jk, but it is on the lighter side! The ever loved rock camp au, insipred by the masterpiece that was Camp Rock. Idk if you have me to blame or @hannah-nobody, but you are all welcome either way.
This here is the collab her and I have been talking about for forever, and now we’re posting it in an attempt to make ourselves actually fucking finish it, but there is no motivator like disappointment.
Have Hannah’s made up reviews!
a beautiful coming of age story - ny times
one giant shit post - person
Quick notes - Every chapter will have a set of songs to go along with it, all being added to thisspotify playlist with each chapter! All genres are used, and we hope it will be as cringey as possible!
Summer has arrived, and with it the start of the two month long music camp; Fairy Tail! Full of new songs, friends, and adventures, the campers learn things they never knew about themselves and one another. And just how easy it is to sneak booze and a full sized karaoke machine out into the middle of the woods.
The music pounded through Natsu’s veins as the last notes of the song faded away and the crowd erupted into a series of screams. The band members on stage smiled as they tossed various mementos to their mud-splattered fans; picks, drumsticks, water bottles. Hands groped desperately at the air, his own among them.
He wasn’t really paying attention. His own voice joined in with the noise as he let go of all the energy the atmosphere of the festival has stirred within him. His head tipped back and he squeezed his eyes shut as he cheered.
When the band finally left the stage, Natsu looked around. He stood on his tip toes, trying to find Gajeel’s unruly mane of black hair in the sea of sweat-soaked festival-goers. When Natsu couldn’t spot him, he decided to head back to the tent.
Still on high from the previous band’s performance, Natsu made his way almost absently through the crowd. Most people lingered, waiting eagerly for the next act to come on, leading him to gently push a few people out of his way. Some people decided to sit during the break, not caring about the mud beneath them. Others remained on the shoulders of their friends, basking in the heat of the sun that had come and gone for most of the weekend.
One of the shoulder-riding music lovers caught his attention.
She was perched on someone a few people in front of him, and she was stunning. He altered his route in order to take in more of her. She was screaming as though the band were still on stage, making rock signs with her fists as she waved her arms in the air. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail, but strands fell loosely on her sunburned shoulders. A pink crop-top exposed her stomach, where someone had painted a peace sign in neon green paint around her belly button.
He grinned as she wobbled on a dark-haired boys shoulders, but the blonde’s own expression turned from laughter to panic as she lost her balance.
Instinctively, Natsu pushed through the crowd and got to her just in time to soften her fall with his own body. The two of them fell to the ground in an ungraceful heap.
“Oooooowwww,” The blonde groaned from on top of him.
She raised her head, and a splotch of mud had somehow made its way onto her cheek. Natsu stared at her in bewilderment as she looked at him, eyes wide, then giggled.
He could feel the heat in his cheeks as he became aware of her body pressed against his. He’d thrown his tattered shirt away long ago, and surprisingly he didn’t feel self-conscious going shirtless among the energetic crowd. Especially not now that the pretty blondes’ hands roamed over his bare chest. Natsu quickly sat up before he became too absorbed with her wandering hands, tightening the scarf around his neck before helping her up and sheepishly apologising.
“No, no, no,” She smiled at him, “Don’t be sorry! It was Gray’s fault. He’s so meeeean.“
The girl pouted and Natsu felt a smirk pulling at his lips. He had no idea who Gray was, but he was very glad that they’d chosen to shrug her off their shoulders, for whatever reason.
Seeing his smirk, the girl’s laughter died off and she bit her lip in thought. She stepped closer, invading his personal space. His breath hitched when she placed a hand back on his chest.
“Thanks,” She told him, her voice low, before leaning up on her tip-toes and placing a light kiss on his cheek.
Her lips were sticky with pink lip gloss, and he found himself wondering what they tasted like when she drew back.
Her hand remained on his chest.
“Y’know, you’re pretty cute,“ She mused aloud.
“Erm…” He had no idea what to reply. He’d never been called cute before.
“Looks like this is the end of the line for me. But I’m not going out without a fight. Ovech out!”
The hologram flickered out. A low, idle hum came from the holoterminal as Quinn and Akrona stood in silence. Everything about this disastrous situation ran through Quinn’s mind. He went through all the mental checks of this operation and turned to the Sith.
“My lord,” he said with urgency, “Major Ovech would be a terrible loss. I served on his ship, know it like the back of my hand. I can infiltrate and try to restore command to his men. Then they would be free to join the fight.”
Akrona didn’t even hesitate. “Then we can’t afford to waste a moment. Let’s set a course for Cato Neimoidia.”
“Right away, my lord!” Quinn nearly ran to the flight deck, set the calculations into the navicomputer and the ship jumped into hyperspace. He began to pace around, going over everything in his mind again.
But it’s as he said. He could do it. For now he would have to wait until they reached their destination.
“How long until we arrive?” Akrona asked, entering the flight deck.
“Five hours and thirty-two minutes. I only hope that—”
“Quinn…” She came up to him and reached out for his hand.
There was just a slight hesitation before he allowed their fingers to entwine together.
“It’ll be alright,” Akrona said softly. “Have faith in the Force—”
“Hmm… yes, well I’m unsure if—”
Akrona giggled and shook her head. “If not the Force, have faith in yourself.” They held their gaze for a moment before she spoke again. “Five and a half hours you said?”
“Yes, my lord,” he replied with a slight bow.
“That should be enough time…” Akrona rubbed the back of Quinn’s hand with her thumb and walked toward the doorway of the flight deck.
“Enough time for… what?”
“Come to my room in… let’s say ten minutes?” she replied with a wink before dashing off.
Quinn stood with mouth open and wide eyes. “Your… room?” he nearly squeaked.
His heart pounded in his ears as certain thoughts began to race across his mind.
Her room. She wanted him in her room. But so far, she didn’t strike Quinn as the type of Sith to string along a group of lovers and admirers. Or perhaps she was and he was simply beneath her usual partners… but then, would that mean facing a sexually frustrated Sith?
Quinn blushed at the mere thought.
No, his lord wasn’t like that… or was she?
Ten minutes have come and gone before Quinn could speculate anymore. Sweating slightly with a warm face, Quinn headed to Akrona’s room. The door was open but he knocked for the sake of courtesy.
Akrona rose from the bed and headed over to him. “You’re here.”
“Y-yes. I am here as instructed.”
“Good!” She took his hand and led him to… a desk?
The two of them sat side by side in front of a wide array of brushes, a small container of water, several pieces of cloth, a slice of sitrine, and two bowls, one with a grainy powder and the other with a black liquid.
She looked at him innocently with a bright smile. “So then, let me see your dominant hand.”
“My hand?” Quinn asked.
Still smiling she nodded and Quinn offered her his right hand.
“Excellent. I’ll get started then.”
“Get started on—?” She pulled the glove off of his hand, pushed his sleeve up, and began to rub one of the powders all over his hand and a bit onto his forearm. “My lord, what… what are we doing exactly?”
Akrona wiped away at the residue with a cloth that was dampened by some water. “Huh?” She pulled the bowl of black liquid closer and grabbed one of the brushes. “Oh!” she giggled, “Isn’t it obvious, Captain? I’m painting your hand.”
Quinn sighed and a great tension seemed to be lifted off of him. “Painting. Of course.”
She nodded slightly and focused on his hand. Her left hand gently rested upon his forearm while the right hand maneuvered the thin brush in and out of the black liquid. The strokes on his skin were cool and smooth, creating wavy lines that slowly came together to form the basis for the Imperial symbol.
Quinn had seen and heard of pureblood Sith adorning their arms and legs with ornate designs, but this was the first time he had been so personally involved. Which made him wonder…
“Is there a… reason for this?”
Akrona was still concentrating on painting his hand. “Hmm?” She changed brushes and began to mark his forearm. “For luck.”
She shrugged. “Luck, good fortune, happiness… for fun.” Finishing up the last bits of design Akrona traded the paintbrush for the slice of sitrine, squeezing the juice and pulp all over. “Let that sit for a while.” Leaning back in her chair Akrona looked at him with an expectant smile.
“It’s… lovely.” Quinn held out his arm, hovering it over the cloth stretched out on the table as his eyes traced the stylized Imperial logo and the series of stripes and floral patterns. “How long should I—?”
“It’ll be done shortly before we arrive.”
He wanted to protest but swallowed any grievance he had. After all, she had just spent a good amount of time adorning his hand and arm with the marks of her people. Upon that realization Quinn felt humbled.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “You didn’t—”
“I wanted to.” Akrona took his other hand into hers. “We’ll be going into a rather disorderly situation.”
“Of course. It’s hard to tell exactly what kind of resistance we might face, I suggest that we remain on high alert.”
She looked down and Quinn adjusted his painted arm so it could dry a bit more comfortably. “I trust your judgement, Captain. I’ll follow your lead.”
Quinn’s eyes softened as he looked at her.
The next few hours were spent with small talk over the different designs painted on his hands, what the process of making the dye was, how long it stained the skin, which plants it came from, for what occasions the markings were painted for, and so on. It was an enjoyable conversation that enlightened Quinn on aspects of Sith culture he previously had little to no knowledge of. Granted he never had any great desire to research such matters before, and if he did the Imperial databases were so technical, but hearing her talk and seeing her do these things was something else entirely.
The chrono in the room signified that they would be coming out of hyperspace shortly. Akrona took another damp cloth, wiping away at the dried paint and pulp bits from his skin.
“There,” she said. “It’s finished.”
Quinn looked at the back of his hand, his forearm, and then turned to his palm. “It’s wonderful and I’m deeply honored.”
Akrona took his hand and gave a small peck upon the Imperial symbol. “May your aim be true, Captain.”
“I’m confident, that with your blessing and our combined skills, this mission will be 100% successful.” Quinn pulled down his sleeve and put his glove back on. He was a bit sad to see the designs hidden away beneath his uniform, but still felt the comfort of knowing they were there.
There was a sudden jerk as the ship came out of hyperspace.
“Well? Why are we still standing here?” Akrona retrieved her lightsabers from across the room with the Force and giggled, “Let’s go!”
Well, she does mean to steal the necklace. Although sometimes her fingers slip and she half-absentmindedly steals things, she deliberately took this necklace. It’s shiny and eye-catching it it’s just there, practically cast aside, left behind in the safe she’s cracked, searching for the big pile of bearer bonds.
It’s what happens afterwards that Parker doesn’t intend.
There have been twenty-one reiterations of the day now, spanning from the moment she puts the necklace on–two forty three in the afternoon–until midnight, when it resets all over again.
Every single time, one of them gets caught. Parker, bound hand and foot and still in the cell when midnight rolls around. Hardison, grabbed from behind and dragged. Eliot, beaten and bloody.
Parker thinks it’s not a situation so inescapable that they couldn’t eventually rescue each other, but never before midnight and, without fail, the day resets every time midnight rolls around.
Parker’s tried switching up the plan, her brain calculating and recalculating so fast it practically whirs. Nothing works. She tries putting the necklace back in the safe, but the day continues as normal, and she’s wearing it again at two forty three once more.
They can’t alter the escape routes. Too many guards. They can’t hide. Not enough good places, and too many cameras. They can’t just get caught and break out, because it takes too long.
The problem, Parker thinks, is that all classic distractions are only meant for two. Ergo, one of them being left out to get caught.
But–and here Parker stops in her tracks, four steps away from the safe–she’s a mastermind. There may be no new cons, but there are a million variations.
“Third bedroom down the hall,” she says. “Meet me there.”
They don’t respond, and she’s a little warmed by how much they trust her. Of course, she’s failed them for twenty days now–not that they know that–but she’s determined to prove why they should trust her today.
“New variation on an old classic,” she says as they walk in right behind her. “Guards will be on us in thirty seconds. Get us thrown out of this party.”
They do a remarkable job, too. Eliot has his pants unbuttoned and Hardison untucks and ruffles his shirt, leaning over to tease Parker and Eliot’s hair into disarray. Parker slips a dress strap down her shoulder and then sandwiches herself between them.
“Well?” She demands, staring at Hardison in front of her. He looks back, nonplussed for a second, before seeming to get it and lean over her shoulder to kiss Eliot, who wraps big hands around Parker’s waist.
And…for a scene only meant to get them thrown out of a party as debauched guests, it really…clicks.
They get thrown out, but not thrown in a cell. Parker still has bearer bonds in her clutch, and, she realizes belatedly, the necklace around her neck.
When they’re back at the brewpub and the clock rolls around to twelve-oh-one that night, she kisses both boys senseless. When she pulls back, they stare at each other, seem to have a silent conversation with their eyes. Eliot shrugs, and then they’re all kissing again.
Parker smiles happily into the kiss. For a mastermind, it took her far too long to realize that the best cons are variations on the classics.
Steve comes back from a long mission and you’re there to pick up the pieces.
A/N part 1: It’s the third part to the followers celebration: the meet-up. It’s based on two songs. The lyrics are from this song and the other scenes are inspired by this song. I highly recommend you listen to both of them.
There are decisions in your life that alters your route, Although you desire to change, you cannot manipulate; The past into something else, instead you need to focus on the attributes, Necessary to succeed in the future, instead of fixation on actions that nearly brought you to checkmate;
Usually at this point I would burst into song. However, at this moment I am paralyzed with indecision. I could sing the entirety of "Bring Him Home" from Les Miserables, an entire song devoted to this line. Or, I could take a less traditional route, alter the line slightly to "Bring them home," and sing "Blackout," the "One Day More" of In The Heights. What shall I do?
Okay... I leaving-
-IT UP TO YOU! IT'S UP TO YOU! I'LL SEE YOU BOTH BACK HOOOOOME! ENOUGH!
It’s the little, creepy crawly things that matter…
I like to take long walks around my parents’ neighborhood, passing a couple of parks and lots of hedgerows, gardens etc. Depending on which shops I want to pass by, I might alter the route, but it’s pretty ingrained at this point. This time of year, it’s all autumn leaves and big fat garden spiders, which you’ll have noticed I’m prone to photographing. Seeing as I usually try to drag family and friends with me, my amateur photograpy usually requires a little patience on their parts. Anyhow, on today’s walk I had this conversation with my mum…
My Mum: Oh, we’re walking a different way. Me: Yeah, I thought it might be nice to change. Why not? My Mum: But I don’t know the spiders on this side. Last time I took a walk with your sister, I pointed out ALL the spiders, and she asked me how I knew them all, and I said “Dx stopped to photograph every. single. one.” Me: Yup.
I was so touched. Like she remembered and then showed off all the spiders to my sister when I wasn’t even there to fangirl over them. What’s even funnier is that my sister recently bought me a pair of spider earrings because she saw them in the shops and they reminded her of me. She’s always doing stuff like this. She told me “Well, they’re obviously being sold for Halloween, but we all know you’d wear them all year round.”
played out of order, jumping from the blur of watching his tank slide closed
around him, to a barren lot with a sky made of hanging clothing. When he looked
down, he found himself on a glass floor surrounded by fire and water beyond.
Steve was there, in the lot, on the glass floor. He remembered pulling Steve
out of the water. He remembered aiming a rifle at Steve’s head. He remembered a
dark road with the fog pressing in close. An explosion of sound, and his mark
spilling out of the car, landing on his knees.
confusion on his mark’s face. Familiar face. He remembered that he’d wanted to
ask Who’s Sergeant Barnes? But he
hadn’t. Couldn’t. He remembered grabbing the man’s hair to pull his head back,
examining his face, wondering if his face was familiar because it was his mark,
or because of Sergeant Barnes.
at the creak of a footstep. He remained still on the mattress, breathed
steadily and deeply, eyes closed. It took three breaths to determine that the
noise was outside the flat, on the stairwell, one floor below. He tracked the
sound up the stairs and rolled off the pallet bed to the floor. His eyes
flickered to the pair of floorboards concealing his backpack, and he mentally
reviewed the three most accessible escape routes.
footsteps resolved into the shuffling gait of his neighbor, coming back tired
from work. He took three breaths and relaxed slowly, his legs extending out in
front of him, his back coming to rest against the wall. His shoulders were
tired. His back ached. He pressed his fingers against his eyes like it might
alleviate the heavy pressure there.
“My name is
Bucky,” he said out loud. The words barely passed his lips. He took in another
breath and said again, “My name is Bucky. I was born in 1917. My mother’s name
He slid his
journal off the upside-down crate that served for a bedside table. Colored tabs
made soft tickticktick noises as he
brushed his thumb over them. He continued reciting facts, things he knew about
himself, but didn’t know. They were
facts that he’d read in museum exhibits, library books, History channel
specials caught in bits and pieces in hotel rooms and coffee shops. The
brochure from the Smithsonian display slid out from between the pages and
landed at an angle in his lap. Captain America stared at him from the page, but
it was just a picture.
brought the memories closer. Sometimes it was Steve, but usually as a boy, small with skinned knees, dirt on his
face, defiance in his eyes. Sometimes it was Captain America, a figure too big
to touch, perfect and distant like a monolith. More often lately, it was Howard
Stark on his knees, his expression equal parts confusion, recognition, amazement.
The fear hadn’t come until the very end.
remembered who Howard was until the Smithsonian exhibit. The photograph of a
young man pictured next to a hovering car had triggered a sense of recognition
in him. A more recent picture of an older man leaning against a model of
buildings and tiny trees had shown the face of his nightmare. Howard Stark: Visionary, the caption had
so lost and confused when he’d asked, “Sergeant
the notebook to a new page and added a new aspect from the dream: a silver briefcase.
He couldn’t identify whether it was memory or a construct of his subconscious.
His dreams blended often. Sometimes he went into battle with the small boy
Steve had been beside him. Sometimes he went with Steve as he’d been After, but
Steve was dressed as one of The Soldier’s handlers. In his dreams, they’d gone
on missions to Brooklyn to assassinate classrooms of Nazis, had gone on massive
assaults with the 107th to free prisons full of clowns. His dreams
weren’t always reliable sources of information.
Can I please have a Kamunami prompt with Nanami trying to surprise Izuru? (I shall quench your thirst as long as you feed my own.)
A/N okay this is a cute prompt and all but what if I put my own twist into it? and so let me indulge myself as I write a scene I’ve always wanted to see for this ship. psst! i ran out of kamunami prompts again. just saying.
Unexpected Turn of Events - kamunami (hinanami?)
Not all the games they play are videogames.
“So how is it, Kamukura?” Nanami asked for the nth time that day. There’s an exact number actually but she tries not to get discouraged by it. She stared at him expectantly, hopefully.
But Kamukura had no reason to lie and so he also answered fo the nth time that day, “It’s… alright.”
Except, it wasn’t alright. That wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear, she had hoped to hear from him.
“Oh, it’s no good either, huh?” She murmured, her smile falling just a bit but only for a fraction of a second. She quickly lifted her own spirits and enthusiastically said, “Then let’s try something else then!”
“Let’s go.” He merely nodded and let her drag him to the next activity.
Kamukura was bored. But it wasn’t his companion’s fault. That’s just his default feeling. Everything in this world was just so predictable to him and his talents that nothing seemed to excite him anymore. Nothing surprised him anymore. But Nanami wanted to believe otherwise. She’s trying so hard to prove him wrong. She wanted him to have just as much fun as she was having.
Nanami has been trying to surprise him at any given opportunity.
Despite all of her attempts ending up in failure, she does not lose hope. He’s already predicted all of her possible schemes and thus ruining the element of surprise but he’s also foreseen that this wasn’t enough to let her down. It was odd to see her exert so much effort just for him. Odd in a sense that it was irrational and he couldn’t understand her dedication. Odd in a sense that it filled him with an ounce of pride to know that she was doing this for his sake. Odd in a sense that it would sometimes push him to act irrationally.
“Nanami.” He called her name all of a sudden.
“Yes?” She reacted accordingly and looked up at him.
Before she was even aware, he had already leaned down until their foreheads touched. His long hair fell and draped around her face serving as a curtain of privacy.
Time stilled for a moment.
And it resumed only when he pulled back, his face blank as ever in contrast to hers which was absolutely flustered. Her blush was a shade darker than her hair and it dusted over her cheeks. He also noted how she had unconsciously leaned after him and he had yet to analyze the satisfaction he felt from that.
“Why do you looks so surprised?” He asked and although his voice sounded blank like usual, only she could clearly hear his underlying gloating tone.
Her cheeks reddened in retaliation. “Hmph! No fair!” She huffed at him with an annoyed yet still flustered expression. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be surprising you.”
“We never discussed those terms.” He nonchalantly shrugged.
Kamukura had expected this. All of this. Today’s events had already been predicted by him as soon as she invited him out. He supposed that since he already knew what would happen, he thought that he might alter the routes they take even if only a little. Perhaps this was his way of having fun. It was slightly less boring admittedly but even so, it was still within expectations.
Everything was predicted even this action he just pulled off. These were all to be expected… or at least that’s how things were supposed to go. He knew what she’d suggest next and all the other possible actions she’d take. That’s what he had predicted and yet–
When he least expected it, she went beyond his expectations and literally beyond her reach.
She stood on her tiptoes and pecked him lightly on the lips. It was over before he even had the chance to blink. He had his eyes open the whole and even had his talents with him and yet he had failed to see this before it happened. He didn’t understand how he could miss such an obvious course of action. She wasn’t even aware of the ramifications of her spontaneous act.
With a sheepish smile she said, “Thank you.”
There’s no blush on his face but he took note of how his heart skipped a beat in that one unprecedented moment.
Nanami doesn’t realize just how much she could surprise Kamukura without even trying.
Lately, he’s been acting without thinking either just like how he spontaneously decided to return the favor. He leaned down, his cheeks surreptitiously brushing ever so slightly with hers, as his lips stopped just at her ear. His breath was warm and ticklish.
“Try harder.” He challenged her.
She giggled as his breath danced by her ears. Her smile sounded clear in her voice as she said, “Challenge accepted.”
And in between the videogames they play are games such as this.
For the original Fate servants could you clarify which routes they specifically remember. From what I get Saber remembers Fate and Heaven's Feel but does not remember when she was an Alter. Emyia remembers Fate route as Shirou but also remembers UBW as EMYIA.
The FSN servants all remember the three paths with minimal exceptions. Arturia would have no recollection of herself after being tainted by the grail in HF since that would fall under a Saber Alter Memorial Essence. Cursed Arm would also not have any recollection of Fate or UBW for… well, obvious reasons.
It’s not so much which routes do they remember as opposed to which one resonated the strongest with them. Medusa will likely have more vivid and fonder memories of HF as an example, just as UBW resonated with EMIYA so highly.
As a clarify to routes and which resonated best with for the more confusing ones, I’ll just state some of the potentially confusing ones.
Gilgamesh: Opposite of liking. UBW because the humiliation is infuriating. Sasaki: I don’t think he actually favors any considering his circumstances… Heracles: Toss up between UBW and Fate. Maybe a Fate lean.
Medea:Carnival Phantasm UBW because she wasn’t just smacked down or given trauma. Implied she had great memories with Kuzuki in all of them pre-death though.
Excuse me, this whole fish I ordered has bones! The horror!
NYC got torrential downpours yesterday, and my block got flooded. People with basement apartments around where I live have water pumps for this type of thing. After being hit with hurricane Irene and Sandy, everyone around here is prepared to drain out flood waters. I was outside just taking it all in, and lo and behold, this otherwise well intentioned, but often annoying white couple came over to say hello. I dread small talk with them because it always revolves around them doing “ethnic things” and eating “ethnic food”. They always want to include me in their ethnic escapades. I made the mistake of telling them that I cover African musicians in concert. This was a huge mistake on my part. Walking around the block involves me altering my route because if they see me, they will start talking about African music. They will talk me to death! Just hearing them pronounce Fela Kuti as “Fella Cutty” is enough to drive me bonkers. Why me?
Anyway, they recently went to an Ivorian restaurant in Harlem, and they were shocked that the grilled fish they ordered was a whole fish. Many West African cuisines include the whole fish and I guess they aren’t used to getting a whole fish on their plate, complete with bones. They were like “The fish had bones in it.” “It was not like grilled salmon.” “Why did the fish still have eyes? It was like the fish was looking at me!”
I guess I was supposed to answer all these questions. I just sidestepped the topic completely and started talking about the rain and flash flood. They really wanted to talk about the Ivorian restaurant serving whole fish with bones. Why should I be explaining what an Ivorian restaurant does? I have no desire to explain away things relating to what any African does. Not my job. If you’re an African, it shouldn’t be your job to do this either. What would you think of me if I went up to random white people to interrogate them about bologna sandwiches? Exactly.
Things like this is why you should never take critical reviews of African food from white people on yelp seriously. I once read a review where this white woman thought she was going into cardiac arrest after she had some pepper soup.
However, nothing beats this white guy who left a yelp review describing fufu as a bread-like dish and then complained about it being a rough meal. That is peak level whiteness. I don’t know how it’s even possible to reach any of those conclusions. I have yet to read a yelp review that has surpassed this in terms of sheer ridiculousness.
“Fufu is like bread. Plus it’s really rough.” A white man on yelp.
Okay, so I feel like this rant was pretty on-point so I’m going to cross-post it from my facebook. I’ll keep you guys posted if I get any insightful comments.
Okay, ya’ll know I don’t get political on my Facebook, it’s not worth it to me most of the time, but I am sick and tired of men not “getting it.” There are people who sympathize with that jerk who killed six people this weekend. I keep seeing people saying “Not all men” and that kind of crap. (Not here, but I’m going to lay my opinion out and if you don’t like it just un-friend me because I don’t think we can be friends. This is not directed at anyone in particular I just need you to understand how I feel about this.) Let me explain it to you as gently as I can because I think that sometimes guys just don’t understand how women live our lives.
I don’t wear headphones in public because somebody could come up on me unaware. If I am outside alone at night I have my phone out in one hand and my keys/pepper spray in the other hand. Do you know how many people have been surprised that I carry pepper spray? How many people have made jokes about it? Do you realize that I considered deleting that sentence so that if there was some weirdo that I don’t know that well who read this post he wouldn’t know what I have on hand? If I am by myself and there aren’t a lot of people around I know exactly where everyone is that is around. (and if you know me at all you know that this is a great effort for me, I’m very much a space cadet) I pay attention to the cars in the parking lot. I don’t answer the door for a stranger without my heart in my throat because this could be it.
I went back to my car in a parking garage late at night this weekend and my phone was about to die and a young man stepped onto the elevator after me and I eyed him and I thought about what I would do. I thought about the heels I was wearing and the items in my hand I weighed whether it was safer to put my back between him and the elevator numbers or to keep him to my side in the span of a heartbeat and that is normal behavior for me. IT’S NORMAL. Because I can’t tell if this stupid looking teenager is a rapist or if he’s just a stupid looking teenager and if something had happened to me everybody would have said it was my fault for being alone in a parking garage and not his fault for raping me.
Ask your female friends. Ask us if we park in well-lit areas. Ask us about how we turn a guy down. A “not this week” is less likely to get us screamed at and told that we are bitches or hit or whatever. My reality is a world in which it’s my fault that some dirty old man screamed out his window at me when I was thirteen years old. Find out about the “rape schedule,” how we vary our routines even in our OWN HOMES so that if someone is observing us it will make it more difficult for us to be abducted. How we alter our routes home sometimes because the headlights behind us have been following for too long.
I don’t have a magic radar. There are plenty of men who will be completely pleasant until they realize you won’t sleep with them. There are men who will invite you to parties to get you drunk and you can’t tell even though you’ve known them for years whether they just want to see what will happen or if they know you don’t know your limits because you don’t drink and you won’t remember in the morning. I can’t tell. And I live in a world that tells me that if some fucking predator comes to take me that I have to do everything right and I can’t make a single mistake or let my guard down ever because if I do it was MY fault I should have protected myself and I should never have done this or that.
But if you notice, dear men, half that crap that I just described wouldn’t be a killer mistake for you. You don’t have to worry that one of your friends really wants to get you alone (because statistically it’s going to be someone you know, so even among “friends” you aren’t safe) and if you get messed up at a party, what do you even worry about happening to you? I honestly don’t know. I do know that I worry about guys I’ve rejected showing up at my house because they think they didn’t deserve that and I do know that I’ve decided it’s probably better for me not to travel halfway around the world by myself because of men, not all men, but some. I have been stalked, I have been accosted. I have been touched without my permission and I have been in situations where I didn’t think I would be able to escape. I bet if you ask all your lady friends they have too.
The worst part is that some of you think this is fucking funny. That we are overreacting. You have probably never had somebody twice your size tell you what they’d like to do to you and then have to politely smile and turn your eyes down or risk god-knows-what because clearly this person doesn’t understand personal boundaries and who knows where he’ll stop. You’ve probably never had to walk past a group of people who all know each other and are all fit and strong as they make comments about your body or just stopped what they are doing to stare. You don’t know what that feels like. It’s not a matter of environment for women, it’s all environments. I know that some of you think oh, well, I’ve had a woman accost me before or I’ve had people humiliate me before, and maybe you’ve gotten a taste, and I don’t want to discount that, but this is everyday. This is no matter where I go or what I look like. This is a group of people the majority of whom could easily overpower me and you say “Not all men.” No shit. But one man is enough to ruin your whole life and even just based on my own lived experiences it’s not just one man and that’s nothing to say for the statistics. Educate yourself. Check out RAINN.
I want you to understand that women don’t say these things to make you feel bad, because hey, it probably does make you feel bad. When I think about slavery I feel bad. I know that I personally didn’t enslave anybody, but it does make me feel like shit a little bit. But the thing is, YOU have to be aware that there is a problem and belittling us because we are freaking terrified because you are Schrodinger’s rapist is a big step. Don’t approach me at night. Don’t try to follow me home. Don’t get mad when I reject you. What do you want me to do? Turn off my feelings and stay with you anyway? Gee, you sure do care about me as a person if that’s the case. Don’t keep trying to force me to talk to you to you if all the signs say I’m not interested, because I read that as you won’t take no for an answer. And if you can’t take a hint on that basic of a level what happens when we’re alone together and I say no?
Of all the traditions Killian was exposed to for the holiday season kissing under the mistletoe quickly became his favorite. No doubt because he had someone he never wished to stop kissing. But it wasn’t that he needed the plant to receive a kiss from Emma. Since they had begun courting the kisses occurred frequently both in a sweet, tender nature as well as those of the passionate variety heavy with need (that could easily have been the prelude to a more intimate time). It was that no matter how many times their lips touched he was still in awe that the woman who had kept him at a distance while he fell for her, the woman that once proclaimed kissing him was “a one time thing”, had chosen to be with him and now gave affection so freely even if others were present. Each kiss was a reminder that it wasn’t just a one time thing. She didn’t want to hide what was between them for she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. And this custom was one that she actually wanted to do with him and him alone.
So it wasn’t hard for Emma to pick up on his appreciation of the tradition when he always seemed to ensure that their path crossed any mistletoe hanging nearby. Many times she found their route completely altered on some flimsy excuse that resulted in them walking beneath a newly hung one. She saw the delight these kisses had on him. The dimpled smile that formed whenever he spotted his target and knew that soon they would be under it. And on top of his pleasure, she also had to admit she loved that she finally had someone to partake in this tradition with. It was such an enjoyable one. Kissing him felt comfortable and familiar, like coming home, but at the same time she felt the intensity of desire as he made her skin tingle. He could leave her breathless and desperate for more. Kissing him would never get old. So when Christmas passed and the mistletoe was taken down, they both felt a bit disappointed. They had loved the excuse of more kisses and on top of that Emma missed the cute, excited smile that came from his anticipation.
They were on their way home from a date when Killian saw the patch of green hanging above Emma’s door. She turned to him with a playful expression on her face, but no words were needed to explain why the plant was up after the traditional time had ended. They leaned in slowly until their lips touched and honored the mistletoe as best they could both briefly thinking this was most likely going to become their new favorite place.
Who said mistletoe couldn’t be a permanent fixture?