Request by Anon : Hi! I would like to request a Jimin Angst/Fluff based on the movie/book “Flipped.” It’s basically about a boy and girl who met in 2nd grade, and since then the girl has been crushing on him, and hasn’t been afraid to show it to him. But, he hates her, and has just been trying to run away from her for all these years. Now they’re 14/15, and after a turn of events she starts seeing that maybe the boy just wasn’t worth it; right about the time he starts seeing that there was more to her. Thank you!
Pairing: Jimin x Reader
Genre: Angst / Fluff
Summary: There was a time when you loved him and he hated you. Now you hate him, but does he love you?
Okay so pt.2 for returning is coming soon I just had this idea and I really wanted to write it. Hope ya like it!
Warning- some language (not that bad though)
Word count- 1,013
You always had known you were like him. You had felt the freedom within you, the desire. It was so close, yet so far away at the same time. It was like you were trying to catch your own shadow, it was right there lurking in your vision, your reach, but every time you tried to grab it, it slipped further away. There was something holding you back. Maybe the constant nagging of society. Maybe the thought of being rejected. Or maybe that slight thought that maybe the machine was the way to go. To just stick to your part as the cog, always turning and twisting this way and that to help and please others needs. Your freedom was so close, you just needed that push, that push that would send you over the edge never to return. That push that’d set you free. He was that push. Him, the infamous Jerome Valeska.
You were sick of playing your part. Doing the same routine everyday like a dog. You were tired of being used, but you had no escape, no way out. Until you saw him. You saw his mugshot on the screen when he had escaped Arkham after killing his mom. You were instantly intrigued. His smile, his eyes, and the hair, they consumed your thoughts like a virus. But that’s what he wanted, he wanted people to remember him, to fear him, but only you weren’t scared.
When he reeked havoc on the GCPD police station you followed every source about it you could find. And that speech, that iconic speech, you drilled it into your brain until you could recite it perfectly. That speech made you believe, if he had broken free so could you. You don’t have to follow the machine anymore, there’s a way out. From then on the madness sat right below the barrier. It was right there the whole time.
That night as the fund raiser gala was being broadcasted live you sat on your couch, in a trance, unable to look away as Jerome put on the show of a life time. But when that back-stabbing Theo Galavan put a knife in Jerome’s neck you felt as if you had been stabbed too. You screamed, you were sure everyone in Gotham could hear you cries. You were heartbroken he was your way out and now he was gone. Your chance was gone.
Ever since his death you moped around, lazily going through your daily routine, all the days blurring into a haze. Until today, he was back. The cult somehow brought him back and this time you weren’t letting him slip away. He had shut off all of the city’s power and made his own distorted circus, and you were going. You looked in the mirror one more time, shinning a flashlight so you could see as you adjusted your (h/c) hair one last time before rushing out of the apartment.
When you arrived you were almost blinded by the flashing lights of the circus. It was beautiful, you stared at it in awe. The circus music, maniacal laugher, and the occasion scream all twisted together to create an eerie feeling. You ran, sprinting past all the circus freaks and cult members in the midst of the murdering.
You saw him up ahead, adorned with his circus get up as a ringmaster his red hair standing out as the brightest even in all of the flashing lights. The circus music played in the background quietly, but it was still there. “Jerome!” You screamed as you panted, slowly closing in on his location. You didn’t know what you were going to do or say once you reached him you just needed to see him, talk to him. But your thoughts were interrupted as a arm forcefully pushed you up against the side of a trailer. “Jerome!” You shouted once again as the clown makeup covered man put a knife to your neck.
“No, no please!” You begged, but he only pushed the knife further drawing blood as the metal pierced the surface of your skin. You closed your eyes. This was the end, it could’ve happened, he was right there.
That was until the man holding the knife dropped it, blooding spilling from his white painted face. His face was then replaced with the one and only Jerome Valeska’s signature smile. My eyes widen with surprise as I gasped “Jerome.”
His eyes lit up with amusement. His fiery red hair was disheveled, but still looked amazing against the bright circus lights. His face was stapled back on, which looked awfully painful, since the one crazed cult member cut it off. And his smile, oh his smile was wider but looked better than ever.
“Yes, and what would a pretty little doll like you be doing out here?” He purred, slowly dragging his thumb across my throat where the man cut me. He wiped the blood away, I flinched at his touch as he touched the new wound.
“Cat got your tongue?” He laughed sending shivers down my spine. “What’s your name gorgeous?”
“(Y/n)…(y/n)” you squeaked, intimidated as he towered over you.
“(Y/n)?” He questioned looking up at the sky “hmmm I like that name. Rolls off the tongue nicely.” He chuckled, clicking his tongue as he put his hand underneath my chin, lifting my head up so our eyes met. “Why are you here?”
“I wanna be free like you. I can’t stand doing the same damn thing everyday!” I beg, a smile slowly creeping onto my face and taking over my features. I first a giggle and then a laugh erupted from my throat as Jerome joined in with me. It was like all of a sudden I had been freed. It was him. We continued laughing until he pressed his lips onto mine.
He pulled away leaving me wanting more. “You’re mine now doll. Come on let’s get you into something more fitting!” He said pulling me along with him to the biggest trailer in the circus.
32. “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.” teen Ryan plz?
Name: Mix 143
Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader
Word Count: 606
You drummed your fingers against the edge of your seat and
bobbed your head to the beat of the song Ryan was playing as he drove. It was
some weird thing he picked up at a record shop that he swore you would love. You were almost upset that he wasn’t wrong.
Ryan glanced over at you as he pulled to a stop and smiled.
There was something to be said about the way that you listened to music. You
always closed your eyes and felt the
beat. You made every song an experience, and it was his favorite thing to
watch. He waited until the end of the song and shut the car off. When you
opened your eyes, he was smiling at you expectantly.
“Well?” He asked, raising his eyebrow.
“Fine, you were
right.” You admitted reluctantly, “but I’m not doing your Biology homework for
you.” Ryan groaned and slumped in his seat.
“C’mon, please? I
really just want to prove that that woman hates me.”
Do you remember that evening when you had asked about the women of my family? Proud to have a story worth telling, I had talked about Sita, my mother’s mother, a freedom fighter and a trade unionist, loving mother to five children, and a thrifty homemaker. Sita when she died in 1974 was “Mata-ji”, respected Mother, to all in her town.
“Why are some women chosen to become mothers to many, and not others,” you had asked. “Is there a price that they have to pay in return?” Your questions had made me think some more. Someone once said that memories contain the map of identity. In this marble temple, the fractured memory of Sita, yet subsumed in the son-bearing, nurturing, and virtuous body of Bharat Mata–Mother India, the Hindu mother of Hindu sons. She is Sanskrit, and she is Hindi. She is the source, chaste and pure.
Erased from her body are all markers of desire, passion, and longing that as a mortal woman Sita must have felt. Covered over are the wounds inflicted upon her for being born woman in an upper-caste Hindu family.
Turning to you I had asked curiously about your own grandmother. You had replied, “My grandmother was also called Mata-ji by some, yet she would find no place in this great temple.”
That same evening I had talked about my grandmother’s struggles to attend high school, the first for any girl in her family. The main hurdle was that the road to school led through the tawaifs’ quarters. Interrupting me with a sudden bitter tone in your voice, you had said, “How could the daughter of a respectable Hindu family be allowed to walk through an area where women wallowed in depravity, obscenity, and disease?”
Always on the margins of respectable society, the tawaif, now seen through the filters of Victorian morality, becomes a prostitute; bearer of everything foreign, including the Urdu language. The regeneration of Hindu society demanded that the tawaif be removed, physically from the proximity of respectable areas, and culturally from music itself.
You tell me a story of a time and place far away, where a mission was launched to rescue music from the baneful influence of Muslim musicians and tawaifs. The respectable men of town began a very successful mission to put a stop to the practice of inviting courtesans on festive and other occasions to perform in Hindu homes. From the uncharacteristic sharpness of your tone, I had a sense there is more to this tale than what you have just shared. But I am almost hesitant to ask. The history that has made me the woman I am, stands confronted by the histories you relentlessly unravel now.
You talk about you grandmother, the once powerful Chaudrahin or leader of the now beleaguered tawaif community in Benaras. Attracted by Gandhi’s inclusive call to Hindus and Muslims, men and women, to join the national movement, she had organized a very unusual meeting of courtesans in 1921. Presided by a framed photograph of Gandhi, the meeting passed a resolution to weed out obscenity in music and to promote nationalism by singing patriotic songs at all occasions.
The irony of this meeting is not lost to you. You are aware of Gandhi’s outburst against what he termed ‘the obscene manifesto of a group of tawaifs in Barisal’. Their crime: they had organized to help the poor, nurse the sick, and support the cause of Gandhi's Satyagraha. Gandhi declined to recognize them as Congress workers, or even accept their donations unless they gave up their unworthy profession which made them worse than thieves. While thieves merely stole material possessions, these women stole virtue.
Worst however was yet to come. Barred from performing on the radio till Nehru intervened, many tawaifs like your grandmother immersed their instruments into the Ganga and stopped singing altogether. Others got married in a desperate bid for social acceptance.
And so, as a nation marched towards freedom, a group of women whose private lives became public scandal, fell off the map. You tell me about the day your grandmother was summoned to the local police station when a zealous young Indian state decided to suppress immoral trafficking by cleansing entire localities of their original inhabitants: prostitutes and tawaifs.
That day, your grandmother decided to leave forever, the city that had been home.
It’s almost past midnight and I’m crying over Dead Inside.
And you know what? Muse is a BEAUTIFUL band. I don’t know much about music, I can read sheet music and tell you what a chord progression is, but I don’t need extensive knowledge to describe to you what Muse is.
They’re unique, experimental, certainly not afraid to take risks in their songs and albums and concepts. Just look at the 2nd Law. How many people do you think told them not to make those songs? And can you imagine a Muse without them?
They’re also classic, driving, and they have such a soul. When you hear songs like Resistance or Uprising or even Guiding Light, you get that swell of epic emotion that I really can’t describe other than a distinct quality of Muse music. You each syllable and each drum beat and each pick of the bass’s strings and every single guitar strum like it was destined to be there.
Muse are not afraid of concepts and stories, either. They take you to places and faraway lands that only their heads could think of, mixed in with haunting tales of government corruption and hopelessness in songs like Hoodoo and desperation like the kind found in Map of the Problematique. Want to ride horses in space? Muse has you covered. Just play the last track of Black Holes and Revelations. Love songs are their specialty as well, and no one can bring tears to your eyes like the sound of Muse in Invincible.
They’ve made albums that will go down in history. They’ve captured the apocalypse and morality and human fear in fourteen flawless tracks, all played live as nothing short of a mind blowing spectacle. Their riffs and their vocals and their bass lines and their drum beats are there in your soul, whether the subject matter be about insanity, love for a captor, the end of the world, or a fear of the unknown in death. And hell do they do it beautifully.
They’re even dark. Hell, are they dark. Lyrics like those found in Screenager and Citizen Erased talk of corruption in its most true form: human. And I’ve never heard of songs quite like Meglalomania because no band is as daring and deep rooted in themselves and the world around them as Muse. Who else would use bones in a song?
Muse were even juvenile once, too, capturing what it’s like to be a young adult or teenager, scrambling through life wrought with hope, ambition, heartbreak, and anger. The sounds are younger and the lyrics are youthful, but the potential is so powerful it burns and brings tears to your eyes. It’s the start of something phenomenal. And if Showbiz or Spiral Static or Cave doesn’t convince you of that, you’re listening wrong.
Us Musers have a bright future to look forward to, ironically consisting of songs and words written about the loss of human morality and about our governments’ never ending control and hidden oppression. But we look forward to it like it’s our birthdays, because after waiting 89 days 12 insane and new and unusual songs are what we all live for, whether they be about psychopaths or corrupted love or falling deep within yourself into something evil. We live and breathe for the music because, for some, it’s all we have.
And on the rare occasion like tonight, when I’m a bit stressed about life and the world, it’s nice to have that constant there to listen to and love. It’s nice to hear the music that our favorite soccer playing-father extraordinaire, leopard print loving-blonde haired, and crazy, ingenious, clever, glitter obsessed, paranoid little front man make together. They’re beautiful people with extraordinary minds that are changing our world with every breath and every second of music and every show they play.
That’s why it’s way too late at night and I’m crying over Dead Inside: because I’m a Muser and I will always owe my very life to this band.
Okay I get these arguments going “Grell uses she and everyone else use he” and therefore we should all use “she” because LOGIC. For everyone who has ever made this argument, please tell me which gender the following expressions refer to:
that trash officer of yours
“anata” (used exclusively by one Mr William T. Spears)
It is true that Grell uses the female “I” (i.e. atashi) and has openly complained about being called “him” (i.e. kare) and said “her” (i.e. kanojo) should be used, but that took place in one scene in the musical, while in all other occasions Grell has been overwhelmingly addressed by others with gender-neutral 2nd & 3rd person pronouns/names. To say that “everyone else uses he” is like saying “Grell uses a gender-neutral I” when you know very clearly that this is not true in Japanese and the meaning was lost only due to translation. Just because English doesn’t have the equivalent expressions, doesn’t mean Toboso Yana has not deliberately blurred the line. But whatever, go ahead with the argument that “everyone else uses he” or that everyone else is therefore not understanding or even transphobic *gasp* because some foreign language inconvenienced your use of English.
What they smell like: Cinnamon. Cinnamon buns. Cinnamon ice cream. Cinnamon bagels. Cinnamon apples. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. This man must dust-bathe in a desert of cinnamon and then take the Cinnamon Challenge twice every damn morning to smell that potently of gosh darn cinnamon. He is Cinna-man. How they sleep (sleeping position, schedule, etc): Mink always goes to bed after Aoba is asleep. That could be at 11PM or 3AM, it doesn’t matter. He also always wakes up before Aoba. Aoba almost never sees him sleeping, except when he wakes up in the middle of the night. Even then, it looks more like he’s pretending to sleep. Mink doesn’t really sleep. He just waits. What music they enjoy: Mink plays several different instruments due mostly to the traditions of his culture. He doesn’t actively listen to music and he thinks all of Aoba’s favorite music is electronic garbage. On occasion, he’ll take out an acoustic guitar and play a few chords just to see the dreamy expression on Aoba’s stupid face. What can he say? Bitches love a man who plays guitar. How much time they spend getting ready every morning: No one knows. By the time Aoba wakes up, Mink is showered, dressed, having his morning coffee, and looking irritated. Their favorite thing to collect: Mink collects things for a living. He makes charms and jewelry out of hand-made beads, animal bones, feathers, and all kinds of stuff found in nature. (<– Also fucking canon.) He probably goes out in the wee hours of the morning and looks around in the forest for stuff. Left or right-handed: Mink is canonically ambidextrous. Man knows how to use his hands. He had to to break out of jail :U Shit is hardcore.
Slave Narratives- In Original Context- Interview With Mr Gus Brown- Birmingham, Alabama -A Folk History of Slavery in the United States From Interviews with Former Slaves: Volume I, Alabama Narratives SPONSORED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Author: Work Projects Administration
“They is all gone, scattered, and old massa and missus have died.” That was the sequence of the tragic tale of “Uncle” Gus Brown, the body servant of William Brown; who fought beside him in the War between the States and who knew Stonewall Jackson.
“Uncle Gus” recalled happenings on the old plantation where he was reared. His master was a “king” man, he said, on whose plantation in Richmond, Virginia, Uncle Gus waited on the tables at large feasts and functions of the spacious days before the War. He was entrusted to go with the master’s boys down to the old swimming hole and go in “washin.” They would take off their clothes, hide them in the bushes on the side of the bank, put a big plank by the side of the old water hole and go in diving, swimming and have all the fun that youngsters would want, he said.
Apparently his master’s home was a plantation house with large columns and with all the glitter and glamour that the homes around Richmond have to offer. About it were large grain storage places for the master was a grain dealer and men on the plantation produced and ground large quantities into flour. Gus worked around the house, and he remembers well the corn shuckings as he called them on which occasions the Negroes gave vent to emotion in the form of dancing and music. “On those occasions we all got together and had a regular good time,” he said.
“Uncle,” he was asked, “do you remember any of the old superstitions on the plantation? Did they have any black cat stories?" "No sir, boss, we was educated Negroes on our plantation. The old bossman taught his Negroes not to believe in that sort of thing. "I well remember when de war came. Old massa had told his folks befo’ de war began dat it was comin’, so we was ready for it.
"Beforehand the master called all the servants he could trust and told them to get together all of the silver and other things of value. They did that, he explained and afterward they took the big box of treasures and carried it out in the forest and hid it under the trunk of a tree which was marked. None of the Negroes ever told the Yankees where it was so when the war ended the master had his silver back. Of course the war left him without some of the things which he used to have but he never suffered.
"Then de war came and we all went to fight the Yankees. I was a body servant to the master, and once a bullet took off his hat. We all thought he was shot but he wasn’t, and I was standin’ by his side all the time.
"I remember Stonewall Jackson. He was a big man with long whiskers, and very brave. We all fought wid him until his death.
"We wan’t beaten, we was starved out! Sometimes we had parched corn to eat and sometimes we didn’t have a bite o’ nothin’, because the Union mens come and tuck all the food for their selves. I can still remember part of my ninety years. I remembers we fought all de way from Virginia and winded up in Manassas Gap. "When time came for freedom most of us was glad. We liked the Yankees. They was good to us. ‘You is all now free. You can stay on the plantation or you can go.’ We all stayed there until old massa died. Den I worked on de Seaboard Airline when it come to Birmingham. I have been here ever since.
"In all de years since de war I cannot forget old massa. He was good and kind. He never believed in slavery but his money was tied up in slaves and he didn’t want to lose all he had.
"I knows I will see him in heaven and even though I have to walk ten miles for a bite of bread I can still be happy to think about the good times we had then. I am a Confederate veteran but my house burned up wid de medals and I don’t get a pension.
"Thank you, mister bossman, fer the quarter. It will buy me a little grub. I'se too old to work but I has to.”
The reporter left him sitting with his little pack and a long fork in his hands; in his eyes, dimmed with age, a far-off look and a tear of longing for the Old Plantation.
PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***Illustrated with Photographs WASHINGTON 1941