there is nothing at all you can say to a person to change their mind on a belief if they do not wish to change their mind themselves. the only thing that works, is your behaviour, the way you interact with them, your akhlaaq. their fitrat will want to connect with you if it senses humanity. become a decent human being first, then worry about doing inviting others to the right path.
Its hilarious how exclusionists are such performative allies of disabled/nd people. They’ll call out ableism when it benefits them, but they’re as disgustingly oppressive as anyone else towards us.
They’ll use ableist slurs as insults, they use tactics that disproportionately affect us, they laugh when we tell them they’re hurting us, they mock our identities. They trigger people, they suicide bait, they brush off abuse (as “jokes,” or by laughing at the fact we were hurt,) they use specifically ableist rhetoric (what are YOU contributing, you’re worthless, you shouldn’t speak if you don’t have the mental fortitude to deal with abuse in response, etc.)
They deny us access to community spaces because allowing us comfort and access might do so for aces too. They promote behavior that is directly harmful to us. They attack identities and spaces of groups that have significant overlap with ours, sometimes using us as pawns to create fake evidence supporting them.
They drown out our discontent with this treatment by laughing at “tumblr discourse” that is us asking them to fucking stop. Half of them are steeped in abled privilege and most of the rest are enablers. They’re the most violently, active ableist bullies I’ve encountered in a long fucking time.
I’m 100% convinced the disgusting exclusion and abhorrent behavior towards multiple groups (nonbinary people, aces, aros, etc.) can be totally traced back to their hatred and desire for lack of association with us and thus target the identities that have frequent overlap with us. The rest jumped in on the movement and have stomped all over us in the process, because we matter as little to them as any others.
And no group is exempt from this. I’ve seen nd exclusionists use explicitly ableist rhetoric against physically disabled people and those with mental illnesses/nds different from theirs, and I’ve seen neurotypical physically disabled exclusionists be very ableist towards nd/mentally ill people. Autistic people, trauma survivors, those with triggers, those with suicidal problems, personality disorders, anxiety, dissociation, comprehension/memory problems, all are frequent bits of “collateral damage,” in a bullying campaign that’s supposedly against certain queer identities, but I’m now coming to consider as a front for specifically being ableist, whether it be the overlap of them with us or because they specifically view those identities as “mental illnesses” rather than identities.
A/N: My loves, I may have another series on my hands. (Chapter One: Unexpected Reader) A series involving the first series, which will make much more sense later. I don’t know if this will be a hit or a total miss, but a girl’s gotta try it out. (I feel like us fan fic writers will appreciate this love story.) Anyhoo, enjoy! ❤️
Your fingers absentmindedly thrummed the tabletop as you murmured the last line you just wrote to yourself. “Across the room, Chris watched you intently with a small smile on his lips. He thought of approaching you, but wondered if you were the kind of girl that would appreciate or reject his boldness.” You chewed the inside of your cheek, your finger hovering over the backspace key on your MacBook. It seemed like yet another cliché, and though clichés were what you and your hopeless romantics readers loved- you wanted to expand yourself. You huffed and pressed the delete key, allowing your words to get chewed up by the blinking bar.
“Now what was wrong with that?” You flinched and tensed when you heard an oddly familiar male voice come from over your shoulder; he was so close to you that you would feel the warmth of his minty breath on your cheek. “Clichés are great.” He winced as he pulled back, knowing he’d gotten a little too close. “I mean- there’s a reason they’re overused, right?”
Now usually, you weren’t the kind of person who would snap at a stranger in an airport; you were too worried about the repercussions to do that. Usually, you’d just send a death defying glare their way and let your eyes do the talking; you’d been told you had a very intimidating face, which you no doubt got from your mom. But this was different, this was a stranger reading your writing without permission. You’d always been incredibly protective and defensive when it came to your writing and people peering at your screens- be it laptop, iPad, or iPhone. It was your biggest pet peeve; you hated having people stand behind you while you were on any of those said devices. It wasn’t like you had something to hide, you just didn’t like your privacy being invaded.
“Thanks for the input I didn’t ask for.” You bit as you abruptly closed the screen of your MacBook; you heard him chuckle softly. “Do you want to know what I think?” You quizzed rhetorically as you turned to shoot the nosy stranger your famous glare. “I think you should mind-” You cut yourself off when you saw who it was. “Oh my God,” you breathed, “you’re Chris Evans.”
Yes, Chris Evans. Christopher Robert Evans as in the talented actor and director; Captain America himself; the brown haired, blue eyed, Bostonian angel; the man you could only dream of marrying one day; and the one who accompanied your protagonist in all her life endeavors. Chris Evans was actually in front of you, and talking to you, and breathing the same air as you, and all you’d said to him so far was “thanks for the input I didn’t ask for” as well as “I think you should mind your own damn business.” Even though you didn’t get to finish your latter, it was still not the way you’d imagined your first meeting with your celebrity crush to go.
“Yes I am,” he walked to sit in the chair opposite you, “but don’t let that stop you.”
Chris was trying not to show too much amusement, but he couldn’t help his smile. You were exactly the kind of girl he liked- sassy, but clearly sweeter than honey. He’d seen you earlier, when you were both checking in. You were talking to the little boy in front of you; he was wearing glasses too big for his face, but between you and young Jasper- Chris found you cuter. He then spotted you again in the departure hall, talking to an airport security dog while its officer was searching someone else’s bag. He was about to approach you when the officer took the dog away and you’d walked off, pouting. He thought that was it, that he wouldn’t have the chance to talk to you again- you may have been on the same flight but you were sitting in different classes- but then, he came across you sitting in Starbucks. He spotted you in the window and decided it was time he got to actually meeting you, rather than admiring you from afar. So far, his decision to approach you had been one of his best.
“You think I should mind…” He trailed off, his beautiful blue eyes urging you to continue.
“Your own damn business,” you mumbled sheepishly as you cussed yourself out. It wasn’t until he laughed that you felt a little better, guessed he was as nice as everyone said he was. “I am so sorry. I’m not usually that rude, I just-” you swallowed when you saw his intent gaze on you. “I don’t like it when people look at my screen. I’m very protective of my writing and I don’t-”
“Don’t even worry about it,” he cut you off with one of his typical, heart thumping Chris Evans smile. “I’m not usually that nosy. It’s just that I heard you mumble my name and you were watching your screen so intently that I got curious as to what had your attention. Fan fiction is an interesting thing,” he commented with a soft chuckle.
“Oh God,” you blushed deeply. “It’s not- um- I don’t- you see-” you rambled and he laughed, placing a comforting hand over yours to soothe you. “I’m Y/N and I’m studying to be a screenwriter. I write fan fiction on Tumblr to put my work out there and get real people reviews,” you explained in a frazzled tone. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean any disrespect.”
“Oh, I know. You don’t have to apologize,” he smiled again and your heart fluttered again. “I think writing about someone is the greatest form of flattery. So relax,” he gave your hand a quick pat then pulled away, “I’m very flattered.”
“No you’re not,” you breathed in disbelief.
“Yes I am,” he chuckled. “It’s interesting to see how others see me, even if my fans may be a little biased.” He winked at you with a click of his tongue and you thought you’d swoon right there and then. “It’s nice to know people think I’d make a good boyfriend, and husband, and father. It’s actually very reassuring,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “I was starting to think I was the problem in my failed relationships.”
“You’re not serious,” you laughed and he smiled, appreciating how lovely you and your laughter was. “You’re like the perfect man. There is no way you were the problem in any of your failed relationships,” you said and suffered immediate regret, realizing you’d offended his exes. “Of course- I don’t mean any disrespect to anyone you’ve dated.” He laughed again, noting how cute you were when you panicked. “Jenny’s awesome, I loved her in Parks and Rec-”
“Hey,” he said and you stopped, holding your breath for some reason. “Breathe, Y/N.” He instructed and you did as he said. “I’m not going to bite your head off for speaking your piece. I know you don’t mean any harm with anything you say, so just- calm down, okay?” You nodded and he smiled. “I like hearing what you have to say, it’s very refreshing.”
“That’s very sweet of you to say,” you blushed again. “You know- I’ve only ever been called refreshing in my own stories.” You joked then laughed when he did. “Looks like someone is living up to that level of perfection us fan girls have created.”
“Oh, stop it.” He chuckled and waved his hand, feeling heat rise to his own cheeks. “Fan fic Chris might be perfect, but I don’t think I am.” He joked and you chuckled. “I mean- Fan fic Chris wouldn’t have read over your shoulder like that, he’d buy you a coffee first then politely ask what you were working on.”
“Hey, no one’s stopping you from doing that now.” You heard yourself flirt and you wanted to slap yourself in the face. What were you doing? This was Chris freaking Evans! He’d dated huge names, names that you couldn’t beat even in your best day. You needed to quit while you were ahead, you needed to just ask for a photo then leave him alone. You knew all that, yet the next words left your lips anyway, “I’m all for do-overs.”
“Aren’t I lucky?” He grinned which made you smile. “I’ll be right back then. You’re a…” He pointed at you as he rose to his feet, his tone and facials showed that he was trying to guess your drink so you didn’t offer any help. “Vanilla latte, kinda girl?” He quizzed and you felt your lips part in awe; how he guessed that was beyond both of you.
“Not bad, Mr. Evans.”
“Thank you,” he smiled, doing a small bow. “And call me Chris, ‘cause Mr. Evans is my dad and I’m not that old.” He joked and you nodded, chuckling. “Okay then, I’ll be right back. Oh-” he stopped and turned back, “just to make sure you don’t run off. Hold my phone, will you?”
“You want me to hold your phone for you?” You frowned when he nodded, smiling. “You do realize we just met, right?” He nodded. “And I’m a fan, like- a huge fan?” He nodded again. “Aren’t you worried I’ll go through your photos, or steal Sebastian Stan’s phone number?”
“Not really,” he shook his head. “I mean- I’ve got nothing to hide, and you don’t look like the kind of girl who would do that kind of thing anyway.” You bit back your smile; that was true. “As for stealing Seb’s number, well- I think he’d be lucky to have you in his life.”
“Okay, now that sounds like a line Fan fic Chris would say,” you teased him and he laughed. “Exactly how much fan fic do you read, Chris Evans?” You asked with a smug smirk, which turned into more of a shy smile when he winked. “Do you have a secret Tumblr account to keep track on all the writing we do about you?”
“I’m going to plead the fifth to that question.” He started towards the counter, glancing back at a giggling you as he did. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?” You nodded and he smiled as he told you, “I want to hear more about you and your writing.”
If your still taking writing requests, could you do “Your wound reopened, didn’t it?” With Damian and Jason please?
Jason and Damian are both so terrible at showing they care. And looking after themselves…
Enjoy, anon! I hope this is something like what you were looking for :)
The funny thing is, it doesn’t even happen on patrol. Well, not an offical patrol. Batman is out of town on League business and Damian isn’t allowed to patrol without appropriate supervision - which apparently just means Nightwing, who is busy in Bludhaven - but that’s never stopped him before. Alfred had taken the Robin suit as a precaution against him sneaking out on his own, so when Damian had inevitably snuck out he’d had to do it in dark civvies instead.
Everything is going relatively well until he drops in to give the Red Hood a hand taking down a gang. Without the Kevlar protection of his suit, a glancing slash from a knife slices through the fabric of his hoodie and the flesh beneath instead of bouncing harmlessly off armour. He doesn’t notice it at first, too absorbed in taking down the thug (un)lucky enough to get him. It’s only once the fight is over and the adrenaline fades that the injury hits him, pain radiating from his side like fire. He groans and Hood is immediately looming over him.
“Where are you hit?” he demands. Then, “Wait, no, first - what the fuck are you even doing here? Isn’t it passed your bedtime?”
“Robin doesn’t have a bedtime,” Damian snaps, pressing his hand against his side. It comes away glistening red.
Red Hood snorts. “You don’t look much like Robin right now.” He kneels down to inspect Damian’s side himself, tearing the black hoodie even more so he can peel it away from the edges of the wound. He winces. “B is going to fucking kill me.”
Damian tries to peer at the cut himself, but it’s too dark in the alley to properly asses the damage from his angle. “You can’t tell Father,” he says, trying for authoritative but coming out borderline pleading. “He’s busy, he doesn’t need to worry about a minor injury.” And I don’t want him to take Robin away.
“Minor?” Todd’s voice rises with incredulity, hovering over the side of his helmet where Damian knows the button to activate his comm link is. “That’s gonna need at least a dozen stitches. And I’m not calling Daddy Bats, anyway, I’m calling Alfred.”
Damian grabs his arm desperately, gasping when it causes a new wave of pain to lance through his side. “No! Please, you can’t!”
“Woah, calm down.” Hood grabs his shoulders to hold him still. “Jesus Christ, kid, you’re going to make that worse.”
“You can’t tell them,” Damian says again, prepared to sound as much like a broken record as it takes to wear Todd down.
The older vigilante hesitates, then sighs. “Fine. Whatever. They’d probably blame me anyway.” They wouldn’t, but Damian doesn’t bother arguing the point. “Come on, I have a safe house a couple of blocks away. I’ll stitch you up then you can go home and attempt to lie to Alfred yourself. Just don’t involve me.”
When Damian’s alarm wakes him at six-thirty the next morning he wants nothing more than to put his pillow over his head and go back to sleep. But that would be suspicious. So he carefully rolls out of bed, takes another dose of ibuprofen and stumbles into the bathroom to shower.
By the time he gets down to breakfast, the painkillers have kicked in and the shower has sufficiently woken him up so that he’s acting close enough to normal not to draw Pennyworth’s attention. He eats mechanically, then retreats back upstairs until Pennyworth calls for him.
“Don’t drag your feet, Master Damian, it will only make you late for school, it won’t make it go away,” the butler says, mistaking Damian’s slow movements as he comes back downstairs with his backpack for reluctance. He scowls and walks even slower, grabbing onto the excuse of a bad attitude with fervour. In the car, he sits stiffly in the backseat and stares out the window, eager for their arrival so he can escape Pennyworth’s scrutiny, but dreading the school day ahead.
It’s all going relatively well until the end of lunchtime. Damian is headed back to his locker to retrieve the books he needs for the final classes of the day when he makes a mistake. A few boys from two grade above him are bullying a younger kid, pushing him around and laughing as they go through his backpack. And Damian gets involved.
He can’t not get involved.
It’s a short fight. One which ends when one of the older boys whacks Damian in the side with a textbook and he doubles over, gasping through the sudden onslaught of pain. The bullies laugh and call him names, getting in a few more hits for good measure before taking off down the now-empty hallway.
Slowly, Damian forces himself to straighten up and collect his books. If he’s late to class Ms Carlisle will give him a detention without care for any excuses he could come up with. And he doesn’t need Father to be even more disappointed in his school performance.
It’s just a bit of pain. Nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. He can make it to the end of the day.
Damian realises he’s in trouble about half-way through fifth period. The pulsing pain in his side is distracting enough on its own, but when he chances a glance beneath his blazer, he finds that the right side of his white shirt is starting to stain red over his wound. It’s not bleeding quickly, but it is bleeding. And that is a Major Problem.
“Damian?” Maps leans over toward him while the teacher’s writing on the board. Usually Damian is thankful to have a friend in his class, but today he just wishes to be left alone. “Are you okay? You look kinda pale.”
“I’m fine,” Damian replies stiffly, pressing his arm tightly against his side. It hurts more, but the pressure might help stem the slowly oozing blood.
Maps clearly doesn’t believe him, but Ms Carlisle turns back around to address the class before she can push the issue. Damian has never been more grateful for strict teachers with droning voices because it means he can zone out in peace until the bell ringing startles him back into awareness. Kids are already trickling out of the classroom and Damian joins the back of the mob, keeping close to the wall and trying to avoid the passing bags and limbs which bump his side until he can duck into the closest bathroom.
He fumbles his phone out of his pocket as soon as he’s in the relative privacy of one of the toilet stalls. Even if he had the necessary materials, the wound is at an angle that would be too hard to stitch back up himself. As loathe as he is to admit it, he’s going to need help.
Todd answers with a curt, “Aren’t you supposed to be in school, short fry?”
Damian takes a deep, calming breath to overcome the irritation the nickname stirs up before admitting, “I need your help.
There’s a beat of silence then Todd sighs. ”Your wound reopened, didn’t it?“
“Can you pick me up?” Damian asks instead of answering what is clearly a rhetorical question.
The older boy grumbles but he promises to pick him up about a block from the school in twenty minutes.
Damian feels obtrusive loitering on the sidewalk in his Gotham Academy blazer, but he can hardly take it off with his shirt in the state it is. When Todd finally shows up he’s driving an old red Nissan instead of the usual motorcycle. Damian slides carefully into the passenger seat with a quiet sigh, tipping his head back and staring out the window as they merge back onto the road.
Damian glances away from the traffic. “Well what?”
“How bad is it?” Todd asks.
“Oh.” He pulls the blazer away from his side to reveal the growing patch of red.
“Uh. It’s not that bad.”
Todd glances down at the wound then swears, eyes snapping up to glare at Damian before refocusing on driving when a horn blares loudly behind them.
“How the fuck did you manage that sitting in a classroom?”
“It didn’t happen in a classroom,” Damian snaps. “And it wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Todd mutters. He flicks on his indicator to move into the right lane and it’s only then that Damian realises they’re heading out of the city.
“Where are we going?” he asks suspiciously.
“Take a wild guess.”
“You promised you wouldn’t!” Damian accuses, because between the direction they’re travelling and Todd’s tight grip on the steering wheel it’s not hard to figure it out.
Todd rolls his eyes. “Welcome to the real world, kid, where promises mean jack shit,” he snaps. But a second later his lips twist in a grimace and when he glances over his eyes are almost apologetic. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But if you’ve done more damage to that wound, I’m so not qualified to fix it. Alfred would'a caught on eventually anyway - if he hasn’t already. Just think of it as… delaying the inevitable.”
Damian crosses his arms and sulks the whole drive back to the Manor. He’d gone to Todd for help in confidence and this is how he’s replayed for his trust? He clenches his teeth, mouth stretching in a silent snarl. See if he ever helped the Red Hood again!
(Five weeks later, Red Hood drops in on a fight that Robin is notlosing thank you very much. He gets a bullet graze on his thigh for his troubles. Damian makes sure to ignore his bitching with extreme obnoxiousness as he drags him back to the Cave to be stitched up. Todd glares at him as Alfred stitches the injury. Damian just smirks.)
The thunderous slam of the front door this late at night could only means one thing, an overworked boyfriend fed up with the limitless list of things that’s wrong in his life. You understand his frustration of course, being worked to the bone without having a comeback in months would do that to even a saint. Adding the constant travel for show and lack of sleep had turned the boy with stars in his eyes into an insufferable grump. You never minded being his therapist, being the only person he could complain to without any filter. He’d often laid with his head on your lap, gritting his teeth angrily at one thing or another. You’d just let him talk with a hand smoothing comforting circles over his firm chest, melting his rage back into its cage. Some days he’d ask for your advice knowing just how unreasonable he could get, others, he simply needed a pair of ears. Although rare, sometimes the limitless list of things that’s wrong in his life includes you.
You hadn’t expect him tonight honestly, not after the blow out last night. Curl up in the cold king size bed that might as well have been two twin beds for the past week, you stay quiet, listening intently to any little sound coming from the living room. Jiwon loves skin-ship despite that tough macho image on SMTM and explosive stages of Ikon. He continuously expresses his displeasure in Hanbin lovey dovey gestures but you know for a fact he loves it. He just couldn’t get himself to let the poor boy knows he secretly revels in every moment because Hanbin being the cheeky monkey would never let him live it down. With you in the privacy of your shared apartment, there was not a second spent here that he didn’t have some sort of contact with your skin. You don’t even know what was the point in him buying a bigger bed when he cuddles up to you at night so close, you both use a mere 25% of the spacious bed. Lately however, he’d come home late at night when you’re already asleep and fall into slumber as far away from your body as possible.
An exasperated groan follows by heavy footsteps yank you out of your reverie of happier time. He was searching for something and for the sake of your peaceful sleep tonight, you hope he finds it soon. Sure enough, a mere second later, the bedroom door swing open with a bang resembles much of the one earlier made by the front door. In burst Jiwon, eyebrows furrow and that sharp jawline clenches under what must be a raging storm. You wanted so bad to just run up to him as always when he gets home and envelop him in a big hug, telling him everything will be okay. Tonight, you don’t dare with the fury that’s flashing bright red on that handsome face.
At no point should your literary analysis paper turn into you taking the personality of the author you’re writing about over and acting as though everything in the story happened to you. Especially if you never are going to get to the rhetorical analysis bit.
Even the nicest professor will wonder “what the entire fuck?”
The next destination that Jamie had indicated to look for crystals was up in the mountains in Europe. When you all returned to Avenger towers you all grabbed winter gear and uniforms and met back in the jet. Tony and Natasha had decided to leave you all to perform other Avenger duties and Tony was assured that Jamie was going to be under strict surveillance. While waiting for Bucky to board the ship, you positioned yourself near the door of the ship and looked outward. You wondered why Bucky was taking so long but then you spotted him and Natasha near the hangar entrance. You watched as Natasha spoke to him with a serious face. You crossed your arms and walked away and sat in one of the seats near the front of the jet. After a few minutes, Bucky finally boarded with a bright smile on his face. He suavely came in front of you, faced you and leaned against the dashboard.
Haaa I love going to non-Tumblr sites and getting the same kind of concern trolling/ship shaming that you find here, like verbatim. You even get the same “think of the children!” and “this will damage women!” business. It’s like the entire known universe is turning into the church lady from SNL.
How do you get what you want using just your words? Aristotle set out to answer exactly that question over 2,000 years ago with the Treatise on Rhetoric. Rhetoric, according to Aristotle, is the art of seeing the available means of persuasion. And today we apply it to any form of communication.
Aristotle focused on oration, though, and he described three types of persuasive speech. Forensic, or judicial, rhetoric establishes facts and judgements about the past, similar to detectives at a crime scene.
Epideictic, or demonstrative, rhetoric makes a proclamation about the present situation, as in wedding speeches.
But the way to accomplish change is through deliberative rhetoric, or symbouleutikon. Rather than the past or the present, deliberative rhetoric focuses on the future. It’s the rhetoric of politicians debating a new law by imagining what effect it might have, and it’s also the rhetoric of activists urging change. In both cases, the speaker’s present their audience with a possible future and try to enlist their help in avoiding or achieving it.
But what makes for good deliberative rhetoric, besides the future tense?According to Aristotle, there are three persuasive appeals: ethos, logos,1:47and pathos. Ethos is how you convince an audience of your credibility. Logos is the use of logic and reason. This method can employ rhetorical devices such as analogies, examples, and citations of research or statistics. But it’s not just facts and figures. It’s also the structure and content of the speech itself. The point is to use factual knowledge to convince the audience, but, unfortunately, speakers can also manipulate people with false information that the audience thinks is true. And finally, pathos appeals to emotion, and in our age of mass media, it’s often the most effective mode. Pathos is neither inherently good nor bad, but it may be irrational and unpredictable. It can just as easily rally people for peace as incite them to war. Most advertising, from beauty products that promise to relieve our physical insecurities to cars that make us feel powerful, relies on pathos.
Aristotle’s rhetorical appeals still remain powerful tools today, but deciding which of them to use is a matter of knowing your audience and purpose, as well as the right place and time. And perhaps just as important is being able to notice when these same methods of persuasion are being used on you.
Turning back to face the sink I was reminded of the piles of dirty plates that seemed to be living on the work surface. I’ll wash up love, you don’t need to worry about it. You can get home and be stress free .
Fucking bastard. I took in a deep breath as I closed my eyes and counted to seven, then four, then eight. I repeated this pattern until I could feel Dan next to me.
Slowly I turned to look up at him. Still in his sweats with his hair full of curls. It was way past 5pm and he still looked like he did when I left the house at 8am. In a quick attempt to calm down I adjusted my breathing.
“Dan.” I breathed. “What was the last thing I said before I left this appartment?” I watched as confusion formed on his face. “To wash up Dan! I asked you to wash up.” His lips formed an ‘O’ shape and he caught sight of the breakfast bowls from yesterday that sat amongst other dirty items.
His hand ran through his hair and rested on the back of his neck; his eyes transformed to apologetic pools of hazel. “Y/n, I’m sorry, I've ju-”
“You’ve been rushed off your feet?” I snapped knowing an argument was to follow. “ I've been rushed off my feet.” I’d had enough, this was the third time this week I’d come home to washing up and god knows how many times I came home to Dan being in sweats and doing nothing.
“Dan, I’ve been at work for nine hours, what have you done?”
“Rhetorical question.” The control I had over my words had vanished into thin air. “Y'know when you’re snacking on shit from the fidge?, why the fuck don’t you stop and wash up? The sink is there!” I was yelling more than usual now. My mind was unravelling with every word I said.
He was giggling. Why the fuck was he giggling.
“Why the fuck Dan?!” Thats when I heard it. “Dan its seri-” his arms wrapped around my shoulders as he pulled me into his chest.
“You’re adorable” He laughed rubbing his chin across the top of my head.
“Why? Because I’m 5"3 and have an accent when I’m mad?” I asked pulling away from his chest
“Thats exactly why” I screwed my face up at his words.
“Fight me” I smirked as my last attempt of sass.
The next thing I knew our lips connected; the taste of coffee lingered on his lips. I felt his chapped lips grow into a smile. After breaking for air his hands rested behind my neck. “Sorry y/n. I’ll try to remember next time” his smile began to fade.
“Don’t worry love” I replied. Butterflies gathered in my stomach as I watched the smile and dimple return to his face.
Usually, pets aren’t allowed at Watford. But, well, our room in Mummers House is big enough to hide a small dog in, anyways. Right? And Baz wouldn’t turn me in because, well, who doesn’t like dogs? I’ll even let him have one too. Besides, I can’t just not adopt this dog. And, that one over there looks like Baz, if he were a Scottish terrier.
“I’m taking these two.” The four words I’ll most regret saying, yet nonetheless I showed up at Watford in fourth year, holding a little scottie as a bribe for Baz and a little scruffy mongrel for myself.
I’d been hoping that Baz would come to school after the dogs had already settled in, but apparently not. Because when I shimmied into our room, my coat bulging and wriggling, and dropped two dogs on the floor, he was frankly, appalled.
“What…Are those.” He said, rhetorically, as the two balls of fluff, one orange and one black, scuffled over to him and sniffed his feet.
“Uh. Dogs?” I said, awkwardly. “That one’s Basilton Jr. I got him hoping you wouldn’t turn me in if I let you have one too.” I picked up the tiny black thing, holding him up so Baz could see.
“I-” he looked torn. Success? “Fine.” He agreed after a long pause. Took the dog from my hands. Looked at me as if I were about to snatch the dog back.
I grinned, not realizing what I’d just done to myself.
And now for present time. After eight years tolerating a room with my worst enemy, I thought I’d be able to escape him.
But well, we’d both grown quite fond of our dogs. Lil Baz and Cherry Scones were family to me by that point. (Yes, I named my dog Cherry Scones. I don’t need more judgement than I’m getting already.)
And our dogs… They’d grown quite fond of eachother, I think.
Like, very fond. I think they’re in love.
“Baz, we need to stay roommates after we graduate.”
“Our dogs! They’re in love! We can’t just split them up like that!”
Baz had the same look on his face as he’d had when I first brought them to Watford. I think he blushed, but it’s hard to tell when he’s already so pale. He turned white-person-colored, for a second.
“Fine. We won’t split them up. I’ll take both.”
“No! Cherry Scones is not going with you!”
“Fine! We’ll stay roommates!”
“Yeah! That’s what I said!”
We glowered at each other, and at our feet the two dogs were licking each other enthusiastically.
Apartment shopping. With Baz. We talked as little as possible.
“How about this one?”
“No. How about this one?”
It was hours before we found one we wanted.
“We can’t just live together forever, Snow.” Baz said, out of nowhere.
And then, even more out of nowhere, my mouth came up with “Why not? I like living with you and the dogs.”
But what Baz did put my mouth’s illogical habit of blurting to shame, when he had the crazy idea of kissing me.
so zayn’s little sister safaa made an instagram live video and someone commented ‘if ziam is real touch your nose’ and she read it out loud and asked her friend/cousin rhetorically ‘what is ziam’
(you could see she knew)
and she or the other girl said ‘zayn and liam’ and they giggled and then she touched her nose but said ‘no it’s not’ i think as in no it’s not real but like all smug
and smiling and the other girl said
‘you touched your nose’
and they were both giggly and i was like!!??👀👀
Can we all just appreciate how much the new Series of Unfortunate Events calls out the “kids these days are all just lazy and weak and ‘special snowflakes’ and don’t know what hard work” rhetoric and shows how harmful it can be? Like half of the time the kids try to get help they are dismissed and told they just need to get used to a little work. Idk I just love how this show is showing how harmful that line of thinking can be.