted shit from discord, under the cut! no tws this time m pretty sure but putting it under a cut because its LONG and it would be very mean of me to clog ppl's dashes. rbs appreciated as always!! i love talking to ppl abt my ideas, feel free to contribute or send asks my way!

okay okay so basically the concept of this is like. operation timeguard costumes get an event because the lore was SO COOL and for WHAT. plus i have timekeeper mental illness and they gave me their interaction and did NOTHING WITH IT so fuck it im doing it MYSELF rougefort finds out their heirloom got auctioned to an unknown bidder and is like Hey! What The Fuck! and is desprately trying to steal timepeices to see if it's the right one. But uh. stealing timepeices is really fucking hard! mainly because tbd enforcers p much immediately get on their ass and its a lot harder to get away from someone with literal fucking time travel on their side. so they're stuck on a roof and cornered and like Awww fuck. but then time freezes around them, a rift opens framed with oversized golden scissors, and a cookie pops out of it and props themself up on their scissors in a gay little pose tk basically goes "i'm timekeeper cookie, and i see a quite entertaining future with you,,, but you won't get very far locked in the tbd slammer. so, would you like to strike a deal? you play your little games and i,,, help you along. the tbd's easy to play with when i'm a time god" and rougefort doesnt Really have a choice??? tk is kinda manipulative and an asshole but like hey what do you expect its tk} also tk is the one who gives them their airship AND their pursuit of lost time drip. for the former it's just because literally the ONLY other place we see airships in crob is in her fucking,,,, trailer animation and the latter,,,,,,,, Uhhh fuck you queue a BUNCH of fuckery with rougefort making mysterious getaways that don't make sense logically. they start hoarding timepeices mainly because. can't really RETURN them when you're a wanted criminal AND they can't really get rid of them because 'oo shiny' and also yaknow they're extremely powerful and could destroy the world in the wrong hands tldr tk sends rougefort off on a wild goose chase and makes good on her promise to help them, being incredibly vague to croissant abt it and not really helping at all to find rougefort and their mysterious accomplice. croissant chalks this up to tk being an asshole and liking to watch this unfold and doesn't think the DIRECTOR OF THE TBD is the fucking accomplice as soon as walnut finds out the phantom bleu has switched modus operendi shes like. "girl WHAT" and immediately heads over to the tbd because,,,,,, she's like 12 and this is WAY out of her league and it's the TBD's job to deal with time criminals. but it isn't like her to completely leave the case to them croissant takes the case [given how high profile it is] and i dont have as much on this but i just. Think that her and walnut would make a silly little team. i can't describe it but. Cool older sister energy. win! croissant peices together all sorts of weird evidence but is kinda,,, in denial it could be tk?? considering they literally JUST agreed on a rule that wouldn't let tk do this shit anymore [technically, she just said 'not to hurt people' but thought that was a good blanket. this is tk we're talking about. It Wasn't]. it could really be anyone with time travel,,, or anyone else at the tbd. the thought unsettles her and drives her to GETTING THEIR ASS eventually they finally get rougefort cornered in a clock tower [note: rougefort ONLY makes their getaways in secluded spots after evading authorities long enough. timekeeper doesn't wanna ruin the game by having their cover blown] and croissant starts hissing about what'll happen to them if they don't hand up the timepeices and tell them the accomplice, making all sorts of wild threats about what the director will do to whoever betrayed them in their ranks before a rift opens over their heads, framed by familiar golden scissors "oh, croissant. i'm rather not in the mood for self-mutilation. it appears i've been caught. it was fun while it lasted!" and with that, she leaves a dumbstruck [and very sick of tk's shit] croissant and walnut alone as she pulls rougefort away into timespace's safety insert a monolouge here i haven't

thought out fully yet, but it ends by tk basically saying she had the heirloom the entire time, handing it to rougefort [who's. Too shocked to strangle her ass for all of this when SHE WAS THE FUCKING BIDDER ALL ALONG], telling them to use it wisely lest they end up on the bad end of the tbd, and proceeds to return to her office to take their crimes off the record, only to be met with a very, VERY pissed croissant sitting in her office, ranting her head off and tk simply says "well, nobody got hurt, did they?" and, i mean. she's right, and croissant just slumps over defeated that's it!! my silly fake event. i can talk abt it more in depth if you ask specific questions probably but like heres the runover / stuff i remember from my brain

[darkpurpledawn]

For @racketghost 's 13 days of Halloween, prompt "graveyard"

7:00

Agreed to take ‘graveyard shift’ at bookshop for the angel. Angel worried about unscrupulous collectors getting their covetous hands on his first quartos during his trip to Edinburgh. Probably third most adorable worry this year. Fourth, counting the badgers.

Promised to pull wriggling-maggots gambit on any would-be thieves, did not promise to refrain from eating leftover palmiers. Angel oddly concerned about ‘what the shop might get up to.’ Assured him working at night is nothing new, have a saying in Hell that ‘it’s always the graveyard shift somewhere.’ (Was inspiration for the signs about five o’clock, for which received award for Special Contributions in Intemperance.)

Angel left. Briefly brushed shoulders as he was putting on coat, i.e. life still unendurable disaster.

7:33

Should be preparing conference paper for annual Hell all-hands in Las Vegas, can’t be bothered. Intend to waste entire night watching tv humans make complicated desserts and posting misattributed Victorian quotations. Not going to ransack Aziraphale’s kitchen, doze off, or go looking in obscure cabinets.

8:15

Woke up as snake coiled around till amid palmier crumbs. Not good, not supposed to be sleeping. Weird dream in which dressed in white, waiting for a dog, angel had curly moustache. Moustache should not have been attractive, was. Bugger it all to Heaven. 

Made tea in the angel’s atrocious kitchen, caused eviction of mouse family when retrieving kettle, probably instigated fall of mouse civilization. Kettle one of those disgusting 1950s flower-patterned nightmares, of course. 

Checked email, heaps of bids for own illegal listings on eBay. Should be able to fulfill lust quota for month with posts selling purported toenails of celebrities. Played d*vil’s adv*cate on Twitter (not allowed to actually write that down or Office of Infernal Counsel will send a c&d for making overstated legal claims), started rumor that cauliflower is actually dehydrated human brains. 

Heard shuffling sound. Should probably go check for quarto thieves.

8:30

Could not find source of shuffles anywhere. Looked in back room, nothing unusual. All ten zillion throw pillows angel insists on burdening sofa with appear to be in place.

Have had too many thoughts about that sofa. Picked up nearest bottle and went to kitchen to drown idiocy in several teacups of whiskey.

9:00

Got bored, started poking around. Found mildew stain that appears to be accurate map of Antarctica. Considered eating preserves noticed in back of cabinet, but unable to verify that it was made subsequent to Charlemagne’s accession. Briefly entertained notion of reading a book, came to senses and scrolled through 15 articles on phone about dogs that look like famous dictators.

Continued papery-sounding noises in the background. Would not be shocked if angel has white noise machine designed to sound like someone rifling through dictionary pages.

10:00

Got bored-er. Attempted to clean grime from windows experimentally and lost nerve about ten seconds in. 

Peeked into bathroom on second floor (which have been unconditionally invited to use but have only entered once to vomit in after regrettable work event in fourth circle). Angel apparently hoarding soap from past three centuries, in least surprising development of modern age.

Washed hands to get rid of window gunk. Refrained heroically from sniffing any towels.

Heard whispering from downstairs. Neighbors? Cannot believe anyone is actually waiting around to steal first quartos from world’s unfriendliest-looking bookstore.

10:12

Finished whiskey. “Cauliflower Is Brains” trending on Twitter. Found own decades-old tie deep in sofa cushions, not that was examining these too closely.

10:50

In attempt to trace whispers, entered stacks. Began imagining scenarios in which unexpectedly holy book toppled and caused catastrophic injury. Do not want angel to return to smoldering pile of ex-demon on his unspeakably dusty floors. Also do not want to be smoldering pile of ex-demon, naturally.

Obtained gloves the angel uses for book repair from end table. Also took umbrella from its place hanging on hatstand and partially opened as defense against falling books. Probably looked like Edwardian wanker. 

Proceeded with stack-examining. Organization system unclear. Slightly alarmed by discovering volume of Galen with recent takeaway receipts seemingly serving as bookmarks for easy reference. May explain why angel still refers to all colds as ‘excesses of phlegm.’

Too difficult to navigate narrow shelves with umbrella. Abandoned umbrella, substituted trilby hat for protection from falling sacred texts. Have never looked more ridiculous, very much including all of 17th Century and that time had snakebite piercings and mullet with short fringe.

11:21

FUCKASPIDERCRAWLEDONMYHANDFUCK

11:24

Can never go back to Hell, spider might be waiting there. 

11:30

Well. That’s certainly interesting.

Section of one bookshelf protected by some kind of holy bond-of-secrecy-whatsit. Should have left alone. Could have broken it with hellfire, but am in most flammable location in known universe, decided that was terrible idea. Managed to undo holy bonds using profane combination of two parts own venom, one part hoarded soap spritzed through a salad mister.

So. 

The angel has about two hundred books and fifteen scrolls concerning how to summon and bind demons. Thought at first maybe was for professional development. Too many. Angel has copy of the Big One, the one that can force a demon to do whatever summoner requests. 

11:32

In fact, angel has all known copies.

Have only had it used twice before. Once some pissed aristocrat wanted to steal Love’s Labours Won, turned into whole thing. Second time group of students got very desperate trying to complete science fair project. Learned way too much about thermodynamics.

12:00

Theoretically should be extremely horrified that the angel has all extant copies of Big One and can summon and bind demons at any time. 

Feeling am experiencing is...not horror.

12:15

Relevant pages in the Big One crossed out in indelible ink, ‘absolutely not’ written in weird cursive angel was using four hundred years ago. Impossible to see incantation. 

Theorized why this might be throughout second bottle of whiskey. Enjoyed feelings of profound relief. Ignored feelings of vague disappointment.

Theory one: angel at one time planning to use Big One, decided not to. Reasonable theory, but does not explain why every copy is in this bookshop.

Theory two: angel bought every copy with the express intent of crossing out incantation so no one could completely control a demon ever again.

Unreasonable theory. 

Will never mention any of this unless perhaps world ends. Probably not even then. What would that really change?

[isabellehemlock]

Interfaith Fandom Survey Interest Check Update

ID. A LGBTQ+ inclusive flag that flaps in the wind against a blue colored sky background. END ID.

Hi loves, I’m excited to share that we had over a dozen replies for the anon survey* that was shared in a previous post (that you can read here). And it seems there is enough interest to move forward to the next stage of building a little corner of the internet for an interfaith community of people who are also LGBTQ+!

What happens next

The biggest take away was that people would love resources (ranging from sensitivity to content creation, affirming posts, LGBTQ+ positive theology, courses, and so on), and fandom channels where we can celebrate feeling seen in media. To accomplish this, I’ll be initiating a three step process:

Setting up a tumblr where we can hopefully reach any content creators/fans who would be interested in contributing to a resource doc. As in, you wouldn’t necessarily have to sign up for the server if you’re not interested, but would like to potentially contribute, and/or receive a copy of the doc. The doc would be organized between myself and a mod team, and would be accessible to anyone who would like it (but more of those details once the blog is up).

Assembling the doc would likely be done through a small private server, formulating a short questionnaire/interview that could include, but not limited to, such questions as:

"What are some tropes you have seen in fandom that you feel feed into negative stereotypes about your faith/background?”, “What are some tropes/themes you’d love to see more of in fandom in regards to your faith/background?”, “What are some things that might not seem obvious to a casual reader, but when you spot it you know it was not written by someone of the same background as you?”, “Are there any links to articles, books, courses, that you’d like to share that you feel might be helpful for a content creator to read before trying to write a character that shares the same faith/background as you?”

We would then organize the responses and index it for consumption and send it out to the ether of the internet :)

Having a mod team assembled, and with the help of the community, we would build up the server with pre agreed upon rules, and boundaries, and hopefully expand it to a space where people can share about their experiences, geek out over fandom, and in general not feel like they have to water down a core part of their identity of either/or. *And I would pass along the results of the survey via a spreadsheet to ensure everyone who took the time to share their thoughts would be heard by the mod team

However even though I will be working closely with a mod team to discuss the wording and nuances of the rules, I would like to share some basics of what the server will, and will not, be:

The aim of the server is to be a safe space for those who identify somewhere on the LGBTQ+ spectrum (if you are not CIS gendered and heterosexual and heteroromantic - all three, then we believe you are part of that spectrum. This would include “straight passing” bisexuals, trans, and aspec persons), and who also have a religious affiliation - regardless of practice/community or orthodoxy.

As in, we recognize that some people have a personal relationship with their faith and background, who are seeking community, but might not be currently involved within a community. There are many of us who have not shared one part of our identity in our communities, either in person and/or online and we are seeking others who we can share that complex journey with. However, to honor both digital boundaries, different needs for privacies, and in some cases even safety, we will never push for identifying information. It will be up to each member’s discretion to decide for themselves what they want to divulge about themselves, including but not limited to, their religious affiliation, gender identity and sexual orientation.

The secondary goal, is to be able to geek out over fandom, especially to celebrate representation in media, and when applicable, to share resources with fellow content creators on how to be mindful when it comes to writing characters who are practicing, but also the cultural and ethnic influences, and how to be sensitive to navigating it through the kind of content we want to produce. We do this because we recognize our own biases and prejudices and skewed world lens. We want to approach the subject matter with humility, our common goal will be to honor who we are sharing communal space with, and recognize the person behind the screen. The whole point is to be humble, realize we don't know everything, and at the very least, not be woefully ignorant about the content we produce - to be informed about issues, concerns and inherent biases, all while also celebrating the content we get when sensitivity has been applied to representation.

Finally, many of us, myself included, have suffered from religious trauma, and spiritual abuse, and though we do hope to ensure a safe space, we will also have firm boundaries in regards to hostile language directed at other members. The trauma is not your fault, but the healing is your responsibility, and one stranger on the internet cannot be the stand in for your abuser to project on.

There is a huge difference in practicing how to have hard conversations about interfaith dialogue, unlearning inherent biases/prejudices, and processing trauma through genuine, open communication that we can hopefully develop and take out to the real world - and lashing out at people with unhealed wounds via harassing language. For example, someone saying, “I found this link that discusses inherent biases in regards to Judaism some of you might not be aware of, and I think I would be a good read for those interested.” is way different than, “Anyone who is [ insert any religious affiliation ] is a [ insert a bigoted streotype ].”

We would also have very clear definitions about channel lineups, including a sharing area, where those who would like some comfort and feedback about hard things in regards to their faith/background can be met with understanding but also keeping in mind to keep things within channels for those who would prefer lighter discussions in a the fandom areas.

There will be absolutely no proselytizing, or “jokes” about one religion being “better” than any other - it is a shared space, and though we have chosen our faith because it is what speaks to us and we feel fulfilled by it, it is downright hubris to assume that that must be the case for everyone. There is a beauty in expanding our minds and seeing how differently we all connect with our spiritual practices. That is a beautiful thing, and not a cause for competition, in this space.

Though every effort will be made to account for English not being everyone's first language, that we are limited by text communication and that we want to give the benefit of the doubt first - any form of disparaging blanket statements, harassment, bigotry, racism will be handled swiftly and effectively because there is enough of that in the world and though we cannot change the world, we can, and will, adhere to pre agreed upon rules of conduct within a small digital community.

So for now, bear with me as I reach out to a few people who I think might be interested in helping me mod this project, and I’ll share a link to the blog just as soon as it’s up. Blessings <3

[wowsoboring]

Deconstructing baseless Harry Potter arguments #1: Harmony Edition

There’s a very helpful account on instagram (this instagram page merely gathers toxic harmony shippers, they don’t ship Harmione or hate all Harmione shippers, please don’t send them hate, show them love and support) where you can essentially find stupid fucking bashers who make baseless arguments. I’m all for Harmione shippers, as long as they don’t denounce Romione, bash Ron and just peacefully co-exist. To my pleasure, such people are out there: they just dont seem to be seen as often as the ones that are not nice. Maybe all I see is the mean people and the majority is nice, but in this post, I am attacking those who make baseless claims and bash Ron/Romione/Hinny/Ginny. I don’t myself hate all Harmione shippers. On top of that, as a Romione/Ron fan, i do acknowledge Ron’s character flaws along with Hermione’s and I hold them on the same pedestal.

This is copied directly from my own instagram page, granger.weasley_ on ig.

Anyways let's get deconstructing

1)

rebuttal:

Yeah okay mf; maybe don’t compare real-life relationships with fucking fictional ones. Your relationship going wrong has nothing to do with Ron/Hermione. It has everything to do with you and your ex: the *real life* people involved in it.

2)

rebuttal:

The weird subreddits and discord servers also seem to have a lot of die-hard Harmione “non-canon” shippers. They bash Ron and Romione (along with Ginny and Hinny) with a burning passion without any objective sense of remorse. They ignore all the merits of Ron’s character and bash him to push their agenda. They can’t even do so much as fucking acknowledge any of Hermione’s character flaws but still somehow manage to fixate on that one time when 11 year old Ron just shit-talked one line while Hermione had just publicly humiliated him in front of the Charms class and practically shouted at him for doing the spell wrong just before. I personally don’t because Hermione was 11 too and wasn’t that good at social cues that early on, which is more than okay. Neither am I.

Only a few people in the Romione fandom bash Hermione. And it’s not like Harmione shippers (most, not all!) don’t bash Ron and Ginny remorselessly, right? The fucking hypocrisy.

If someone considers Ron as the best member of the trio, it is their own opinion and not a fact. I do that. If you consider Harry and Hermione as the best member of the trio or in the whole wizarding world, most people don’t give a flying fuck and probably won’t argue with you because it is simply an opinion. That will only happen when you pass that off as a fact.

Statistically speaking, most (not FUCKING all) Harmione moments are in the movies. The weird dance scene especially. The passionate kiss that happens in Ron’s vision, shit like that. Ron is pushed to the sidelines in the last set of movies while Harry and Hermione show each other endless love and support. “I’ll go with you”. The books on the other hand, describe Harry and Hermione as siblings multiple times, with very little Harmione references.

3)

rebuttal:

So you don't want us to fixate on the large majority of Harmione shippers who do the exact same thing, just kissing Hermione's and Harry's ass and hating on Ron. However you will fixate on people who are most likely not EVEN bashing or hating but pointing out a few character flaws in Hermione in a fair and unbiased way. I would know, I'm a huge fan of Hermione as an individual character (in the books). The only criticism I've seen of Hermione to this day has not been bashing. In the comment section of my own fics (shameless plug) I've seen some Hermione bashing. On an ao3 comment section. And I've seen so damn fucking many people bashing Ron, Ginny, the Weasleys etc. and garner tens and thousands of upvotes on quora.

What does Ron even need excusing for? The running away incident and Krum. What does Hermione need excusing for? Canaries, contributing to Ron's insecurities by making him jealous through Cormac and Krum even though she didn't even like them (especially not Cormac, she fucking hated him). Ron wore a locket that literally highlighted his fatal flaw (insecurity) in an echo chamber. Harry kept getting annoyed when Ron wanted to check in on his family. Harry asked Ron to leave; Ron didn't say that shit in the books about Harry's parents being dead: that was plain shock value.

And sorry for repeating myself but I have seen quite a few Harmione shippers bash Ron and Ginny and excuse every single thing Harry and Hermione have done.

4)

37 upvotes on this weird comment that makes no sense? Echo chamber alert! You know what us Romione/Ron fans all have in common? We have never experienced such an echo chamber. I made a pro Ron/Romione post on reddit and got a considerable amount of people who bashed Ron and Romione in the comments.

The amount of Hermione haters is very few compared to Ron bashers. Nobody hates Hermione for being independent, determined, etc. We dislike perfect movie Hermione who’s an unrealistic image of females and seems like some sort of agenda than a real woman. Most Romione shippers/Ron fans and book fans in general (except for you apparently) dislike movie Hermione and still are fans of realistic book Hermione. Most, not all. In general, we do not claim anyone who does the exact same thing to Harry and Hermione that these sorts of Harmione shippers do to Ron, Romione, Hinny and Ginny. I say this on the behalf of all Romione shippers and Ron fans.

Ron's not a bitchy lay-about drama causing loser. That's Steve Kloves's movie Ron. In the books Ron is realistic and simplistic and apologizes whenever he causes problems. He acts up substantially twice in a span of 7 years where he is also a hormone-fuelled teenager.

This is so contradictory and juxtaposed to the point of near delusion. First you talk about how Romione shippers bash Hermione and then you bash Ron as a Harmione shipper. Mate, fighting fire with fire will get you called a hypocrite. Fix yourself.

5)

So the movies are fine when they work according to your agenda? And yes how dare he add such a (fake) chemistry fuelled moment between Harry and Hermione while defeating the entire purpose and groundwork for Romione, the sadness caused by Ron leaving and so many more things? Those Harmione moments you mention seem friendship -esque more than anything else.

Steve Kloves's moments ruined many things while just paying fan service to the Harmione fans he'd birthed through years in the course of 6 movies where he showed Ron as a, how you so eloquently describe it, lay - about drama causing bitchy loser, Harry as one dimensional and Hermione as a zero - dimensional Mary Sue who might as well be the main titular character. Obviously Harmione fans such as yourself don't see the problem with it as it fits your narrative

6)

We do care about Harry and Hermione at large. Most Romione shippers rightfully bash Draco, Pansy, etc. not particularly Harry and Hermione, that's quite rare. Harry and Hermione can get along without Ron as friends. Ron and Harry can also get along without. Hermione as friend. So can Hermione and Ron without Harry as friends or more. I don't understand your point and how what you said is any different than Romione or Ronarry’s friendship.

7)

Constant arguing is not what they do. They bicker, they apologize, and sometimes they just do it for the heck of it. They are argumentative teenager. Opposites attract doesn't work in the sense of fire and ice, it works in the case of Brownie and ice-cream. Ron is passionate, laid back and insecure. Hermione's passionate, a workaholic and not as insecure. Ron can help her get calm and composed and get her to give herself a break. Hermione can motivate Ron and re - enforce his confidence.

It wouldn't be step incest. Harry and Ginny do not regard each other as siblings. They do not look similar whatsoever. And a Harmione shipper also bashes Hinny and Ginny along with Ron and Romione? Checks out

" that fucked up Harmony" hahaha. What?

8)

Are you literally going to date someone on the basis of what Harry Potter ships they prefer? That is so shallow end depraved. Your Harry Potter ship preferences should not be the groundwork for your dating life. Please understand that. Harry Potter is a fictional world which is not real. Hogwarts doesn't exist. Magic doesn't exist. I sound like a Dursley but that's what it is: a fictional realm with fictional character. I would personally not give a fuck if my best friend or significant other was a Harmione shipper. In the case of them being a Ron basher, I would ignore it as if it was just a minor inconvenience and something we wouldn't be discussing and that's how it should be with you. Fuck BuzzFeed, your opinion on what Harry Potter ship / character is your favorite says squat about your personality and relationship with others in a romantic or platonic context. But who cares? Live your life however you want. I'll be stoic.

9)

It's not opposites attract rubbish or high school opposites attract. Ron and Hermione aren't polar opposites like I said, they are a bit different but similar too in many ways. They have a lot more in common than Harry and Hermione. Ron and Harry have the most in common. Both Ron and Hermione are passionate, loving, argumentative, caring, etc. Your argument lacks substance. It's biased trash. And what does “obhwf " mean?

---------------------------------

at the end of the day, i’m just an annoyed teenager. I try my best to be open-minded to people but only as long as they are too. I tried to use my brain more than my feelings for this post. 

[jenomark]

➔Pairing: Haechan x Reader (Female)  ➔Other Members/ Characters: -.- ➔Genre: Fluff ➔Warnings: Angst | Mentions of death | Cursing ➔Word count: 6,865

➔Summary: He was always yours, even before you wrote a book about him, even before he disappeared from your life after high school, and even before he broke his promise. 

➔Request: can I request a drabble of haechan friends to lovers? 🥺

➔ I hope you don’t mind that I turned this into a longer story that is more on the fluff side. I felt really inspired to do so. Thanks for sending in the request! 💚

You

  You hated school. Not because you weren’t serious about your studies. You liked the subjects well enough. You liked eating lunch at a table, a little package of apple slices, and a chocolate milk that always tasted like the carton it was in. You liked hanging up your coat in the coat closet, little rain droplets dripping on the wooden floor when the weather was bad. You liked your teachers and how they would encourage your love of reading. You liked all the things to like except one: school hours meant time away from him.

  Him. He pulled your hair sometimes when he was bored. You cried once, your mother saying something sexist about how he must like you. Your father never paid attention, just kept watching the television. You wondered if all boys were that stupid. He also made fun of the way your nose would wiggle when you talked. He had a smart comment for everything. He thought he was smarter than you, even. There weren't many nice things to say right off the top of your head, but you loved him anyway.

 During the school year, the school hours especially, you never talked to him. He was off parading around with his squad of friends, each one more pigheaded than the last. They’d act like they didn’t care about school in the schoolyard, but all of them got decent grades. Sometimes they would pick on others boys, the principal telling others that that’s just what boys did. Sometimes he would raise his hand in class and answer the right question, and even though you sat next to each other in class, he’d never look at you. 

  Your school life was a little different. You were off spending time hovering by doorways, wishing the days would end until you could see him again. You looked at him from the corner of your eye, a question of whether you truly knew him or not always on your tongue. You didn’t spend time pretending other people were your friends, because your best friend had always been him.

  After school felt like a different time zone. Neither of you took your time with homework. You would rush, a telltale sign being poorly erased letters and crumpled papers shoved into bookbags. Usually, he would walk to your house and meet you in the tent in the backyard, talking long before he reached the entrance. He always talked about his day as if you weren’t in it. He liked to talk a lot.

“I don’t want to hear it.” you would say. “I don’t know why you’re friends with those people.”

 You were both at an age where you were figuring stuff out. You fought a lot, with him storming out of your backyard tent and walking home, and you resisting the urge to follow him. There was always a phone call from his concerned mother, eased by your own mother reassuring her that you’d both work out your differences soon. You’d been best friends since you were even younger, clinging to each other only when other people weren’t looking. It was too late to make a clean break.

 Summers were your favorite because you had him all to yourself. At that age, you weren’t aware that keeping him was holding him back from other things. You were all too happy to lounge on a beach with him, watching him get stuck in the sand and laughing at him until your stomach hurt. To you, it was the purest form of love. 

 Time made things weird, as it does. The summers you used to love started fading out. He no longer came on family trips. Instead, he went to summer camps with other thirteen-year-old boys. He would come back boasting about being taught to shave his face by the older kids, and then he would show you his new skills. Even though you were disinterested, you always watched him intensely, thinking that if he let you in to this one valuable piece of information, he would open the door to the rest. He never did.

  Gradually, after-school hangouts were taken away from you, too. Your father’s only contribution to any conversation was to say that your best friend would be more interested in girls now. Even as your parents left you alone, the words of  “But I’m a girl!” leaving your lips until the last light was shut off, you never really understood what it meant. In fact, it wasn’t until he flirted with someone else in front of your face that you got the hint. You were a girl, but he never thought of you that way. And he would rather spend his time after school walking to someone else’s house.

 None of that was as bad as high school was. Up until then, you’d been clutching at straws to make the friendship what it once was. You made the tent bigger to accommodate his growing frame. You offered to pay for movies if he’d come alone, and you would even sit through the boring ones just for him. On the rare chance that you’d guilt trip him into staying a little longer with you, it was enough to keep you enduring. When high school truly hit, the studying took up most of your time. The scraps that were left were spent having family time, or visiting schools your mother wanted you to attend after high school.

 Though he no longer ignored you in school, things had gotten harder. He was dating often, sweeping girls off their feet with his wild, charming sense of humor. It was hard for them not to get jealous of you. Though you weren’t around much, the bond you both shared was obvious to everyone who watched the pair of you together. He never really wanted to choose between his childhood best friend and someone he was seeing, but the choice was always very apparent to you. 

“Maybe you should date, too,” he had said.

  You shut it down quickly, appalled that he would even suggest a thing. When you realized your dismissal must have hurt his feelings, you backtracked.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” you asked.

 His smile made you feel like you were on top of the world. Of course he had someone to introduce to you. Thus, the double date was born. You could tag along with him and his girlfriend, with a friend of his you eventually started dating. It wasn’t the most ideal situation, but it had rekindled something in your friendship you didn’t know you’d been missing.

 He had even come around to your house more. You came home from a study group one time to see him in your childhood tent, his long legs sticking out of it. He bent his body forward, holding up a bag of snacks you recognized.

“You still sit in here?” he asked.

You sat down next to him, the plastic of the tent hitting you in the forehead. “When I need to think.”

“You have a brain?”

“Funny.” you said. “Why are you here?”

  He got a far away look in his eyes, like he did whenever he was truly going to say something stupid. There were times he spoke philosophically, because deep down, he was never the stupid little boy you said he was.

“Life is moving too fast,” he said. “Remember when we were kids and it moved so slow? I would suffer waiting for summer.”

“I remember it vividly.” you said. “Are you feeling nostalgic?”

  He ate some of the snacks, offering you some. When you didn’t take it, he pulled on your hair a little bit. It pulled you to wherever he was at, back in time to when things felt much easier than they were. High school was ending, and you were all walking down different paths, none of them leading back to this tent.

“I want you to promise me something.” he said. “After high school, I want us to always be best friends. This last year has made me realize how much I missed you.”

 You wanted to tell him how much you missed him, to take his hand and hold it in yours. There was something in you that couldn’t do it. You just kept chewing, waiting for him to keep talking. 

“Let’s promise to call each other at least once a day when we’re adults.” he said, getting this excited look in his eyes. He felt more like the real Haechan right then than he ever had in the past five years.

“Promise.” you said, holding out your pinky and getting ready to kiss your thumb.

  Haechan linked his pinky with yours, his thumb connecting to your thumb. You leaned down to kiss it at the same time, your faces coming closer to each other than they had in a long time.

  Sadly, after high school, the promise was never kept. The image of him walking away from your backyard was the last time you saw him in any place you called home.

                                                          ~♡~

  You held the phone away from your ear because it was too hot. In your other hand, you held a cold, strawberry smoothie, the condensation dripping down your fingers. The sidewalks were busy, so it was tricky trying to weave in and out of the people, all while holding an unfinished manuscript for the next book you were writing. Years of dodging kids in school hallways made you a pro. As you were about to collide with a delivery man, you spun around gracefully and avoided disaster. After taking a sip of smoothie, you brought the phone closer to your ear.

“Do people still do book signings for physical copies?” you asked. “I thought everything was about selfies now. I definitely don’t look good with the flash on.”

“Of course.” your agent told you over the phone. “I don’t think anyone over the age of existence does. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.” you said.

 Your agent on the other end sighed. “You’re too young to be worried about any of this. I’ll book you for the signing and people will come, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 You wanted to rattle off all the reasons you were freaking out over it, but you were in public. You took another sip of smoothie and looked at the manuscript tucked against your body. Twenty-four and published, with your book rising in the charts, and a second book underway. You shouldn’t be so scared to have human interactions with strangers who enjoy your work, and yet...

“Okay.” you said, closing your eyes for a moment.” Okay, you can do it. I don’t know why I get like this. Seriously, you’re the best.”

“I know. I know.” your agent said. “Take a bath and relax. Call me later.”

  You hung up and threw your phone in the deep recesses of your bag. Your one hand was wet, and you didn’t want it touching the papers, so you tucked them deeper against your body and kept on walking.

                                                        ~♡~

“A book signing. Can you believe it?” you said into the phone. There was no answer on the other end, not even a little static. You walked a little slower on the sidewalk, letting the outside world disappear from your vision. You took a deep breath. “I sold so many copies, mom. I know you would be proud of me.”

  The message ended with a beep. You left the phone on your ear and stopped walking. You stood still, wondering if one day calling your mother and leaving messages on her old cell phone would eventually make you feel better. She died shortly after you graduated from high school, and the phone number was the only part of her still kept alive. You called it whenever you felt a little lost, or on days when you had exciting news to share.

  Feeling a tightness in your chest, you turned off your phone and dropped it into your bag. You were almost home, but you felt like you weren’t ready to face your apartment again. You found it so funny that your professional life was so full and booked, but your personal life was so hollow and empty.

  You turned away, thinking that you could retrace your steps and find yourself on a street with a cafe still open. You would gladly sit at that table and write, watching strangers living their lives, each one stuffed to the brim of character. Men that tried hitting on women who were disinterested, the click-clacking of their heels walking away from potential danger. Mothers with their children, each child holding a mushy, spit-covered ice cream cone. There was always someone who didn’t belong in the crowd, someone your eyes glossed over, and someone who brought up memories of someone you used to know. It was your favorite pastime: watching people who weren’t watching you. You smiled at the thought of getting to live those many lives, when you remembered that there was always a writing deadline to attend to.

  Another time, you thought, before taking the remaining steps to your apartment and looking through the darkened glass front door. Maybe you would take up your agent's suggestion of taking a bath.

 Feeling a little more jolly, you walked up the steps and let yourself in. You stopped to check your mailbox (empty), stopped to check your phone messages one last time (also empty), and lastly, checked your surroundings. When you were sure no one was around, you walked up the steps, feeling tired both mentally and physically. When you reached the top of the hallway, you stopped.

“Haechan.” you said, his name too quiet for him to hear.

   Sitting outside your door, a hood over his head, sat the boy who used to pull on your ponytail. Only now, the figure in all-black clothes, a little 5 o’clock shadow on his face, the one that looked up at you like he didn’t recognize you, pulled at your heartstrings. 

                                                           ~♡~

  You liked to remember Haechan often, especially considering the main character of your book was written with him in mind. Well, you changed his name in the book and made him a lot cooler, but the core of him was the same. Both men were the epicenter of your whole world, even though one of them had left years ago. 

 Looking at him sitting on your floor transported you back in time. Briefly, your mind tried to convince yourself that you were seeing a ghost from the past. But, when he got up from the floor, approaching you cautiously, and he paused for a second before reaching out his arms to hug you, your fingertips knew what your brain didn’t: he was real.

  “Why are you here?” you blurted, pulling away from him, your body regretful that you had let him go.

“I don’t get a hello?” he asked.

  You raised your eyebrows, the surprise on your face real. You were struggling with words, which annoyed you as a writer. All you could do was look at his face and how much it had changed over the last few years. He was a man now. He was a little taller, and the baby fat on his cheeks was gone. He still couldn’t dress right, and the old confidence faded, but he was still as handsome as ever. When he smiled to show that he was joking, you couldn’t stop looking at his teeth.

“How did you find out where I live?” you asked.

“Your dad.” he said.

 Haechan didn’t so much as give his apologies for missing your mother’s funeral, and he had the good graces not to bring her up at all. You felt grateful, saving the pain of both things for another time. 

“I don’t talk to him much anymore.” you said. “He only comes by to give me old things he thinks I want.”

  Not knowing what to do with the piece of information, Haechan shoved his hands into his pockets. You hated how awkward it felt being in front of him. The silence outside of your apartment was magnified by your deep breathing. 

“Are you here because of my book?” you asked.

Puzzled, Haechan blinked. “Book? I didn’t read your book.”

  You adjusted your bag in your hands and thought of something to say. Before you could speak, Haechan motioned to the bag he brought sitting in front of your apartment door. You looked at it, the big black boulder holding no significance to you.

“I was actually just passing through town. I was wondering if you could let me stay a night.” he said.

Him

  He said he hated the apples, even though they were his favorite fruit. He put them on your lunch tray when you weren’t looking, because if you’d seen him do it, you would have made a fuss. Then, he’d get up from your table and go back to wherever his other friends were, because that was what was expected of him. But his eyes always went back to your table to make sure you were eating well, and he would try his best to remember the way you’d smile when you looked down and saw what he had left behind.

 He hated school. It was full of adults who tried to change him. Laugh a little less, they said. Don’t be a clown. Don’t make too much trouble. There was never any room for dreamers or troublemakers, never any kind of future for those who didn’t have plans by the time they were pulled from the womb. Behave and listen. Listen and learn, or we’ll call your parents. He had heard it all by the time he was thirteen, and he hated every bit of it.

 Not you, though. You never tried to change him. You let him go on his way, even though he knew you felt like he was abandoning you. You were the only person he trusted most days, and in the tent in your backyard, he had felt most like himself. 

“I don’t want to hear it.” you had said once. You were angry, he could see it in the way you tried not to say what you wanted to say. “I don’t know why you’re friends with those people.”

 He hadn’t known, either. They liked the way he made them laugh, and he liked the attention they gave him. They were different, in the way that they didn’t remind him that friendships were temporary, that everyone you know might someday disappear. He was terrified of that, of the idea that good things didn’t last.

“Are you jealous?” he asked.

 He wanted the words to sting. He knew you were jealous, and he knew you would never admit to it. He would have been jealous, too, if the roles were reversed. He wanted nothing more than for you to admit that you cared about him, that you loved him, or to rouse any kind of feeling in you at all. Those words spawned a fight that made it hard for either of you to bounce back from. He pulled and picked at you until you were deteriorating in front of his eyes. Choice words were said, and though the wounds healed as you both grew older, neither of you really forgot the beginning of the end.

 Summer came and went, time never slowing down for anybody. The hatred  burning in his heart subsided as he grew into himself more, though he never really learned how to savor the moments as they happened. He was always reaching for more, stuffing his greedy face full of anything that could keep him content.

   His phone calls to you melted down to just one call per week. He didn’t stop by the tent as much, didn’t ask to catch up on homework. He was drifting through school, using the passage of time to measure the length of girls legs, and how they’d move in his direction any time he smiled.

“Maybe you should date, too,” he had said.

 His bright idea didn’t rub off on you. You didn’t smile, didn’t look at him the excited way he looked at you. When you shut it down so quickly, he wondered if your rejection had something to do with him. He was trying really hard to keep your friendship alive, even catching up in the hallways before class to make sure you were taking care of yourself.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” you asked, a simple smile appearing and disappearing before he could blink.

 Introducing you to one of his friends, in hindsight, wasn’t the best idea. He’d had better, but he could hardly take it back. You looked happy when his friend's attention was on you. You were radiant. And it was the perfect set-up. You both could double date and spend time together, just like the old days, even making both of your dates uncomfortable by how close of a bond you had together.

  When the jealousy arrived in a perfect little handbasket, he was sure it was payback for treating you differently, as he was getting to know himself more. He burned whenever he saw you with the other boy, whenever you reached out for his hand, your lips quivering for a kiss. He would stay up late at night in a restless fit, his mind taking turns convincing himself that you were losing your virginity every waking moment. 

 “You’re spending a lot of time at my house.” you had said to him on more than one occasion. 

“Do you mind?” he asked. “I can go home, if you want.”

“No.” you said quickly, your eyes sparkling.

 He wanted to kiss you then. It was a fleeting , special moment, and it hovered in the air between you both from that moment forward. He thought maybe he was imagining it, but he had been close to many girls, and no one looked at him the way you did.

 Sitting in your tent, his legs stretched out of it because he was too big, he thought back to every time you made his heart do backflips in his chest. Ever since you were small, he had feelings for you. In fact, his parents used to joke that the two of you would end up together one day, maybe have a wedding in the backyard,  your inside jokes written into your vows.

 Hearing leaves crunching underfoot, he sat up.  “You still sit in this thing?” he asked.

You sat down next to him, the plastic of the tent hitting you in the forehead. “When I need to think.”

“You have a brain?”

“Funny.” you said. “Why are you here?”

 He wasn’t sure why. He had been taking a walk and found himself there, his feet knowing exactly where to go. He had been thinking too hard about life after high school, and about what kind of man he wanted to be.

“Life is moving too fast,” he said. “Remember when we were kids and it moved so slow? I would suffer waiting for summer.”

“I remember it vividly.” you said. “Are you feeling nostalgic?”

  He ate some of the snacks, offering you some. When you didn’t take it, he pulled on your hair a little bit. Getting you to eat properly was important to him. If he wasn’t around to remind you to take care of yourself, how would you survive the rest of life without him?

“I want you to promise me something.” he said. “After high school, I want us to always be best friends. This last year has made me realize how much I missed you.”

 When he felt like he was going to cry, he shoved more food into his face. He was watching you out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he should continue. When you remained quiet, he began again.

“Let’s promise to call each other at least once a day when we’re adults.” he said, getting this excited look in his eyes. He felt more like the real Haechan right then than he ever had in the past five years.

“Promise.” you said, holding out your pinky and getting ready to kiss your thumb.

  Haechan linked his pinky with yours, his thumb connecting to your thumb. You leaned down to kiss it at the same time, your faces coming closer to each other than they had in a long time. It would be so easy to seal the deal with a real kiss, one that had been years in the making. But he didn’t, and neither did you.

“I have to go.” he said, getting to his feet. “You’re going to keep your promise, right?”

“Have I ever broken a promise to you?” you asked.

                                                       ~♡~ 

  He was raised not to comment on the state of other people’s homes, good or not. Looking around yours, he wanted so badly to tell you how well you were doing for yourself, and how proud of you he was. He looked around, his fingers itching to touch the pretty ceramic birds on an end table, to run a fingertip on a dustless counter and hold it up to the light. 

“You can put your bag down over here.” you said, motioning to a spot beside the couch. “My couch isn’t much, but it is comfortable.”

 You were a little awkward, your eyes unable to connect with his. He could see your mind waiting to defend yourself against the little jabs old Haechan would have made about your space. When he didn’t, you didn’t let your shoulders relax. He moved further inside your apartment, and to your confusion, he said it was a nice place, and that he would be happy to sleep wherever. 

 Compared to your nerves, he was quite calm. He felt like he had walked into a time machine and transported himself into the backyard again. It was like nothing had changed at all. You still looked the same, with nicer clothes that looked more expensive than the average persons. It looked like you went to the hair salon to ask for an “adult” haircut, but your baby face made it hard to take you seriously. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” 

Haechan shrugged. “Sure.”

  When you didn’t ask if he was hungry, Haechan made himself comfortable on the couch. You sat on an opposite chair, folding your hands in your lap. You kept looking around the room nervously, as if you were scared to be alone with a stranger. It hurt him a little bit, but he was mature enough to let it slide.

“Thank you for letting me stay.” he said.

“It’s fine.”

Haechan sighed. “This is much harder than I thought it would be.”

“What is?” you asked, touching your fingers to your neck.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  You got up from your chair as if you’d been electrocuted. “I forgot I need to make a phone call. I will be right back. Don’t touch anything.” 

  Haechan watched you as you grabbed your bag and left the room. Never one to keep still, an old habit that never died, he got up and looked around. He came across the room you entered and saw that the door was ajar. He didn’t listen to the conversation, just grabbed little pieces of it regarding a book signing to take place the next day.

“So soon?” he heard you ask the person on the other end of the phone.

 Haechan walked away, his attention set on the fireplace. On top of it sat a bunch of picture frames, one of which he was in. Haechan stared at it for a long time, his eyes tracing the outline of the little boy he used to be. In the picture, the two of you were hanging onto each other. You were maybe eight years old, ice cream running down your chin, and a blissful ignorance only a child can carry on your sweet face.

 He didn’t know where things had gone wrong. The two of you should have been friends forever. It just made sense. He reached out to touch his fingers to the photo but reeled back when he saw your face in the reflection.

“My mother took that photo.” you said, appearing behind him.

He nodded. “I remember.” 

 The air was heavy. He wanted to apologize for not going to her funeral. He had been out of the country during that time, but he should have called you. He could have written a letter, he could have done anything else but ignore it. 

“I was scared.” Haechan said, the words surprising himself.

You held up a hand, as if you didn’t want to talk about it, but Haechan continued, “I loved her, too.”

 You turned your back and went into the kitchen. Quietly, Haechan followed. He wasn’t going to bring it up anymore. He sensed your sadness because it brewed in his chest, too. He sat on a stool as you got yourself a cup and poured cold water from a pitcher into it. 

“How was your trip?” you asked, your voice shaky.” Are you still traveling?”

 Since he left high school, Haechan felt aimless. He needed to explore the world in an attempt to further his education surrounding himself. He had traveled to many countries and met many people that changed him. Disappearing was never the plan, but it was addicting to not have phone calls, or to adhere to schedules. 

“I’m seeing where it goes.” he said. 

  You took a sip of water and never stopped looking at him. When you were done, you placed it on the counter. “I guess I should ask the million dollar question.”

Haechan leaned back in his stool, “Hit me with what you got.”

“Why are you here?” you asked.

“I didn’t want to pay for a hotel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“Haechan, I’ve known you all my life.” you said. “Lying is your calling.”

“I wanted to see you.”

You inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.” he said. “I’ve never lied to you.”

  The bitterness was morphing your face. He could tell you were thinking back to the promise, about how broken it had made you. After he left, he heard from his parents that you called his house often to ask where he had gone. You wrote him letters that were undelivered. You nearly followed him halfway across the world until your mother got sick. 

“Okay.” he said. “It wasn’t a lie when I made that promise. I had every intention of being with you until we were old and wrinkly.”

“Please.” you said. “You knew what you were going to do before you did it. You booked the plane ticket two weeks in advance. You were with me at graduation. You kissed me.”

  He remembered the kiss well. He had thought about it often on his travels, remembering the way your velvety lips felt, and how he never wanted to stop kissing you. The kiss made sense. It was the one thing time had every permission to slow down. 

“I know.” he said.

  He kissed you. You didn’t kiss him. He was happy about graduating. He was riding the high of the plane ticket, of the unknown waiting for him. He was scared it was the last chance he had to show you his feelings. When you kissed him back and it felt so good, he was then scared that he would never have the guts to leave. 

  You continued speaking, each word obliterating his thoughts, “ You want to think going away was just some spontaneous thrill, Haechan, but it fucking wasn’t. You could have told me it was what you wanted. I would have understood. You didn’t have to leave without saying goodbye. You didn’t have to-”

 You couldn’t say the words, so he finished them for you. “-leave. I know. I’m sorry. This isn’t an excuse, but I...didn’t want to lose you.”

  The words felt stupid as soon as he said them. You held your hand up to your head and said you had a headache. Haechan took the time to excuse himself and use the bathroom, locking himself away to figure out what he really thought was going to happen when he showed up at your door to get you back.

You 

  You collapsed onto your couch. The last hour felt like a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings. You were older and more equipped to handle confrontation, but there was something about seeing Haechan that made you want to curl in your mother’s lap like a child. You bit down on your thumb and thought of the ways you could ask him to leave your private space. There was a hotel down the street that was relatively cheap. 

  You looked at the photo on the fireplace. The little boy staring back at you had no idea one day he would break your heart into a million pieces. He was still a little unsure of himself, his smile unknowingly gearing up to be mischievous in a few years time. You thought of the grown man in the bathroom, and how the years had passed, but he still felt the same. A part of you wanted to pinch his cheek and wrap your arms around him like you would when you were young. An even bigger part of you wanted to kiss him to see if the feelings still lingered, even though you already knew the answer to that.

  Moving your foot, you accidentally nudged his backpack. You looked down at it. It was worn in places, with band buttons adorning the front. One of the zippers was open and the edge of something was sticking out. You looked at your closed bathroom door and back to the backpack before gathering up your courage and unzipping it slowly. 

  Digging your hand inside, you pulled out a corner of his underwear. With a quick “Ew”, you shoved it back inside. Your knuckle touched against something hard. You wrapped your hand around it and unearthed it to see that it was your book. You pulled it out even more and audibly gasped. 

“You liar.” you whispered.

 Hearing the toilet flush, you panicked and pulled the book all the way out and shoved it underneath your couch pillow. Quickly, you zipped his backpack and sat back, crossing one leg over the other. When Haechan came out, he hardly looked at you.

“Coming here was a bad idea,” he said. “I don’t know what I expected.”

You stood up. “Wait.”

  Haechan didn’t hear you. He grabbed his bag and threw it over his shoulder. You could see that his face was wet where he had thrown water on it. He didn’t make eye contact with you, just waved his hand and apologized for being an inconvenience. 

“Leaving again?” you said.

  Haechan stopped moving. He turned back. “I thought about you every day I was gone. Every day. And every day, my next thought was that I didn’t deserve you.”

 You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing at all. For a beat or two, you both stared, your eyes searching each other's. You could see every age of Haechan since you’d known him on his face, from the adorable child to the handsome adult. 

  You let Haechan leave this time. He closed the door with a soft click, his presence feeling like a fever dream. Mindlessly, you sat back down on your couch, and only remembered the book still laying there after some time.

 You took your book and placed it on your lap. It was so worn that some of the pages were slipping out of the binding. You opened it carefully and flipped through the pages, the margins filled up with black pen ink. Haechan had written down his input on most pages with things like:

Am I really like this? There is no way this guy is cooler than me.

You know? You’re actually kind of funny. 

Your mother was better than us all.

  You closed the book with a snap and felt the tears falling. You put your head down and tried to feel everything all at once.

                                                         ~♡~

  Your agent walked next to you, her stride slowing to match yours. She didn’t outright say you looked like shit, though it was the truth. Your eyes were a little red, your cheeks were puffy, and you kept itching your neck all throughout the night until there were red scratch marks all on your skin.

 She held open the door to the bookstore “Are you nervous?”

“Am I nervous?” you asked. “I’m shitting myself. I don’t think anyone is going to show up, but with my life, I’m pretty sure I can deal with the embarrassment.”

 Your agent rattled on and on about how special you were to people. She dragged you throughout the two story bookstore, pulling you harder when you tried stalling. You mostly blocked out her words to save your sanity. You didn’t love when people tried buttering you up.

“Just over in this section.” she said. “It starts in twenty minutes, so don’t expect many people right away.”

  When you both turned the corner, there was a sizable line leading up to a table stacked with new books. When the people saw you, they gawked. Some clapped, which made your face turn as hot as your neck. 

“I can’t do this.” you whispered.

  Your agent directed you to a chair, holding you down by your shoulders, so you wouldn’t run away. You took a sip of cold water sitting by your side.

“They’re all here for you.” she said. “Smile and try to be happy.”

“I’ll try.” you said, but when someone smiled at you in front of the line, you felt yourself returning a genuine smile.

 Twenty minutes passed by faster than you wished. When the first person approached the table, you tried to remember your school teachers who believed in you. You recalled all the people who inspired your stories, making a mental bid to thank them for making the first signing so sweet. 

“I really love how you write.” someone had said. Hearing those words made you feel touched. You tried your hardest not to tear up, signing your sloppy signature as best you could.

“Thank you.” you said, the gratitude you felt hopefully being translated well.

  You signed for a long time, the line growing and growing as time passed. Some people came with their own dog-eared books, others with fresh copies. They asked what your upcoming book was about, which made you excited to finish writing it. 

“There isn’t a set ending quite yet, but I’m writing like crazy!” you said.

  You looked down at a book before you and smiled, your fingers touching the pages softly. You signed it and handed it back, giving the fan a smile that reached your eyes. When your eyes locked with his, you felt the world move. Staring back at you was Haechan.

“I would have given you my own copy to sign.” he said. “But I seem to have misplaced it.”

 There was a knowing smile on his face that made you feel flushed all over. He took the signed book back and tucked it underneath his arm. Since yesterday, he looked freshly showered in a similar black t-shirt and jeans. His hair was carefully laid flat on his head like he cared what he looked like in public. He looked handsome, and his cheeks were definitely not puffy.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you read the book?” you asked. 

“You and I both know I don’t make the best choices.” he said. 

  You smiled faintly. There was pain in the smile he returned. You wanted so badly to reach across the table and smooth away the lines on his forehead.

“I know this isn’t the best place.” he said, turning around to look at the line behind him. “But I came here to tell you the truth of why I was outside of your door yesterday.”

“Okay.” you said, your attention no longer on those people.

Haechan continued. “You see, I’m not traveling anymore. “

“You’re not?” you asked. “Then, what are you doing?”

“I’m coming home.”  

 You didn’t know what he expected of you, but he looked a little deflated when you held out your hand. He looked at the book under his arm and back at your hand, his smile unsure. He took the book out and placed it gently into the palm of your hand. You placed the book back onto the table and opened to the space where you had signed your name.

“I’m not going to ask for promises anymore.” you said. “I’ve always asked you for too much. For now, I would just like to tell you something.”

In the book, just below your name, you signed “I love you, Haechan.”

  Before you could even close the book, Haechan came around the table and brought you into a big hug that certainly felt like home. 

[doctorthreephds]

Synapses: Part 3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

WC: 4.8k

TW: Mentions of death and drugs--specifically from the episode Demonology

A/N: Hey! Just a forewarning, the forensic techniques in this are complete speculation from what I know and they are probably not accurate at all. 

Summary: After starting your new job and getting closer to Spencer, you find yourself having your first fight with your new friend when the anniversary of your mother’s death approaches. 

Masterlist

Taglist: @obsssedwithjustaboutanything​ @green-intervention​ @eevee0722​

Starting your new job was hard, like all things, but enjoyable. The first few days were learning the ropes and the area and you often came home exhausted, tired from a long day’s work in a lab you were unfamiliar with. The little things were what kept you going. Every day, you made an effort to eat lunch with your father--leftovers or food to go from a nearby restaurant or deli. When your father went away on his case, you spent time with Penelope in her bat cave. It was fun to hang out with her, spouting comedic rhetoric whenever someone called her for advice.

“Please don’t eat near the merchandise, baby, it’s my money maker,” she states, typing away at the speed of light as someone rings in. “Information highway speaking, you’re on speaker with me and the good doctor.”

You snort and let out a small laugh as you silently dig into your takeout box of chow mein.

“The good doctor? I thought that was me,” you hear Spencer speak up from the phone and smile, lifting your chopsticks to your mouth.  

“You’ve been replaced, Dr. Reid. Sorry!” you say before taking another bite of the noodles.

“What are you doing--”

“Stay on track, boy genius. What do you need from me?” Penelope asks and you zone out, not wanting to listen into the details of the gruesome murders they were investigating. While your job sometimes involved dead bodies, you were in fact eating lunch and wanted to keep your lunch down for the rest of the day. After they were finished, you could hear them wrapping up and you inserted a final goodbye.

“Bye Spencer! I’ll see you soon,” you state as the phone beeps to signal that the call has ended. 

“See him soon?” Penelope spins around as she fiddles with a pink pen with a puffball on the end that almost matches the pink blush on your face. 

“I mean I’ll see him when the case ends,” you mumble and toss your takeout box into her trash, taking a sip from your water bottle.

“Hm, I’m sure that’s what you meant,” she smiles and turns back to her computer, typing something up. “If you need any info on him, I can tell you anything you want to know, sweets.”

“I’m not gonna do that, it’s an invasion of privacy,” you stand and check your watch, it’s about time for you to get back to work. “But if anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

Other times, when your father was too busy to entertain you, you would eat with the others--or more specifically, Spencer. Travelling up to the sixth floor, you check to see if Spencer is anywhere nearby. When you deduce that he is nowhere near, his plush office chair becomes your new home as you open up your bag and grab the tupperware full of salad while you wait for his arrival. Opening the small container, you poke at the leaves with your fork and make a face when you see that they’re soggy and limp.

“Have a salad today?” he asks as you look at the sad lettuce in your small tupperware container. 

“Yeah. Although, it doesn’t look very appetizing,” you state and put it down on his desk, looking up at the cup of coffee in his hand that looked far more delicious than the monstrosity that was sad salad. 

“Did you know that salad comes from the latin word ‘herba salta’ which means ‘salted herbs,’ so perhaps you don’t have enough salt on your herbs,” he states and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head as you close the container and put it away. 

“Any more salt and my blood pressure’s gonna be at risk. Wanna grab lunch at the deli?” you ask and stand. He nods as the two of you exit the bullpen, taking the elevator down.

This was your schedule, and you loved it. It didn’t take that long for you to build a good relationship with everyone, constantly checking in on their lives outside of Quantico. Emily was doing well with Sergio, Henry was growing at a rate that JJ couldn’t comprehend, Penelope was still going out with Kevin, and you and Spencer were often found hanging out on the weekends when he wasn’t called away for a case. 

You found it odd how easily you took to Spencer, how his fun facts were always there to brighten up every conversation and his constant pursuit of knowledge was admirable. He took you to his favorite bookstore as well as his favorite used bookstore that he frequented in hopes of finding first editions and original copies. He also would take you to his favorite park, the one that he went to so that he could play chess and he would always win. It wasn’t always about him, though, you loved taking him to go see new movies as opposed to the older and foreign ones that he enjoyed. The two of you also committed to trying new foods together. With his sensory issues and your picky nature, you both embarked on a journey to eat new foods in hopes of finding something new and delicious.

While your new found friendship was almost perfect in the way that you committed yourselves, it too could not come without ups and downs. The first bump came when you helped consult on an unofficial case, something that had happened with Emily’s close friends. It was only a few days before the anniversary for your mother’s death and you were running on fumes.

“Hello?” you ask sharply, pouring over several reports that were due soon. Your temper was short today and you just wanted to go home.

“Hey it’s Spencer. Are you okay?” he asks and you sigh, rubbing your temples in frustration.

“Yeah, I’m fine. What do you need?” you sit back in your chair and take a sip of your coffee, attempting to quell your anxieties while he speaks.

“I’m not at Quantico right now, I’m at a victim’s house. His name is Thomas Valentine and he died of dehydration but Emily believes there’s foul play. I’ll have Garcia send over his tox reports along with Matthew Benton’s to see if the pathologist missed anything. We’re on our way back so feel free to meet us upstairs when we debrief,” he says and you nod, writing down the information on a stray post-it note so that you don’t forget. “By the way, your dad says ‘hi.’”

“Tell him I say ‘hi’ back. I’ll meet you upstairs,” you state and hang up the phone, sighing as you run your hands through your hair to release some nervous energy. It was only a few more days and you would be on your day off, it was only a few days until you would be able to visit your mom again.

Just as if she heard it from five floors up, you receive an email from Penelope with the toxicology reports from both victims. A quick skim shows that there is a lack of intense scrutiny due to the simple cause of death. But, if Emily and Spencer believe otherwise then it was in your best interest to assume so as well. Looking into Matthew Benton’s report, there was evidence of long-term methamphetamine abuse which could contribute to the death but nothing out of the ordinary. It was only midday and you were running out of steam but your friends needed you so you had to pull it together.

After printing out all the information you have and stashing it in a folder, you make your way up to the bullpen and watch people rushing around. The busyness and chatter made you a bit woozy but the sight of Spencer helped to ground out a bit. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t have to be here,” he frowns as he sees you approach and you shake your head.

“I’m fine, I just want to help out in any way I can,” you mumble and move past him toward the conference room where almost everyone was gathered. Once Hotch arrived, they began to pour over details and possibilities within this pseudo-case. 

Listening intently, you take note of the evidence as it is laid out for you, the scuff marks under the bed, the missionary church in Spain that the two victims had visited, the idea that each family had been highly religious. Years of going to church in France and D.C. were being brought back in an instant. 

“That sounds like an exorcism,” you blurt out and look up to see everyone staring at you. It was odd to hold their attention but you nestled down in your chair and continued to listen. 

“Look, I know the Bible just as well as anyone, but I also know there’s nothing more open to behavioral interpretation than religion,” Derek comments.

“Meaning what?” Emily asks, shaking her head.

“I think it’s dangerous for us to wanna find a connection between these deaths,” he states.

“Wait, was Thomas’ wife religious?” Emily frowns and looks around at your father. 

“She was concerned that he had been cursing God,” your father recalls as Spencer dives into an inference. 

“Exorcism ritual can take days to complete. It’s possible the stress induced could cause a heart attack, especially in someone with a history of drug abuse,” he explains and looks at you. 

“Definitely, drugs leave marks on your body that are irreversible unless you completely stop. It makes an impact on your hair growth, your skin, your heart, so it’s completely plausible. And it could explain how someone died of dehydration,” the facts fly so fast through your head as you try to connect the dots while you speak, your head spinning. Even a couple minutes in the conference room was overwhelming, you couldn’t imagine doing this all the time.  

“Guys, look, I’m willing to say that we might have an unsub who ritualizes killings as if they were exorcisms, maybe. But, right now, we don’t even know if we have a crime yet,” Derek voices his concerns and you slowly nod, thinking about how you could help to clear up any room for error. It was possible if you were able to look at the bodies and examine them that you may have the ability to try and see if there were any other traces of possible deadly substances. 

“Morgan’s right. We need to step back. Let me talk to someone before I have us all telling ghost stories,” your father suggests and everyone appears to take this as time to cool off and rethink any possibilities, standing and leaving the room to follow their own leads. Dread settles in your chest as you sit in the chair, looking down at the folder to find any piece of information that could help you come to a conclusion but the words were flying around in your head and you felt too sluggish to do anything. 

“Do you think that you can get me the victim’s clothing? Perhaps something was done to them topically that would explain their deaths further,” you stand and sigh, already dreading going back to your reports. 

“Yeah, sure. It’ll be our lunch break,” he says and smiles. While his smiles usually have the power to brighten your entire day, your sour mood only extinguished any fire of joy inside your body.

“I have too much to do, just go on without me,” you respond and begin walking out of the conference room. You can already feel Spencer’s pestering bubbling up and wanting to know what’s wrong but you didn’t have the heart to tell him.

“Are you sure? Studies have shown that taking breaks help boost blood flow and information retention--”

“I’m sure, Spencer,” you snap and continue walking toward the elevators before he reaches out and grabs your arm to stop you.

“What’s going on? Are you mad at me?” he asks.

“God, I’m fine Spencer! Stop babying me, you’re not my dad,” all the emotion that had been building up in the morning spilled out in anger and your heart shattered to see Spencer so confused and sad. “I’m sorry.”

Stepping into the elevator, you press the button to go down and watch the doors close in front of you, not looking anywhere in the direction of Spencer. The fluorescent lights above you suddenly look far too bright and tears well in your eyes. What would your mother say if she could see you now? Would she be disappointed? Would she be angry? A vibration in your pocket breaks you out of the self-loathing spiral.

From Dad (12:24PM):

I think you just about broke this kid’s heart.

To Dad (12:25PM):

I didn’t mean to. It’s just so close.

From Dad: (12:25PM):

Just tell him. He’ll understand.

To Dad (12:26PM):

I know. I love you.

As you sit at your desk and stare at the papers, your mind moves on autopilot to complete the rest of your tasks. With only two cups of coffee in your system, your head was starting to hurt and your focus was fizzing but when Spencer came back with a couple bags full of clothing to be processed, the guilt overpowered any feeling of fatigue.

“I brought the evidence. Just send the report to Garcia,” he states and drops the bag off at your desk before turning to leave. 

“Hey, Spencer?” he turns to look at you, his eyes narrowed as you speak. “I’m really sorry. I’m not feeling well.”

“I could have told you that, and I’m not even a medical doctor,” he mutters and sighs. The air between you is stale and you want to speak, but don’t know what to say.

“Do you want to stay and help me process the evidence? It’ll only take a little bit,” you ask, your voice small. He appears to ponder the thought before nodding and you smile, standing and taking the evidence over to one of your machines. This was where you thrived. While you worked in silence, it was comforting to have Spencer around, even if the two of you were still on rocky ground. 

You first started with isolating the fabric and the substances on the clothing. From there, you take them and test what they are to see if there are foreign substances that may have contributed to the deaths of Matthew Benton and Thomas Valentine. Processing goes quickly and you print out the report, frowning at the traces of nerve agent on the clothing.

“There’s sarin on their clothing,” you tell him and hand over the papers for him to read through. 

“Thanks,” he mutters and stands to leave. 

“Are we okay?” you ask him, watching him turn as you wrap your arms around your torso in a comforting way, warming your hands from the cold lab.

“Obviously not, if you’re not telling me something,” he puts down the folder and comes up to you, reaching out to take your hands. It was a bit of a shock, considering the fact that you knew he hated touching hands, but it was progress and it made your heart melt to think that he would feel safe enough to do so. “I know something’s wrong and I want to help you, but you’re not being honest with me.” 

“I just haven’t eaten, Spence. And I’m under the weather, which doesn’t help. I promise that I’ll be okay,” you tell him, staring up into his eyes and speaking with as much truth as you can. But it wasn’t convincing enough and he pulls away as if you just burned him.

“I guess you don’t trust me, then,” he mumbles and turns around, picking up the folder and getting into the elevator. As the doors close, he stares back at you like he was disappointed and it completely broke you. Fat tears roll down your cheeks as your chest bubbles with anxiety and sorrow. You find a seat at your desk and desperately try to wipe the tears away, breathing in deeply to calm yourself down. You were still at work and you still had work to do. 

Quickly, you dive back into your reports, writing them up as quickly as possible and pushing Spencer to the back of your mind. Before you know it, the end of the day comes and you’re out of the building and on the metro at record speed. The vibration of the wheels rolling over the tracks lulls you into a sense of security, distracting you from the pangs in your stomach. Without the distraction of work, your mind was able to wander.

Was it fair for you to hide this from Spencer? Why did you? Why did you need to keep this secret so badly?

Perhaps it was the years of being on your own after her death or the fact that showing sadness was opening yourself up to vulnerability and connection that you feared. Perhaps it was both, you didn’t have many friends in grad school and only talked to your dad once every blue moon. The thought of being a burden was unbearable, but losing Spencer was unfathomable. You could deal with a little bit of vulnerability if it meant getting your friend back. 

Your legs guide you home once you reach your stop and you reheat some rice and add some soy sauce to make something that is edible and that you can keep down without issue. After eating, you shower and head to bed, falling asleep the second that you hit the pillow. 

The next day, your alarm jars you out of a dreamless sleep, shaking you from a night that felt far too short. Your entire body was fatigued and your brain was a mess, but it was your last day at work before you got the day off. As you got ready and out the door, your phone was blowing up with information sent by Penelope and Emily. There was another death and they needed you to analyze the clothing of the third victim to confirm that nerve agent was being used to kill these men. 

One you reach the office, you sit down and begin writing as you await the evidence. If you worked quick enough and finished the reports, you would be able to go home early. The fog in your brain makes it hard to focus as you work on more write ups, the words barely forming sentences, but you force yourself to persevere through lunch. Late in the afternoon, Spencer appears again with the evidence bag you need to process.

“Just send the report to Penelope when you’re done,” he states and turns back around to get into the elevator but you stand and pipe up.

“Can we talk?” you ask, hoping and praying that he would let you speak. 

“I don’t know, can we? Because you seemed pretty adamant about keeping secrets from me last time we tried to talk,” he mumbles as he turns to look at you, his eyes dark and full of storm clouds. 

“I’m sorry,” you begin, trying to find the right words so that your thoughts form coherent sentences. “I’m bad at talking about what’s plaguing me. I’ve been alone for a long time, and I’m sorry. It’s not an excuse, I know, but it’s a start.”

You want to say ‘I’m sorry’ over and over, but it wasn’t an explanation and he deserved at least that.

“Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother’s death,” his frown almost vanishes from his face as you speak which makes you feel a hint of encouragement to keep talking. “And I’ve always dealt with it alone. Maybe because I don’t let myself handle it any other way, but I hope that you’re able to understand. I’m sorry, Spencer.”

Staring down at the ground, you will the tears to stay in your eyes so that you can keep up some image of togetherness, but they fall as quickly as they form. Suddenly his arms are wrapped around you and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. This was him accepting your apology and you suddenly felt like you could breathe. You worm your arms around his torso and pull him close, allowing yourself to take in all of him. The smell of his cologne, the feeling of muscles as they squeeze you tight, the fact that his hands were intertwined behind your back and his head was settled on top of yours. 

“I’m sorry too,” he mumbles and you pull away slightly to look up at him. “You didn’t have to tell me that.”

He pauses as he also stumbles over his words.

“But, I’m glad you did.”

You let out a sigh and hug him tight again, wanting to memorize the way his arms felt around you. After another long hug, you pull away and wipe your nose, shaking your head as you look over at the evidence bag. 

“I’m sorry, Patrick. I’ll get to processing your clothes now,” you mumble and let out a light laugh as you wash your hands and ready the evidence, processing the substances on his clothing. Beside you, Spencer leans against the wall and watches silently. It’s a bit nerve wracking to have someone watching you the way that he does, with bright eyes and attentive body language, but you do your best to explain it to him as the machine brings up the results. 

“Nerve agent, it’s sarin,” you turn to him. “Go tell them.”

He nods and picks up the newly printed report.

“I’ll come get you afterward,” he promises. “We can ride the train together.”

“There’s no need, I’m going home now. Just text me,” you smile up at him as he nods and takes your hand, squeezing it one last time before leaving.

You feel lighter now, like you lifted a rock off your chest. It was a burden, keeping secrets, but now you could feel a little bit better. After writing up all the procedural stuff on how you processed the evidence, you pack your bag and head to the metro. When you’re on the train, you get a text from Spencer telling him that they caught the priest and he was being deported back to Italy. 

To Spencer (7:45PM):

I’m glad.

From Spencer (8:01PM):

Do you want me to come over?

To Spencer (8:02PM):

No, it’s okay. I’ll be okay.

When you finally arrive at your stop, you easily find your way home. There was still sadness lingering, it was getting to be that time, but you had Spencer and that was enough. Getting home and getting to bed is a quick ordeal after you eat something and drink way too much wine to try and drown your sorrows and quiet your mind. The same days every year, you take a couple off so that you can mourn the loss of your mother and visit her grave. It was almost like a way to pretend that she was alive, even if just for a day. You had a lot to tell her after everything that’s happened, but it still didn’t help the fact that she was gone forever. 

Waking up the next morning is rough, it feels like a train plowed into you after a night of tears shed and one too many glasses of wine as you reminisced. Looking at your phone on this bright Friday morning, you see that you’ve managed to sleep in pretty significantly, but at least it was still technically morning. Waiting for you are a text from your father and a text from Spencer.

From Dad (6:00AM): 

Chin up, tesoro. Your mother loved you very much, she would be proud of everything you accomplished. 

From Spencer (7:02AM):

Do you want to get dinner after work?

From Spencer (7:34AM):

Where are you?

From Spencer (8:01AM):

Let me know what I can do.

The blanket of isolation took over you as you slowly began your morning routine, slowly being the key word. While Spencer knew, you didn’t know what to do now. This was uncharted territory for you and while you knew you weren’t alone, you had also never mourned with another person besides time spent at your mother’s funeral. Perhaps another year, another time. He was only just your friend. 

After you throw on comfy clothes and brush your teeth, you put your hair up so that it’s out of your face and eat some cereal--something easy and virtually effortless. Once you finish, you make a mental note of what you’re going to pick up at the store before heading to the cemetery to spend time with your mom. Throwing on a coat and slinging your bag over your shoulder, you punch in the security code and open the door to see Spencer there.

“Spencer? What are you doing here, it’s only like two,” you frown and close your apartment door behind you, locking it with your keys.

“I finished up all my paperwork so I took a half day and I wanted to cheer you up,” he states as you look up at him. “Maybe we can watch some Star Wars or that vampire movie you always talk about.”

“I’m going to visit my mom,” you tell him.

“Oh, sorry, I’ll go then,” he says and begins to turn and walk away but you pipe up before he can get too far.

“Why don’t you come with me?” you ask. He was already here and he wanted to help you feel better. His presence alone was grounding, reminding you of what you had and not of what you lost. 

“Are you sure?” he asks and you nod, walking up next to him.

“She would have loved you,” you almost reach out and take his hand before you realize what you’re about to do. “Can--Can I hold your hand?”

You’re almost positive he’s going to say no. After all, you know he has issues with germs and sensory issues, the day before being a special occasion because you had broken down crying in front of him. But, when he nods and holds out his hand, you feel your heart flutter. The two of you make your way downstairs in a comfortable silence and the warmth of Spencer’s hand in yours is comforting. As you exit the elevator and make your way out onto the street, the cold D.C. air is refreshing.

Together you walk to the local grocery store to grab some food and flowers, daffodils, which were your mother’s favorite. After, you ride the metro down near the cemetery. This whole time, the presence of Spencer is enough to distract you from the ever present cloud looming over your head, but when you finally walk through the cemetery’s gate, all hell breaks loose. 

When Spencer hears you sob, he instantly wraps his arms around you. The floodgates open and you softly sob into his chest, your arms wrapped around him in a vice. Your heart hurts, you miss your mother. She should have been alive to see all the accomplishments, to see your wedding and your second graduation. It’s times like these where you wonder if anything could have been done, if you could have seen the symptoms sooner or if you could have found another doctor, but your father always reminds you that you did everything in your power to help her and that she would have been proud of the person you were today. 

Once your sobs subside, you sniffle and pull away to wipe your nose. 

“Sorry for crying on you,” you huff out a small laugh and try to wipe away some of the snot that got on him while you cried.

“It’s okay, I understand,” he says and you sit down on the blanket, Spencer sitting next to you and helping to lay out the food. 

“Hey mom,” your voice breaks a little and you clear your throat before turning to Spencer. “This is Spencer and he works with dad. He’s my best friend.”

You smile at him as he turns and waves at her headstone. The notion is so heartwarming that you feel the tears rise up again.

“Hi Ms. Montgomery, your daughter is one of the best people I know,” he says as you begin to eat cheese and crackers from the charcuterie board.

“He works in the same building I do, I got the job at Quantico. I know that FBI agents and you don’t mix very well but I enjoy my job and they have all these new machines for me to play with,” you lay your head on Spencer’s shoulder and continue talking as he wraps an arm around you instinctively. As the two of you sit there and pick at the food, continuing to talk about your mom and your fondest memories, there’s a part of you that wishes it could be like this always. Maybe you didn’t have to always hide your sadness and spend it in isolation. And just maybe, there was always a rainbow after a storm.

[themalhambird]

Growing Up Broken: I Talk About My (A)sexuality For 4 ¼ Pages.

I am asexual.

No, this doesn’t mean that I’m some form of plant budding off copies of myself if I get enough water and sunlight. It’s a shame. I could do a lot with multiple copies of myself- get someone else to do the dishes, the cleaning, my schoolwork…

I am asexual.

Asexuality is the absence of sexual desires or feelings for other people. I say absence deliberately: sexual attraction is not something that I lack or am missing. I am not going without. I’m just a 23 year old who has never once felt the desire to have sex with another person, who couldn’t describe how it feels to “fancy” someone if there was a gun to their head, who thinks women and men and anyone in between can sometimes be stunningly beautiful, would possibly be nice to cuddle- but kissing on the mouth seems like it would be a really weird thing to do.

I am asexual, and it’s almost Pride Month, and so I want to untangle some of the thoughts in my head and spin them out on to paper, to try and lay out my feelings about my sexuality, or lack thereof, and what it’s like growing up when no one bothers to tell you that not experiencing sexual desire like, ever, is a thing. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

It’s 2014. Puberty has doing stuff to me for the last two years or so: periods (urgh), breasts (neat!), underarm hair (why do I have to shave this? no one’s gonna see it), growth spurts (I’m getting taller than my older sister. I want to keep going till I’m taller than mum). The only thing not happening is wanting to have sex, something the nurse who came to Talk To Us All About Growing Up back in 2009 assured us Year Sixes would definitely happen as soon as puberty hit.

Still. It’ll happen soon, probably. Sixteen is still a bit too young to be having sexual feelings, right? The boys…really not interesting at all, but the other girls are pretty. I like their hair. I like the shape of their bodies. I just don’t fancy any of them. When we’re told to imagine our future husbands or wives in class (don’t ask my why, I’ve long forgotten the point of the exercise, I just remember that) I picture a wife.

(Lesbian is the first label I apply to myself. I stick it on tentatively- keep peeling it off my shirt and putting it back somewhere different like I’m not quite sure where it fits. It’s not wrong, necessarily. I’m just not certain it’s right. I like girls a whole lot better but I’m not saying I could never love a guy. I’m just not attracted to them. I’m not attracted to women, either- but I feel like I will be. When I’m old enough to feel that kind of thing. )

Sex Ed lessons are mortifying. We’re asked to list all the sexual terms we know on an A3 sheet of paper. I don’t know what half the things other people say mean- blowjob, 69, masturbate, porn . I don’t know how other people know these things either. We’re sixteen. It’s too young.

That summer I play Sebastian in an abridged version of Twelfth Night and it convinces me to take Drama at A-level, although I didn’t at GCSE. The drama classes teach me two things. First of all, I don’t like acting women. I prefer breeches rolls. I don’t know why. We’re talking about my asexuality, not my gender confusion, so let’s put a pin in that and move on to point two. My drama class teaches me that everyone my age is having sex, or wants to have sex, or is planning on having sex soon; sex is a constant, every class, every conversation. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. So apparently sixteen (seventeen) isn’t too young after all.

It’s like this. One day you wake up and you realise that everyone else is speaking a language you don’t understand. Suddenly, sexual feelings aren’t something that no one your age is having but you’ll all develop soon- it’s that sexual feelings are something that everybody your age is having apart from you. People your age are dating, kissing, fucking, and it’s not something you’re interested in doing, necessarily, but you still feel so horribly left out. Like you’re missing some kind of major milestone. You try not to let it bother you- you watch Buffy every Monday you get to see your dad. (You watch loss of virginity be portrayed as growing up). You read. (The books you pick up all involve love and love always seems to at least imply sex). You- google things. You google the words you didn’t understand in that sex ed class. You google “how to tell if you’re attracted to someone” in case there’s some secret signal your body sent you that you missed. You feel like you should know if you’ve ever felt sexual attraction but then maybe you’re just really, really dumb. Maybe there’s something wrong with you. The NHS website reckons that if you’ve got a low sex drive you ought to see a doctor. The girls in your drama class keep talking about boys and sex and sex and boys and you aren’t really interested in either of those things. You cling to the thought, lesbian and hope that when you get to university, you’ll stop being so repressed. Girls are pretty- but the ones at school are either your friends or kind of mean. Of course you don’t fancy anyone there. University. University will save you. (Boys are sometimes pretty too. There are boys at school whose personalities are nice enough- who are the type of man you wouldn’t mind dating one day maybe- but you can’t ever picture yourself having sex with one. Dicks seem weird and really not the kind of thing you’d want inside you. I mean for fuck’s sake- why? You can’t even get a tampon in.)

I don’t like looking back on this. Sixteen, seventeen year old me was starting to get pretty freaked out. I like looking back at the first year of uni even less, because if seventeen year old me was freaking out, eighteen year old me was buying alcohol. That’s how it goes, right? Sex and alcohol. You see it all the time on T.V. Fictional people get fictional drunk and fictional cheat while they’re on fictional breaks with their fictional partners. David Tennant is pretty. A man at work is handsome and more importantly intelligent, into Shakespeare, into good conversation. The label switches from lesbian to ‘bisexual but heavily skewed toward women’ and I cling to that as tightly as possible because after that, I’m out of options. It is impossible that I’m not feeling sexual attraction: the whole world screams about sexual fucking attraction all the fucking time, I’m obviously just too uptight, I obviously just need to relax-

I once drank a whole bottle of wine in what was essentially one go. I paused for breath, but that was about it- I don’t think I even bothered with a glass. My goal was to get myself drunk enough that I could feel sexual attraction. I thought that the best way to go about things- to finally ‘grow up’- would be to get super drunk, and then leave the flat and find someone who would screw me. I reasoned that I would enjoy it once I was doing it- after all, the whole world pushes sex as this wholly desirable thing for any normal adult to want, even need- so I would like it once I was doing it and then I would be fixed. Fortunately, drinking a whole bottle of wine when you’ve never had more than a single glass of champagne or a couple of glasses of rum and apple juice before in your life gets you past “lowered inhibitions” to “can’t walk straight or upright” very quickly. I got as far as the bathroom, threw up, a lot, and staggered back to my room. I woke up at 3 pm the next afternoon feeling stupid for drinking, and mad at myself for still being a virgin.

I had a lot of problems in my first year of university and not all of them were about my sexuality crisis. I was isolated, fairly friendless, and not really cut out for socialising with my housemates who were probably all lovely people, but I find new people painfully difficult and hiding away seemed easier. But the feeling that there was something broken inside me because I wasn’t experiencing what everything seemed to be telling me was one of the most vital parts of the human experience- sexual attraction to other people- contributed to my general feelings of self-loathing and disgust. I attempted to induce sexual desire in myself by drinking on several further occasions, although never quite to the same extent as the first time. I’m not sure whether this counts as self-harm, but it certainly wasn’t healthy.

I didn’t know asexuality was a thing.

I knew I wasn’t straight- I’d known that for a while. I learnt that I enjoyed reading, talking, even writing about sex, as long as it was sex between people who weren’t real, but fantasising about fictional characters having sex and fantasying about myself having sex are two very different things. The former happened fairly frequently. The latter didn’t happen once, and still never has. My second year at university was better than my first: I was living with friends, I was further away from campus which meant I had to walk more, which probably helped, I had also started to make several friends online with whom I could happily chat even when I wasn’t in the mood for ‘actual’ people. I used bisexual to describe myself because on the rare occasions I thought about romance, I couldn’t really see myself ruling out anyone who was willing to put up with me.

I’m not quite clear when I first heard the term ‘asexuality’. I became aware of it gradually. Someone I followed on Tumblr identified as ‘grey-ace’. Characters from my favourite fantasy series were being headcanoned as ‘asexual’. At some point I must have learnt properly what that meant.

It sometimes feels like there ought to have been a lightbulb moment- like I should have seen the word, seen the definition, and instantly seen myself. But it is very, very hard to delete the message- ‘sex is important- sex is what grown-ups do- sex is what you should want to do’ – that the world constantly sends to us: in advertising, in entertainment, in the conversations of a drama class that always circled back to that topic, to the detriment of the sole seventeen year old who wasn’t really bothered. To embrace asexuality seemed like I was giving up on trying to fix myself, on waiting for the right person to come and make everything better. On the potential of their being a right person. I can wrap my head around people having casual sex very easily. It’s romantic love without sexual desire that I’m scared won’t work- how am I supposed to know if it’s love without there also being physical attraction? No romance arc that I had ever seen was without an element of sexual tension. So, no lightbulb moment for me. No switch going off- “aha, at last, that’s what I am!”. Just a gradual thought washing across my mind every now and then, like the tide rushing up a patch of sand and drawing straight back, leaving only dampness to show where there had been a good half-inch of water only a moment ago.

I might be asexual?

And ‘I might’ becomes ‘I think I am’, and the tide starts coming in. ‘I think I am’ became ‘I am’ at some point or other.

I am asexual.

I find reassurance in knowing that there’s a word for what I am, for how I (do not) feel. I am asexual. Not broken, or damaged, or too uptight to properly feel, or too dumb to recognise what I do feel. I am asexual- I have an absence of any sexual desire for others and that’s perfectly okay. I might fall in love one day. I might not. I don’t know how you’re supposed to know if you have the capacity to fall in love before you find yourself doing it. It might be nice to have a wife. It would also be nice to have a cat. I could cope with it just being me, a cat, and good friends for the rest of my life. If I fall in love- if I am capable of falling in love- it will just mean I am asexual, but romantic, and I will have learnt something new about myself. The point is-

The point is, I am incredibly lucky that I stumbled across Asexuality before I got myself hurt trying to force something that wasn’t there. The point is, this world assumes that sexual desires are the norm, and maybe they are, but that just makes it all the more important that people know that they aren’t abnormal for not experiencing sexual desire. To all the people who need to hear it: You are not broken. You are not alone.

I’m not sure how to wrap this up. I feel like I should say something profound or something. But I think I’m just gonna leave it like this:

I am asexual. Asexuality is the absence of sexual desires or feelings for other people. I say absence deliberately: sexual attraction is not something that I lack or am missing. I am not going without. I’m just a 23 year old who has never once felt the desire to have sex with another person, who couldn’t describe how it feels to “fancy” someone if there was a gun to their head, who thinks women and men and anyone in between can sometimes be stunningly beautiful, and possibly be nice to cuddle- but kissing on the mouth seems like it would be a really weird thing to do. I am not broken. I am not ‘going through a phase’ or ‘looking for attention’ or ‘trying to be special’. Everyone’s special, fuck you. Knowing that I am not the only person to feel how I feel makes me feel like I’m standing on solid ground. May all people experiencing the same confusion and distress over their sexual orientation that I felt growing up find their way safely to the same solid ground: you are not broken. We’re not broken.

[glittergummicandypeach]

Fake Hafez: How a supreme Persian poet of love was erased | Religion | Al Jazeera

This is the time of the year where every day I get a handful of requests to track down the original, authentic versions of some famed Muslim poet, usually Hafez or Rumi. The requests start off the same way: "I am getting married next month, and my fiance and I wanted to celebrate our Muslim background, and we have always loved this poem by Hafez. Could you send us the original?" Or, "My daughter is graduating this month, and I know she loves this quote from Hafez. Can you send me the original so I can recite it to her at the ceremony we are holding for her?"

It is heartbreaking to have to write back time after time and say the words that bring disappointment: The poems that they have come to love so much and that are ubiquitous on the internet are forgeries. Fake. Made up. No relationship to the original poetry of the beloved and popular Hafez of Shiraz.

How did this come to be? How can it be that about 99.9 percent of the quotes and poems attributed to one the most popular and influential of all the Persian poets and Muslim sages ever, one who is seen as a member of the pantheon of "universal" spirituality on the internet are ... fake? It turns out that it is a fascinating story of Western exotification and appropriation of Muslim spirituality.

Let us take a look at some of these quotes attributed to Hafez:

Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, 'you owe me.' Look what happens with a love like that! It lights up the whole sky.

You like that one from Hafez? Too bad. Fake Hafez.

Your heart and my heart Are very very old friends.

Like that one from Hafez too? Also Fake Hafez.

Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living in better conditions.

Beautiful. Again, not Hafez.

And the next one you were going to ask about? Also fake. So where do all these fake Hafez quotes come from?

An American poet, named Daniel Ladinsky, has been publishing books under the name of the famed Persian poet Hafez for more than 20 years. These books have become bestsellers. You are likely to find them on the shelves of your local bookstore under the "Sufism" section, alongside books of Rumi, Khalil Gibran, Idries Shah, etc.

It hurts me to say this, because I know so many people love these "Hafez" translations. They are beautiful poetry in English, and do contain some profound wisdom. Yet if you love a tradition, you have to speak the truth: Ladinsky's translations have no earthly connection to what the historical Hafez of Shiraz, the 14th-century Persian sage, ever said.

He is making it up. Ladinsky himself admitted that they are not "translations", or "accurate", and in fact denied having any knowledge of Persian in his 1996 best-selling book, I Heard God Laughing. Ladinsky has another bestseller, The Subject Tonight Is Love.

Persians take poetry seriously. For many, it is their singular contribution to world civilisation: What the Greeks are to philosophy, Persians are to poetry. And in the great pantheon of Persian poetry where Hafez, Rumi, Saadi, 'Attar, Nezami, and Ferdowsi might be the immortals, there is perhaps none whose mastery of the Persian language is as refined as that of Hafez.

In the introduction to a recent book on Hafez, I said that Rumi (whose poetic output is in the tens of thousands) comes at you like you an ocean, pulling you in until you surrender to his mystical wave and are washed back to the ocean. Hafez, on the other hand, is like a luminous diamond, with each facet being a perfect cut. You cannot add or take away a word from his sonnets. So, pray tell, how is someone who admits that they do not know the language going to be translating the language?

Ladinsky is not translating from the Persian original of Hafez. And unlike some "versioners" (Coleman Barks is by far the most gifted here) who translate Rumi by taking the Victorian literal translations and rendering them into American free verse, Ladinsky's relationship with the text of Hafez's poetry is nonexistent. Ladinsky claims that Hafez appeared to him in a dream and handed him the English "translations" he is publishing:

"About six months into this work I had an astounding dream in which I saw Hafiz as an Infinite Fountaining Sun (I saw him as God), who sang hundreds of lines of his poetry to me in English, asking me to give that message to 'my artists and seekers'."

It is not my place to argue with people and their dreams, but I am fairly certain that this is not how translation works. A great scholar of Persian and Urdu literature, Christopher Shackle, describes Ladinsky's output as "not so much a paraphrase as a parody of the wondrously wrought style of the greatest master of Persian art-poetry." Another critic, Murat Nemet-Nejat, described Ladinsky's poems as what they are: original poems of Ladinsky masquerading as a "translation."

I want to give credit where credit is due: I do like Ladinsky's poetry. And they do contain mystical insights. Some of the statements that Ladinsky attributes to Hafez are, in fact, mystical truths that we hear from many different mystics. And he is indeed a gifted poet. See this line, for example:

I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.

That is good stuff. Powerful. And many mystics, including the 20th-century Sufi master Pir Vilayat, would cast his powerful glance at his students, stating that he would long for them to be able to see themselves and their own worth as he sees them. So yes, Ladinsky's poetry is mystical. And it is great poetry. So good that it is listed on Good Reads as the wisdom of "Hafez of Shiraz." The problem is, Hafez of Shiraz said nothing like that. Daniel Ladinsky of St Louis did. 

The poems are indeed beautiful. They are just not ... Hafez. They are ... Hafez-ish? Hafez-esque? So many of us wish that Ladinsky had just published his work under his own name, rather than appropriating Hafez's. 

Ladinsky's "translations" have been passed on by Oprah, the BBC, and others. Government officials have used them on occasions where they have wanted to include Persian speakers and Iranians. It is now part of the spiritual wisdom of the East shared in Western circles. Which is great for Ladinsky, but we are missing the chance to hear from the actual, real Hafez. And that is a shame.

So, who was the real Hafez (1315-1390)?

He was a Muslim, Persian-speaking sage whose collection of love poetry rivals only Mawlana Rumi in terms of its popularity and influence. Hafez's given name was Muhammad, and he was called Shams al-Din (The Sun of Religion). Hafez was his honorific because he had memorised the whole of the Quran. His poetry collection, the Divan, was referred to as Lesan al-Ghayb (the Tongue of the Unseen Realms).

A great scholar of Islam, the late Shahab Ahmed, referred to Hafez's Divan as: "the most widely-copied, widely-circulated, widely-read, widely-memorized, widely-recited, widely-invoked, and widely-proverbialized book of poetry in Islamic history." Even accounting for a slight debate, that gives some indication of his immense following. Hafez's poetry is considered the very epitome of Persian in the Ghazal tradition.

Hafez's worldview is inseparable from the world of Medieval Islam, the genre of Persian love poetry, and more. And yet he is deliciously impossible to pin down. He is a mystic, though he pokes fun at ostentatious mystics. His own name is "he who has committed the Quran to heart", yet he loathes religious hypocrisy. He shows his own piety while his poetry is filled with references to intoxication and wine that may be literal or may be symbolic.

The most sublime part of Hafez's poetry is its ambiguity. It is like a Rorschach psychological test in poetry. The mystics see it as a sign of their own yearning, and so do the wine-drinkers, and the anti-religious types. It is perhaps a futile exercise to impose one definitive meaning on Hafez. It would rob him of what makes him ... Hafez.

The tomb of Hafez in Shiraz, a magnificent city in Iran, is a popular pilgrimage site and the honeymoon destination of choice for many Iranian newlyweds. His poetry, alongside that of Rumi and Saadi, are main staples of vocalists in Iran to this day, including beautiful covers by leading maestros like Shahram Nazeri and Mohammadreza Shajarian.

Like many other Persian poets and mystics, the influence of Hafez extended far beyond contemporary Iran and can be felt wherever Persianate culture was a presence, including India and Pakistan, Central Asia, Afghanistan, and the Ottoman realms. Persian was the literary language par excellence from Bengal to Bosnia for almost a millennium, a reality that sadly has been buried under more recent nationalistic and linguistic barrages.

Part of what is going on here is what we also see, to a lesser extent, with Rumi: the voice and genius of the Persian speaking, Muslim, mystical, sensual sage of Shiraz are usurped and erased, and taken over by a white American with no connection to Hafez's Islam or Persian tradition. This is erasure and spiritual colonialism. Which is a shame, because Hafez's poetry deserves to be read worldwide alongside Shakespeare and Toni Morrison, Tagore and Whitman, Pablo Neruda and the real Rumi, Tao Te Ching and the Gita, Mahmoud Darwish, and the like.

In a 2013 interview, Ladinsky said of his poems published under the name of Hafez: "Is it Hafez or Danny? I don't know. Does it really matter?" I think it matters a great deal. There are larger issues of language, community, and power involved here.

It is not simply a matter of a translation dispute, nor of alternate models of translations. This is a matter of power, privilege and erasure. There is limited shelf space in any bookstore. Will we see the real Rumi, the real Hafez, or something appropriating their name? How did publishers publish books under the name of Hafez without having someone, anyone, with a modicum of familiarity check these purported translations against the original to see if there is a relationship? Was there anyone in the room when these decisions were made who was connected in a meaningful way to the communities who have lived through Hafez for centuries?

Hafez's poetry has not been sitting idly on a shelf gathering dust. It has been, and continues to be, the lifeline of the poetic and religious imagination of tens of millions of human beings. Hafez has something to say, and to sing, to the whole world, but bypassing these tens of millions who have kept Hafez in their heart as Hafez kept the Quran in his heart is tantamount to erasure and appropriation.

We live in an age where the president of the United States ran on an Islamophobic campaign of "Islam hates us" and establishing a cruel Muslim ban immediately upon taking office. As Edward Said and other theorists have reminded us, the world of culture is inseparable from the world of politics. So there is something sinister about keeping Muslims out of our borders while stealing their crown jewels and appropriating them not by translating them but simply as decor for poetry that bears no relationship to the original. Without equating the two, the dynamic here is reminiscent of white America's endless fascination with Black culture and music while continuing to perpetuate systems and institutions that leave Black folk unable to breathe.

There is one last element: It is indeed an act of violence to take the Islam out of Rumi and Hafez, as Ladinsky has done. It is another thing to take Rumi and Hafez out of Islam. That is a separate matter, and a mandate for Muslims to reimagine a faith that is steeped in the world of poetry, nuance, mercy, love, spirit, and beauty. Far from merely being content to criticise those who appropriate Muslim sages and erase Muslims' own presence in their legacy, it is also up to us to reimagine Islam where figures like Rumi and Hafez are central voices. This has been part of what many of feel called to, and are pursuing through initiatives like Illuminated Courses.

Oh, and one last thing: It is Haaaaafez, not Hafeeeeez. Please.

The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera's editorial stance.

This content was originally published here.

[i-am-a-fucking-nerd]

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