alternatively: a week and one day to talk about and make things for women you appreciate in celebration of International Women’s Day (8th March)
Day One: Least Typecast Fave
An actress you appreciate who manages to not get boxed into industry stereotypes (re: roles), someone who constantly surprises you.
Day Two: Rent’s Due
A character whose journey through adulthood you identify with, from job searches to daily upkeep, to bills etc. Someone who you feel reflects to some degree the struggle of either blazing through life or falling and getting back up again.
Day Three: 40 + up, women in stories you adored
This is self explanatory, no? Female characters in dramas over the age of 40 that blew you away.
Day Four: Work X3
A character with a job or a relationship with work that you found either interesting/was merged well with the show/was unexpected etc.
Day Five: Femininity + Her
A character who dealt with being a woman in a way that interested you. Either in the way she behaved, or the way she dealt with the way she was percieved or the way she dealt with her existence ‘as a woman’. Am I being clear enough? Forgive me if I’m not.
Day Six: Strong Foundations
Wax lyrical about a character who was supported either her friends or/and her family. Female characters supported in life throughout, called out when they should and loved for who they are.
Day Seven: So Goodbye
Female characters with the best disappearances (no death, never death unless it’s fake death) and gap years, off to better themselves, or leaving for whatever heroic dramatic reasons. I’ll be incredibly impressed if you can do one on a character that never comes back.
Day Eight: Age of Youth Love-fest/Happy International Women’s Day
News about Season Two dropped and even though the tag is still active, it could be a little bit more active. Tell me about your favourite girl (it can be all of them), favourite scene, favourite prop, favourite line, draw parallels between Park Yun Sun’s previous work and Age of Youth! Do it all.
As always should you not like the categories, there are always
2015 + 2016 prompts, although it would please me if you could stick to these ones.
Please tag your posts#kdramawomensweek and/or @ us so they are easier to find, admire and reblog.
Summary: During Digestivo. Hannibal prepares himself & an unconscious Will for their final conversation.
Hannibal carried him inside. Chiyoh offered to help. He was tired, after all. Frozen and bloodied, hair mopped to the side of his face, shoulders tense and stiff from having been tied back. But he refused, a silent shake of his head and Chiyoh backed away. Walked to the field, rifle in hand. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate her. How, wordlessly, she knew. This was something he must do alone.
Will lay slumped in the backseat, arms limp on the floor. Dead weight. Hannibal felt the same strain he had the night before when he carried him, though he no longer had adrenaline fueling his body. He brought Will, slow, up the steps, across the porch, over the threshold, reveling in every second of pain the twinge in his back sent lighting up his spine.
Hannibal laid Will down delicate onto his bed. Careful not to wake him with too much movement. Fearing he might break.
He’d need some time to think. Prepare. More time than Will’s body was unconsciously willing to give, so he gave two gentle flicks to the syringe, a steady gentle pressure on the plunger, and Will’s sleep took on a far more tranquil rhythm. He drifted deeper. Hannibal, finally, exhaled.
He took a step back, took a moment. Contemplated the door. It stood open behind him, winter chill seeping in through the gap. And then there was the car. Chiyoh. The ease with which he could disappear. It was, he knew, the most practical option. He could make his way to the coast and set sail, heading someplace quiet and obscure, somewhere Will would surely never find him. He’d have to leave quickly in order to get far enough. He’d have to leave now. Hannibal’s eyes, resting on the doorknob, flicked back to the bed. To Will’s pillow flattened curls, the iron streaks of dried blood along his jawline.
He shut the door quietly, though he knew Will was sedated. Nodded to Chiyoh through the window and set to work.
He took care of himself first, Will’s shower rattling to life, blood peeling off him here and there, ripping off soaking bandages. Ignoring, as best he could, the cold and awful weight inside his chest. The feeling of his lungs filling with water. Water stinging sharp against the brand on his back, the burn raw, white hot pain in every corner of his body.
Deep, drying breaths. Hannibal redressed himself, his wounds. Turned his attention to Will. He undressed him as slowly as time would allow, fingers gliding over skin with each gentle tug of fabric. Placed a cloth over what Will would not want him to see, wrestling down the urge to look. He’d never looked before and he wouldn’t now, Will was worth more than that. Although.
Hannibal sat up straight and felt, all around him, a tension. An uncomfortable air of finality. A penultimate afternoon. He looked back down at Will.
This could very well be his last chance to look. Admire.
Still, he didn’t. He did allow himself one thing, though, face in the crook of Will’s neck. A deep, slow inhale. Committing the scent to memory, locking it in its own room near the center of his mind, before he began with the water.
There were parts of Will still caked in blood from days prior, places Mason’s men hadn’t taken care of. Patches of rough blood stuck to the skin on his chest, stomach, spilt from where Hannibal had opened his head. He couldn’t deny the bizarre amusement he felt cleaning up the fallout from something he had inflicted, though of course, with Will, it wasn’t the first time. His eyes narrowed as his musings led him to the terrible realization that this would, in fact, be the last time.
Dabbing gently with warm water, watching close as beads of it rolled across Will’s hips, dripping off his waist. Hannibal changed the bandages on Will’s shoulder. Cleaned the wound across his forehead. Slow and somehow far too quick. He took his deliberate time pressing Will dry with a towel, dressed him up again in warm and comfortable clothes. Smoothing the hair across his forehead, resting his fingers against Will’s face.
He knew this would be the last time. Of course he knew. The last time his hands would grip his face. The last time he’d lay him down onto a bed. Hannibal closed his eyes and lived, for only a fraction of a second, in a world where the opposite was true. Where these actions were the first of many times.
…It was still possible. A tiny sliver of possibility rested inside Will, the chance that his journey sparked a deeper understanding of the truth of him, the truth of Hannibal. How those truths fit together.
But then there was the truth of the bullet wound in Will’s shoulder. The ugly scar across his head. The reality of their situation sat thick at the back of Hannibal’s throat, cold in his stomach.
This was the last time.
So, he cleaned up. Discarded old bandages, positioned Will comfortably, carried a chair to his bedside. Hannibal flipped to a new page in his journal, pausing to open the levy, let icy dread flood through his veins and into his pen. Worked, diligent, at solving the problem that teacups and time had laid out before him.
Last fic for SpiritAssassin Week. Late as usual, because I kinda burned out yesterday & the day before, lol
Thank you everyone for reading. & many thanks to @fyeahspiritassassin for hosting. I had great fun doing this but man I’m so relieved it’s over. this was hands down the most difficult writing thing i’ve done lately.
SpiritAssassin Week 2017 Last prompt: celebrations
There are ghosts in Chirrut’s eyes.
colour mostly, or the memory of colour. Jedha City, or the memory of it. When his eyes were still functional, when the world pin-bright broke into seven colours and flipped upright on the screen of his retinas. And that was sight for him.
Nowadays the only eyesight he has are old visuals. He sees with ghost eyes. Useless.
when he was still a novice at the Temple, when the Temple still stood, when his eyesight worked fine, and yet he kept missing things. Muddling up. And Baze would tell him where everything was, where to look.
Where are my prayer beads? In front of you.
Where is the datapad? You’ve been looking right at it for ten minutes.
Where did I put my shoes? You’re practically stepping on them.
I know I left my prayer beads here! You did, and they are still there. What is that saying you always use?
Gwai am ngaan! Ghosts covering eyes.
When Chirrut lost his eyesight, he said: “Remember what I used to say?”
Baze never found it funny again.
The holopad powers up. A buzz. The harsh phosphorescence of the screen makes shadows spatter onto his grey featureless vision. Incoming message.
There is a crackle of interference and then the steady hum of a line. Connection. Nobody speaks. The silence is heavy with a familiar presence.
“You can start,” says Chirrut gently, “by telling me the time.”
“It’s early,” Baze answers. “Your time, that is.”
It’s strange that they’re far enough apart that they can split time between them. Yours and mine. Your half and mine.
“Have you eaten?” says Baze.
Chirrut remembers that he hasn’t. He hums a note in both reply and dismissal.
“Just because I’m not there,” says Baze, testily, “doesn’t mean you can forget to eat. Don’t pine too hard for me.”
“I was going to meditate,” Chirrut says. “There are other types of hunger besides the one that you speak of.”
“Who said anything about hunger? It’s basic self-care. But I forgot you know nothing about that.” There is a clatter of movement from the other side. A hiss and a sputter. Clacking. Something being dismantled. For cleaning. Perhaps a weapon. A shush of air, like an exhaust pipe.
“The Force–,” Chirrut begins.
“–will not feed you. You should eat something.”
Chirrut sighs. “It’s been three years. And you’re halfway somewhere across the galaxy. And you’ve gone right back to your nagging self.”
“I’ve lost count of the years,” Baze says. There is a lie in the falter of his voice. A flinty note of defiance.
“I’m going to meditate.”
“Wait,” says Baze.
“Leave the connection running.”
“I don’t talk much when I meditate.”
“You don’t have to.”
There is a festival (there is always a festival) going on in Jedha City and people have begun lighting tapers and burning sticks of incense in the many street braziers.
You’re supposed to do acts of compassion. Pray for the dead. Feed the hungry. People bake bread, boil vats of porridge, distribute food to the homeless, to the pilgrims, to anyone who asks for food.
Chirrut sits beneath an archway on a back lane, running his fingers along the worn beads of his prayer necklace. Sandals shuffle, the scrape of fraying leather. The hems of robes touch his knees and ankles, stray butterflies of fabric. The crowds move and he feels their wingbeats and their edges. The wake of their movement. The rotund vowels of a muezzin’s call. A minaret in the distance. The wind snapping the tarp. The souk, a heaving organic entity of commerce.
There are more unwelcome sounds now. Heavy boots. The presence of Imperials, their conversations in staccato, voices standardised into a nasal flatness by the inbuilt vocoders in their helmets.
Someone presses a roll into his hands and a flask.
“Eat and drink, uncle,” someone says, performing their act of compassion for the day.
Chirrut thinks of Baze. Of course he does.
“Are you asleep?” says Baze.
“What do you think?”
“Sorry,” Baze says. “I need sleep.”
His voice is thick, like textile, as though he’s lying in bed somewhere, one corner of his mouth pressed against rough sheets. Perhaps he has lain awake all night. Is it night where he is?
“Will you tell me where you are?”
“On a planet. There’s a lot of water here. Marshes. The speeders here are shaped like dragonflies. I haven’t been dry in days. When I took the job I didn’t know I’d have to become amphibious.”
“Like any other job,” Baze says, evasive.
The connection sputters. But it holds.
“Night time on this planet is longer than Jedha’s nights. About three times as long. People sleep three times as long, too.”
“You should get some now.”
“What is that?” Baze says suddenly. “There, on the side of your face. Turn your face to the left.”
It’s a cut. Healing, though. It must have been just a thin smudge in the holographic display of his face, but Baze’s sharp eyes had caught it.
“I was cornered,” Chirrut admits. “In a cul-de-sac. By five Imperials.”
Baze swears. “You took on five Imperials without backup?”
“The Force was with me.”
“Of course it was.” Baze scoffs. “So you had no backup. You idiot.”
“So says the true fool, who is faithless,” Chirrut shoots back. “So gwaa.”
Chirrut passes through the forms of zama-shiwo, ghost-eyed, with the slow silk movement of his arms and legs. There is no end or beginning to the forms. Perpetual transition. Keep your mind still. Absolute. Nucleatic. The body is not yours. The body is your environment. You are part of a larger body. Only the negligible pinprick of Chirrut’s mind shimmers, edged with feelers, hungry for messages, for a grid of sense.
The sun, he remembers, is frail and dewy, angling away like errant vapour from the domes and the glittering mosaics in the murals. Useless light: the city’s solar dishes had to coax heat out of it, old, old dying light.
But now that his mind and his body are sharp with the recent practice of zama-shiwo, he can feel the sun’s heat, amplified. The sun is a hot salty coin at the back of his throat when he tips his face upward. Sunlight is swallowing metal. The scrape of thirst.
Where Chirrut is standing on this rooftop, he should not be able to feel this much warmth. Not at this time of the day, because this time of the day, the shadow of the Temple would have stretched over it, blotted out the sun.
The spire of the Temple is no more, though. And its shadow fled with it.
The holopad buzzes as Chirrut puts the porridge to boil on the portable stove.
“Look,” Chirrut says when the transmission comes through, “I’m eating. Or at least I’m going to.”
Baze makes a noise of approval on the other end. There’s silence for a bit.
“There was–” Baze begins. And then changes his mind. “This marshland planet, it’s got a very high evaporation capacity. Whole lakes can vanish in days. Then it will rain and rain somewhere else until there are floods, and there’ll be a new lake. All within such a short span of time. They call this the planet of Leaping Lakes.”
Chirrut imagines it. The transient landscape of it. The lakes leap faster in his mind, faster than Baze, slogging through marshes that dry out as he walks, his skin old and cracked from sand. Unamphibious. Dragonfly speeders zipping over dead reed beds.
“I had to–the job involved–,” Baze begins.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Chirrut says. “About the jobs that you do. I can hazard a guess. Or three.”
“What if I want to talk about them?”
“Then tell me how you’ve changed. How they’ve changed you.”
The porridge boils over. Chirrut hisses and Baze lets out a long, slow sigh. Too long and slow to be sincere.
“Your fault,” says Chirrut testily. The porridge has thickened into a layer that clings to the bottom of the pot. A skin of rice. Carbon bitter.
Baze fled not long after the Temple was sacked.
“I will never put on those vestments again,” Baze told Chirrut all those years ago. “They have been burnt.”
Chirrut reeled. He’d known the slow crumble of Baze’s faith. But still. “I won’t let you. You can’t go. You are the most devoted of all the Guardians.”
The words broke out of him, splinters of pleas.
“Then come with me,” said Baze. “The Temple is gone. The kyber crystals are gone. There’s nothing sacred here any longer.”
“The Force is still here.”
“Yes it is,” Baze started to walk towards the gates of the Temple. Across the half-uprooted courtyard. “The Force is here and there and everywhere and it is dead. We breathe in its deadness every day. We celebrate its death in the deaths of everyone else. So. Are you coming?”
Chirrut steeled himself. “A match.”
Baze laughed. “I’m not a Guardian. I don’t play with sticks any longer.”
“If you beat me, you can go. You can leave.”
“And you’ll come with me.”
Chirrut didn’t say anything.
“Fine. Just to humour you, then,” Baze said.
They sparred in that ruined courtyard and Chirrut won.
He brought Baze to the ground, kicked his knees in, elbowed his throat and slammed his staff into Baze’s abdomen.
Baze lay on the ground, panting. How Chirrut would have liked to straddle him, lick away the blood from his teeth. He’d hit Baze on the jaw.
“Well,” said Baze. “I guess I stay, then.”
Chirrut hated the hostility of his laughter. He put the end of his staff at Baze’s neck, tipped his chin upwards.
“No,” Chirrut said.
“Are you still angry at me?” Baze asks. The sound of thunder in the background. But not thunder. Just a downpour in the marsh planet, in some distant corner of the galaxy.
The generator in the room that he lives in is old. It rattles. It smells like breath. There are probably small dead things caught beneath its casing, things like rodents and moths, fossilised inside.
“No,” Chirrut says. “Are you?”
“Not at you. Never at you.”
There are countless things to be celebrated in Jedha City. Apart from the big festivals. There are weddings, births, engagements, various milestones of growth. Deaths, sometimes, depending on what you believe in. Seasonal shifts. Phenomena like rain.
The Imperials have put a damper on many of the Holy City’s festivals, and declared that permits need to be granted for the rest.
But here’s the thing about people: they remember. They remember when celebrations are due, when rituals start calling to them, feast days notched into their internal calendars. The secret way which they measure time within themselves.
And so people find other reasons for celebration. New acquaintances. Extra rations. Finding lost things. Finding lost people. And so on.
The reasons for celebrating anything become smaller and smaller. Until Chirrut finds himself rejoicing at coins on the street. Or coins in an alms bowl. A call of a bird far out beyond the city walls. Clean washing brushing against his face as he wanders through the alleyways and courtyards. A day without the sound of blaster fire in some quarter of the city or other. A memory, an old visual of the inner sanctum of the Temple, stored in his ghost eyes. Still vivid. Preserved even after the destruction of the building.
He goes home in the evening, his stomach a whorl of hunger. The pot with the burnt crust of porridge is still sitting on the stove. The smell is thick and disheartening. Outside, wind. Sand scours the window.
The sting of saline. There are ghosts in his eyes. And sometimes they weep.
But then. Then he remembers something. He reaches for the holopad. Trusts in the Force. Prays for connection.
A crackle and a hum. There is transmission. There is a line, the thinnest thread across the galaxy, but steady. It feels like a celebration.
“I was finally getting some sleep,” Baze grumbles. But it’s a glad sound. Relief to be woken from the lonely press of sleep.
“So,” says Chirrut, “when are you coming home?”
bou din waa zuk - literally translates to ‘boil telephone porridge’. means when you talk for hours on the phone. except there are probably no phones in R1
(This was posted by user “velyvelt” on the review section of BTS’ “Wings” album on Melon)
“Hello, I used to work at the broadcast station for a short time. Kind of like part-time job? I’m not good at talking so this will just be my rambling post. I barely have interest in idols so I don’t know the members’ names… Please excuse me… ㅎㅅㅎ
Anyway, BTS’ personalities? There was a controversy about that. The other fandoms roasted them for it… That thing is ridiculous so I’m writing this to tell you about the BTS I met. I helped with some chores at the broadcast station for a short time, and BTS was there. But you can’t say anything about their personalities. They’re too kind. Other celebrities mentioned this too, but they really are too kind. And except for one person, the rest are all shy…? They only stayed in the waiting room. They weren’t too quiet but weren’t too noisy either. I think they just huddle together and play among themselves. The waiting rooms’ soundproofing system isn’t that good so I could hear almost everything. I was passing by the hallway and I heard a little bit of this, but it’s too cute so I’m writing it here ㅋㅋㅋ There was a sudden loud laughing sound coming from BTS’ waiting room so I halted and was like, “Hmh? What was that?”. Seems like they were telling weird jokes to each other and cackling like high school girls, and played some kind of weird game? I think they’re a 4D squad. Kind of like a bunch of high school girls…
Originally, they don’t allow filming with personal cameras while recording, but sometimes there are thoughtless fans who film by themselves. At times like that, the PD will scold the artists. That time BTS was slightly scolded by the PD. It was an unfair situation, but they just quietly stood and kept apologizing to the PD. I feel somewhat sad for them too…
Oh, and among BTS members, the one with blond hair and tanned skin is different from others, he’s outgoing, right? He greeted other idols and fooled around with them when passing by the hallway. He was really cute…
Anyway, what I want to say is, unlike celebrities nowadays, I think they’re the rare ones who are kind and polite.
Thank you for reading this rambling post… ㅎ Please don’t curse at me too harsh for not writing this properly, I’ll be hurt ㅠㅠ
I didn’t have a Melon account before but I made one to write this.”
↳ (comment) I worked at the broadcast station for some time too. It was back in 2014 and I wasn’t interested in BTS at that time so I didn’t know, but I remember that they always greeted everyone first :) So I became their fan and always think back of that time…
She was starving. How long has is been since she last ate? It was the Nome, wasn’t it? That’s the last thing she ate.
It didn’t satisfy her.
The child doubled over, clutching at her abdomen. The hunger pains got worse by the second. She needed to eat something.
The only thing in reach or at least near her was the woman’s body just a few feet away. She wasn’t dead, just seemed to be in a bit of shock.
She was perfect prey.
Six slowly stalked up to her mother’s body. She was being controlled by her hunger. Invisible puppet strings pulled her forward and voices in her head were telling her to feed. Tear the woman apart with her teeth, just like she did to the Nome.
She towered over her mother’s throat, teeth bared like an angry animal. One bite and it would be over. She wouldn’t be hungry anymore. And her mother would be gone.
One bite is all it would take.
Why…why couldn’t she take a bite?
It would be so easy. Her mom would finally be dead.
So why couldn’t she take one simple bite?
Six whimpered and collapsed onto her knees. She wrapped her arms around her stomach in a vain attempt to stop the sharp pains. Tears stung in her sapphire eyes, pricking painfully like hot needles.
Weakly, the malnourished child crawled underneath one of her mother’s arms and curled up against her chest.
She never had gotten that close to her mom before. For nine years, this is what she was waiting for. To be loved and to feel her mother’s body. Of course, her mom was barely conscious, or maybe she was unconscious. She didn’t know. But her mom wasn’t caring for her. She never would. It was a delusion to the yellow clad child.
Six screwed her eyes shut, nuzzling close to her mom. Her stomach felt like it was being stabbed and the pain only continued to increase as she tried to contain her hunger.
She knew that she should eat. She was starving, but couldn’t get herself to tear into her own mother’s flesh.
So, Six laid there, huddled up close against her mom.
The Lady’s eyes snapped open.
How long had she been out? Her skin was stinging, but not as much as it was before. She began to sit up.
And then she heard a noise from down below her.
Six, her /daughter/, was laying right beside her, curled up into a ball.
The Lady screamed in anger, grabbed the little girl by the hood, and threw her into the wall.
Six whimpered when she heard her back pop. She tried to push herself up, but she was too weak with hunger. So she just laid there, writhing on the floor.
“/You/,” The Lady spat, “You ruined all of this, you worthless brat!”
She grabbed Six again, lifting her to eye level.
“You made a mistake. You’re /mine/ now.”
The Lady smirked underneath her mask. She couldn’t wait to make the girl pay for everything she had done. She was going to torture her until-
They Lady’s eyes widened.
Her grip loosened and Six fell to the floor.
She stared up at nothing in particular. That word. That simple word cleared the haze in front of her eyes. Even after all of the horrible things she’s done, her mind cleared so easily.
She hated the child. She was the reason why The Maw was falling apart, but… God, how long has she waited for that moment? The moment she could hold her sweet baby girl again.
The Lady knelt down and scooped her daughter into her arms. The tiny girl’s body was quaking, and her small hands gripped at her mother’s robes. She was crying.
“Shhh… Shhh…” The Lady cooed in such a gentle voice, “It’s ok… I got you…” She was cradling her little daughter in her arms, rocking her back and forth to try and soothe her.
Six’s vision was obscured by tears and a snow of white that blurred everything around her. Every inch of her body hurt, but she somehow managed to smile weakly. She nuzzled her head up against her mother’s arms and curled up. It was warm.
It felt nice to finally be held so gently.
The Lady raised one hand and slipped her mask off, tossing it to the side. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, smiling when the flow of Six’s tears began to stop.
And in that moment, she held her daughter for the first time in forever.