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issahanko · 4 months

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How to erase a bad bad weekend

How to erase a bad bad weekend, a bad memory, a bad experience, a bad conversation…

The memories keep flashing in my mind like a bad taste that keeps coming and going.

So many feelings, so hard to deal with and I feel so stupid not being able to just pass to the next thing. So here I am writing my heavy heart, I’m hoping it can maybe help.

As I start this text, I realize that maybe this could be a funny story, or maybe, my gentle reader will relate to me, and we could cry together.

I was urgently in need of a bit of money. I had just finished another diploma in December, and I found myself looking for an urgent job, it had been one month and a half and nothing.

Maybe because January and February are dead for job hunting… I told myself and everyone else around me to feel better, I have to be patient, I said in a very loud voice, maybe trying to convince myself to be patient, and it was not working…

My friend, which is in a similar situation calls me and says: Urgently! I have to know if you want a job! they pay cash! it’s from Friday to Sunday!

I said yes, of course! I trust her, she’s a hustler… I really need some money right now.

What we have to do in this modern world to have some money, in this economy, in this crisis, in this unemployed situation… could be called slavery, but let’s leave this subject for later.

I was supposed to sell bike clothes, plus triathlon and running clothes.

The guy made us come on Thursday to explain how this will be done during the weekend, although Thursday was not a paid time. My friend had to do 40 minutes of metro and 15 walking from her place to the job place, where we were going to work. But the guy wanted us to come on Thursday. He also wanted us to come an hour before the opening without being paid, although we said yes, it never happened.

So the guy’s name was Steve… Steve? What kind of name is that?

Hi, my name is Steve (pronounced Stif)… I wonder what you imagine with that name.

It was the opposite of the Steven Universe character. Zero charisma, he had a grim aura around him, when I remember him, I picture him wearing dirty clothes, a dirty face, dirty soul, Steve without an n.

This guy had a very bad looking silhouette, just imagine a bald, bad shaved, red eyed looking guy, with a beer belly and yellow teeth whenever he smiled, which was a rare occasion, or maybe he just smiled at moments when you are not supposed to smile, like a smile after a racist-mysoginist-homophobe comment…

This guy didn’t say hello…. As soon as he saw us, he said: do you go to the gym? Do you ride bikes? On the gym…?

Now, my friend and I are not fit at all, we have overweighted women bodies, but we take care of ourselves, we tidy ourselves, we love ourselves, we feel pretty most of the time. I admit, I got some kilos more during my degree, I did my last diploma in one year, one hell of a ride, and I’m a stress eater, so it was very easy to obtain my extra kilos. But of course, this guy didn’t see that. Maybe he wanted slim people, so the customers would feel more appealed or something. Although, he was not paying enough for a slim sales manager. He was not even paying enough for us to come on that Thursday, which we weren’t even paid.

So not a very good first start, right? I laughed it out, but my friend didn’t. I sometimes don’t understand a situation before it’s too late and my natural response is to laugh out everything. Whenever I’m nervous you will see me smiling.

Bla bla bla, biking clothes, bike accessories, biking glasses, how did you two meet?

- Oh, we were together at Uni, yeah, I was doing my ethnomusicology master at that time, oh! It’s like anthropology of music.

- So like when humans were hitting rocks one to the other and you call that music?

- jajajajaj…ja… yeah… something like that… Oh I actually have an interview in one hour, so I only have 15 minutes

Apparently, Steve didn’t like that, maybe he was planning on explaining every single item to us and take more of our free time, but I doubt it, the guy was not organized. Or maybe his natural face was of disgust…

I asked if he had business cards, he didn’t, also, the internet site that was announced on his business signs didn’t exist, he also didn’t have a special item he wanted to sell, and the sales signs advised discounts in a very so random way that it looked like a scam store.

So every time someone would ask where they could find the store… we just answered with the most vague phrase: oh! we are a mobile store… (you cannot find it anywhere) we move a lot between Ontario and Québec, oh sorry, the site doesn’t wok but you can send us an email with whatever you need, we will try our best to answer your request…

We? Well, I told myself that if maybe I got the appropriation of the store, people will believe that it was genuine, or like a family business, with Steve being our… uncle? I don’t’ know, I thought it was helpful, I was trying to help a human who didn’t deserve my trying.

Steve has a daughter though, 8 years old, she was on his 2000 model phone wallpaper. Poor girl with a father like that. Just, let me tell you the story. The guy hooked up with a woman 25 years younger than him, the problem is, he said it as if he was proud of it. He’s 62 yeas old… Steve is a 62-year-old father… of an 8 year old daughter. Oh! But her daughter is a flirt! She is in the boy’s hockey team, because she is too good to be in the girls’ hockey team and she likes to flirt with the boys…

I don’t know what is more disgusting, the fact that he thinks she flirts at that age, the fact that he is proud of his daughter being a flirt, or the fact that he is telling me this.

Pure disgust. Maybe I should add “rapist” to the list of adjectives I will describe him with. I know maybe some of you would feel sorry of him being so old and working in this hard work line, but my disgust is bigger than my sorrow.

And also, the conversation about his daughter started because he fucking asked me if I WAS SINGLE

FUCKING STEVE AND HIS FUCKING STORE

- Oh! Yeah, I have a partner and we are married.

- So like… are you lesbian?

(Shall I just send this guy to hell….?)

…..

- Well I consider myself bisexual and I’m married to a non-binary person. But you know this is really not important…

- You young people, your generation is so welcoming to this kind of stuff, I don’t know any of this things, so what is bisexual and what is non-binary

(Shall I just send this guy to hell….?)

-Well, bisexual is that you are attracted to a person regardless of their gender

- Well that is convenient

(Shall I just send this guy to hell….?)

-jajajaj… I am attracted to all the genders, not only one… and non-binary is that the person doesn’t feel like they belong to only one gender.

- so like a mix ?

- I mean there are people who are genderfluid, so they can feel one day one gender or non at all. And I feel that a bisexual with a non-binary is a perfect romantic alliance.

- So all that stuff exist, huh? Your generation is so different than mine

-oh! you have a costumer behind you

…..

The conditions to this job were just disastrous, we couldn’t sit (no chairs anywhere), we couldn’t just stand (because it is aggressive, the customer will not approach you if you just stand there, just try to scan the clothes, you can even check the tags so you can learn the technical terms… hey remember when I told to not just stand there…?), we couldn’t chat (I don’t want you to talk to each other, it shows to the customers you are not serious), and we only had 30 minutes of break to eat something, also we had bathroom breaks, which we tried to extend to the maximum and to distribute along the day. I really just wanted for this job to end.

But the worst of all was, that we had to deal with fucking Steve, not only his conversations were awful and the least interesting in the entire history of stories, but also he used to tap my back whenever there was a customer that he wanted me to attend. I wish to erase the memory of his fucking hand touching my back for those 2 seconds, he did it 6 times during the weekend. I wish to erase all of this, all this bad bad weekend, but specially he touching my sacred body with his filthy hands.

Every day that passed was harder than the previous one. Everyday Steve had to fucking complain that he was not making enough money, that his minimum was not attaint. Oh! He also had these stupid comments about us like:

- you are doing good… for beginners

- If you did some kind of sport, I’m sure you would have had more technical information to give to the clients, we would have made more sales

- It’s a shame you don’t know anything about bikes

And whenever we were letting a customer go, he would come and say: what was the problem, what did they wanted? (whatever answer you want to insert) ugh, next time send them to me. Or. Ugh you should have said this/that. You can also finish your sale with: what else are you looking for? Or what brought you to the Montreal’s Bike Convention?

Or whatever annoying phrase about any annoying sales topic or bike topic you could imagine.

Also, I forgot to mention, the main reason why he engaged us was so that we could speak in French to the clients. ‘Cause his sorry ass can only take one language in his stupid brain, the language of racist-mysoginist-homophobe-rapist white English. The frustrating part was when he started to explain to his customers:

- I engaged French girls so they can talk in French with the customers

First off, we are not in France you asshole, second, we are NOT FRENCH YOU FUCKING IDIOT, third, could you be more condescending you fucking pig?

And this is the whole point of this stupid experience. He did never ever said thank you, never, not even when we worked packing his stuff (that usually sales people don’t do) or pushing his merchandise on the cart to his truck, or when we worked for 30 extra minutes to help him pack his shit, or when his shit got all over the floor when he was pushing his cart down the ramp and was blocking the cart ramp and we helped him put his shit back to the cart and truck. And the more things went to hell, the more the guy was aggressive and screaming at us if we didn’t do things the way he wanted to be done…

Like: I didn’t tell you to do that! I asked you to put this thing in this box, not on that box!

- I told you first the wheels then the bars!

- No! Don’t put that there!

- oh… could you please push the cart to my truck?

And then, he almost didn’t pay us… or he was hoping we don’t do the math correctly so that he could pay us less than what he owed us…

- Girl, let’s count together because I’m getting stressed and can’t count

- No! Don’t count together, she’s already lost, gimme that… I’ll count for you!

Then… why am I saying he’s racist? My gentle reader may ask… Well, we had a black customer that asked if he could separate some clothes for him, he was going to do the convention tour and then get back to trying the clothes.

- you shouldn’t separate it for him, he’s not coming back, I know his kind

HIS WHAT NOW???

- Oh I meant that the convention is almost closing… I don’t think he will be back

And then he proceeded to tell me the most boring racist story of how one of his bosses in 1978 was racist, not like him. His boss didn’t believe a black successful woman was going to buy an expensive bag. Well fucking Steve didn’t believe a black customer was going to buy a fucking biking jersey that was so old as fucking Steve, all his clothes were shit actually. Well, the customer came and he bought the jersey.

A little girl was hanging around the convention during Saturday and Sunday and asked me and my friend if the clothes we were selling were used. It really felt like some kind of sport thrift store, all the clothes had the hangers sun marks, they were so old and used and so low quality that even with his fucking thin sales managers, he wouldn’t have attaint the fucking minimum that he wanted.

But lastly, we finished the job, we got our pay, we got out of that place, we left the old geezer behind, and my friend and I were left feeling miserable. We called our spouses, to reassure them we were alive, that we got paid, that we were going home. And then all the misery came to our bodies. My feet were hurting, but also my pride. And she started saying why should we go through this, why should anyone go through this. Why after all that we studied, after all that we travelled, after all that we have learnt, why do we have to take this kind of jobs, with this kind of guy in this kind of country. Why has the life treated us so unfairly… what have I done so wrong for me to be found in a situation like this. Why have all my studies done nothing for me. Why do I have to kill my feet and my pride to get a bit of cash… I’m an artist, I wish to create, to be happy, to give something to this cruel cruel world. But right now, I feel just miserable, as if my life had absolutely no meaning. As if I was born with the wrong feet, in the wrong time, the wrong place. Maybe if I was white, maybe if I was rich, maybe if I had picked fucking finance as my career. Just, maybe if I have had a bit more of luck.

But hélas, I’m here, right now, and the only thing that calms me down is writing and hoping to share this with you, my gentle reader.

Yesterday I had nightmares, and then I had a panic attack, and then I was all tears. But my partner was there, to tell me everything was going to be alright, that I will never see fucking Steve again in my life. And with the money I made, I can pay some bills.

Although the next day I still had flashes of this bad bad weekend, I still heard fucking Steve’s voice in my head… I had to pass to another thing, another project made with love, it was another day, a sunny one. And the problem is, I’m so desperate that I’m sure I will do it again, because I need the extra cash right now.

Anyway, thanks for reading. I hope you never cross a fucking Steve in your life. And I hope you will be happy, even if it’s only for an hour during the day. I hope the struggling times will pass fast. I hope you get to do art in your life, it’s the only savior, in this chaotic world.

#writing #writetblr #writers of tumblr #ranting #artist #montreal #fucking steve #writers on tumblr #writblr #writeblr #please read my story #I promise you won't regret #drama #bisexual life

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yostresswritinggirl · 2 years

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Scara, puppet reader, and Albedo forming a trio of artificial life abandoned by their creators lol.

But a friendship between Tighnari and puppet reader would be lovely. Think of all the botany lessons Tighnari teaches them when they ask for help. Puppet reader taking notes and he lends them books is a very nice thing. Tighnari could try using gold paint to see how kintsugi would look on him first even if the potential pain of tattooing scares him off. At this rate, who else is gonna get struck by lightning from an Inazuman immortal??? And live with scars? Tighnari and puppet reader forming a support group.

Video montage of Scara personally going out of his way to forage for the ring materials himself cause he’s a dedicated husband like that. He has to make sure the qualities are up to his standards.

I honestly have to resist the urge to make more jokes because of how Scara and puppet reader are related. It’s just too easy to comment on how Scara really is keeping things in the family or how you can tell they come from rather aristocratic backgrounds because of how cousin marriages are so prevalent in those circles (really fascinating to read about actually! There’s a bunch of cultural and time era related reasons for it. Actually, the world building in Genshin would be so interesting if we knew more about stuff like this. My anthropology loving brain would go haywire. Like it’s unfortunate for Scara but I can imagine before the wedding (and this wedding pic) when he has the first drawing of them, someone might ask who it is and the first time Scara says his family, he learns real quick to say puppet reader is *his* because that person asked if puppet reader was single and willing to mingle. That person got the chance to mingle with Scara’s rage. How dare they covet the waifu of his laifu? The sheath to his sword - omg the Aranara banging pots and pans because if they can’t get sleep (do they sleep??) because of Scara and puppet reader then Scara and puppet reader won’t get sleep because of them!

Bloom anon

THE FACT THAT 70% OF THIS POST IS IN STRIKE THROUGH HAHAHAHA HO BOY

To start, still a huge advocator of Scarabedo, but also now that they're free from the Fatui, puppet reader would definitely be in need of a new 'doctor' for when they do need maintenance. Cue Albedo, master of artificial life

And yes that's exactly what I was thinking, getting botany lessons from Tighnari and visiting your wip garden whenever he patrols the area, that is the most supportive friend ever. And maybe not paint because well he's gonna have a hard time reaching those back areas no matter how dexterous he is (hey you don't gotta do Tomo like that sksksksksks technically Traveler is part of that support group, while Kazuha and Thoma are honorable mentions)

ACTUALLY THIS REMINDS ME can Scara even harvest ores since he's a catalyst hahaha please please can his burst do that, hoyoverse please make this canon

Aaaand here's the first cousin discussion, don't read if uncomfy: You and your out of pocket jokes again bloom ahahhaha but honestly, this is kind of one of the reasons why reader is Makoto's creation and not Ei's sksksks I knew of the law and made precautions for over thinkers. But also must point out that they're not really biological beings in the first place, their creators are gods even, oh wait mythology incest oh no-

One good thing about this tho that they wouldn't have to worry about offspring complications brought about by inbreeding since they're not capable of conception! And the hilarious implications of "yeah they're family-family, no you can't date them, they're mine did you not hear me"

Sheath to his sword GDI BLOOM AHAHAHAHA DON'T DO EM DIRTY LIKE THAT, YOU'RE MAKING ME THINK THINGS TOO NOOOO

#exile.goblet #bloom anon #about kintsugi #exile.reader #minors begone #chanting 'i will not write horny' to myself

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calboniferous · 3 years

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In Theory

Work 1 in The Pen and the Sword aka. my jedi and academics AU

A stressed post-graduate anthropology researcher from Coruscant University enters the Jedi Archives for the first time and is promptly taken under the wing of one Master Archivist Jocasta Nu.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32355310

—

Master Jocasta Nu felt the visitor before she saw them. Stress and a frenetic energy radiated through the force tangled with the unique threads of emotion and colour that made up their signature.

Closing the book in front of her with a soft thud, mindful of its frayed edges, she appraised the blue nautolan hurrying towards her. Their worn brown coat was unbuttoned and struggling to stay onto their shoulders, saved by the strap of the bag hanging off one side which the nautolan had one arm wrapped around. Apparently, the bag’s tie had lost the battle against the tide of flimsy and datapads making the simple bag bulge obscenely.

Ah.

A scholar.

Like the many before them, they had come to Master Nu’s beloved archives in hope of finding salvation in its hallowed stacks. With her guidance, they always did and more often than not, they would return again. And again.

However, this scholar was not one that Master Nu had seen before and as they glanced wide-eyed at the towering shelves, shying away from passing Jedi, she surmised that the Jedi archives were unfamiliar to them also.

They reached her desk out of breath.

“I need books on Kante martial arts and history. Do you have books on Kante? If it has historical martial arts then that would be incredible but I’m setting the bar low. Really, the bar is non-existent. Should I even be setting a bar I don’t know- do you know what the Kante are? Were? They’re extinct”

“Young one, breathe.” Master Nu said, lifting her hand to interrupt the rush of words. Her brow softened in sympathy, “How about you start from the beginning and tell me what your thesis is and then we’ll go about finding resources.”

She signalled to one of the Padawans stacking holopads nearby for them to take over monitoring the main desk and led Tema to one of the many sunlit alcoves tucked between the buttresses.

Settling on a cushion across the low table from the sleep deprived nautolan, Master Nu pulled out her well-worn datapad, ready to formulate a list of texts to recommend for this student’s project. She had gathered quite the collection of such lists over the years and took great pride in curating them. Often, she would continue to add to them in her spare time so that when the person they had been made for returned, it was waiting and ready. And, if Master Nu happened to enjoy the thrill of a hunt for obscure references through her own archives every now and again, that was her own business.

Stylus in hand, she was ready to begin.

“You mentioned martial arts?”

“Right. Yes. I’m studying the fighting style of the Kante people which they used to reclaim their lands 7000 years ago after it was conquered in the Chandrillan Divide. The politics of the reclamation itself have been documented to death but there’s kriff all discussing how they actually fought,”

Master Nu hummed sympathetically, listening as a classic university post-graduate research tragedy poured out in all its glory. The purple shadows smeared under Tema’s dark eyes suggested that more than one night had been lost to this.

It was a credit to her Jedi training and skill as an archivist that Master Nu could write notes, elegant script flitting smoothly across the datapad without misspelling a single title or name, while offering comforting hums and interjecting words of encouragement where Tema faltered.

“So now I need to piece it together myself in order to build a theory on how the Kante people approached battlefield strategy,” Tema finished, fidgeting with their bag strap.

Setting her stylus down, Master Nu surveyed the drafted list with a critical eye. It was a daunting selection. She weighed the situation in her mind and carefully turned the datapad off, placing it down with a muted click of metal on the polished stone table.

“That’s quite the task you’ve got” Master Nu said, “more than an Honours project scope covers.”

She loathed to discourage any scholar but there were limits to the workload that could be shouldered and she had a strict honesty policy. With all her Jedi compassion and experience ad Head Archivist, Master Nu knew how to recognise when a student needed guidance in whittling down their research focus to a reasonable magnitude.

“I know,” Tema sighed, shoulders sagging, “I know but my project topic has already been approved by my supervisor.”

“Dear, your project as it stands is enough to satisfy a PhD and beyond. I can tell you are passionate about it but it’d be a tragedy for you to fail because you tried to complete years’ worth of work in the 10 months you have.”

The blue nautolan wilted a little, head tails curling.

“I don’t see what choice I have. I can’t form a thesis on the merits of Kante strategy without knowing how it worked at the individual level,” they said, resignation colouring their force signature grey with worry.

Master Nu paused, and after a moment spoke.

“Have you considered centring your project on the martial arts itself? At the individual level, as you say. Leaving the rest aside to focus on that should technically be within your project topic.”

Tema blinked, “That’s…that would work. Yes.”

Master Nu watched as they turned the idea over, considering how to approach it.

“Yes. That would make it more of a research-and-reconstruction project. A literature review with practical application.”

They gave a wry smile, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

Some of the frazzled emotion of their presence eased and a few threads of humour sparked in its wake.

“I could have saved myself from being sick from worry in the University ‘freshers yesterday.”

They flushed a little darker at that admission and Master Nu suppressed what would have been a rather unprofessional snort of amusement as she clicked the datapad back on. Ah, younglings. They never changed.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear. That amount of stress isn’t conducive to clarity of mind, I’d wager,” Master Nu soothed, deleting a few items from the list with a satisfied air, “You’re hardly the first person’s I’ve known to have an adverse reaction to academic stress. Now, I do believe this list is ready.”

Rising with more grace than her age suggested she was capable of, she smoothed the creases in her cream and straw-gold robes and led the way into the maze of columns and shelves. Tema followed a step behind in a manner that to any observers bore remarkable resemblance to a duckling following its mother – if ducklings were six-and-a-half feet tall, that is.

“Somehow I find it hard to imagine a Jedi getting sick from assignments,” they mused absentmindedly, tipping their head to catch some of the book titles they passed, “all this information – it’d be hard to fail.”

Master Nu chuckled at that, passing through an archway into a side corridor.

“I’m afraid it can happen to anyone. One of my agemates routinely emptied his stomach at the prospect of examinations – that one, in fact,” she said, gesturing to one of the bronze busts lining the hall. The metallic features gave the human man depicted a severe expression. In Master Nu’s opinion, it was rather true to life even if the beard was far to neatly sculpted.

“The poor man. Perfection was as much his vice as his virtue.”

She smiled fondly, crows’ feet crinkling with nostalgia at sharing this particular story – at sharing the humanity of someone so proud and distant both in life and artistic rendition.

Tema faltered and the markings on their head tails blanched light blue.

“Oh, uh, my condolences.”

“Hmm?” Master Nu turned to them, “Oh no, he’s not dead. He’s retired.”

“Oh,”

They blinked, nonplussed.

“This way, dear”

The pair continued on their winding path. Master Nu, frequently gesturing to some architectural feature or other with her datapad, began to explain how the Jedi Archival system worked, pausing every now and then to pull a tome from the shelves.

“It is what many have described as ‘archaic’,” she said, stepping deftly onto the fourth rung of a sliding ladder attached to one of the shelves to reach her next target, “but no one—and I mean no one—has said it is an ineffective system.

“At least not in my earshot,” she said with a laugh, pulling the volume from its place and passing it down to Tema. The rumours the initiates (and fully-grown Knights) liked to spread about Master Nu’s draconian defence of the archives may not be entirely accurate but were taken by most as a warning to avoid slandering the archive in her presence. She knew Tholme liked to stir the pot and recount tales of her lightsabre prowess to the initiates, no matter that the stories were thirty years out-of-date.

“That being said, it can take some getting used to. The Padawans and Knight Archivists are always around and willing to retrieve sources for our visitors.”

Master Nu dismounted from the ladder, blew dust from her sleeve, and turned a critical eye on to the stack of books and datapads in Tema’s arms that had been steadily growing in size. The scholar looked strong enough to take a couple more, taking into account that their bulging bag would not fit anything more inside.

“That’s the last one from this aisle.”

She clicked her tongue and marked a check on her list next to the sources they were borrowing. They were all copies, of course, or volumes easily enough to source a replacement that their loss wouldn’t be abhorrent. Nonetheless, clean records made maintaining the collection less stressful on her soul.

On that note, Master Nu was pleased to feel that Tema was no longer pouring stress into the force like an anxious firehose. And—

She stilled, tilting her head as a familiar presence tickled the edges of her senses.

“Master Nu?” Tema asked, noticing her change in manner.

“Nothing to worry about,”

She once again took the lead. Down the aisle, then one aisle to the left and as they rounded the corner Master Nu smiled at the sight before her.

A little blue and beige figure was hunched over a book resting on the floor, absentmindedly gnawing on her Padawan silka beads and completely oblivious to the world around her.

“Padawan Secura! Why am I not surprised?” Master Nu called lightly and the twi’lek girl jerked, breaking from her literature-induced reverie to scramble to her feet.

“I’m not skipping sabre class again. I swear!”

Had it been any other Padawan of Aayla’s age group, Master Nu would think that emphatic declaration of innocence meant the Padawan in question was skipping class. Skywalker came to mind as a repeat offender of that variety.

Only question was that Junior Padawan sabre classes were always on Taungsday afternoons—this afternoon—and had been since before Master Nu was a crecheling. She hummed, unconvinced.

“Knight Kenobi is doing catch-up lessons this week and he said my forms were good enough to skip.”

That explained it. It seemed only yesterday that he’d been roaming the archives as a padawan himself, tearing through histories of the planets he’d visited at Qui-Gon’s side with single-minded focus. Shame that his lineage had picked him up before her own could. He would have made a fantastic archivist despite his record of being convinced to scale the bookshelves whenever Vos got temple fever.

Well, at least Aayla’s fencing education was in good hands.

Master Nu beamed at Aayla, “Then good work padawan and, as you are free, would you like to join us in gathering sources for Scholar Induri here?”

Aayla brightened, “Absolutely!”

And then, remembering her diplomacy training, bowed to Tema, setting her Padawan beads swinging. “Nice you meet you, Scholar.”

She scooped up the book she had been reading and as she put it back in its slot, Master Nu glimpsed the title.

“Reading Bastilla Shan again are we Padawan?”

The padawan blushed, fiddled with her tunic and handily dodged the teasing with a question of her own, “What are we looking for, Master?”

“See for yourself, young one,” Master Nu passed over the datapad, pointing to the highlighted entries.

Aayla squinted at the handwriting for a second before passing the pad back and running away down the aisle, one hand skimming the shelf labels. Padawans were lovely to have around and, watching Aayla slide 4 meters down a ladder and return to them with a grin plastered across her face, Master Nu wondered if she should take another student. Or, better yet, invite her former Padawans around for tea to see if more Grandpadawans would be joining the lineage soon.

“Thank you, dear,” she gave Aayla a pat on the head, “I’ll leave you to your reading. Just don’t forget to remind your Master that he needs to renew the materials he borrowed last month.”

Then, she turned to Tema who hadn’t made so much as a peep the past five minutes, seemingly satisfied to observe the interaction.

“Let’s get these checked out so you can get to reading them.”

Back to the main desk, the archivist and scholar wandered, and a minute later there was a new name entered into the borrowing database.

“Again, thank you for everything, Master Nu” Tema said, gathering the stack back into their arms. They were a little overwhelmed but they were smiling.

“Dear, it’s no trouble. One last thing, are you planning on enlisting someone practised in martial forms in your project? Or were you aiming for a more theoretical illustration of your findings?”

Tema cast their eyes to one side and shifted their weight.

“Ideally, yes, but I have no idea where to find someone like that so…theoretical?”

They trailed off.

“Good. I’m free to ask around here, then,” Master Nu said, tugging Tema’s bag strap so it was in less immediate danger of falling of their shoulder.

“If you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to send me a message or drop by. My archive is always open,”

At that, she tucked a slip of flimsy with her com code underneath the top datapad in the stack and gave Tema a parting pat on the cheek. With hope in their step, the scholar passed back out the archive doors, into the sunlight of the hall beyond.

Content, Master Nu smiled and watched them go.

“Now,” she mused to herself, opening the roster of temple-bound jedi and beginning to peruse the list, “who to ask…”

Her thoughts turned to the bronze bust of a man whose devotion to esoteric research was only outmatched by his skill with a blade.

His legacy…

Her eyes caught on a name. Yes, that would do very nicely indeed.

In the interest of vetting the source she intended to recommend, Master Nu made a mental note to attend next week’s exhibition tournament.

#jedi #jedi culture #fic #my writing #jedi and academics #the pen and the sword #jocasta nu #repost #star wars

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bleachbleachbleach · 3 years

Photo

Fave Scenes That Probably Could’ve Been Sent to the Cutting Room Floor But I’m Glad They Weren’t -- DiamondDust Rebellion Edition

Outside of all the Detective Byakuya scenes and The Scene Where Hisagi is Cool for 12 Seconds Before Hitsugaya Writes Him Out of This Movie Entirely, I think this is my favorite scene in DiamondDust Rebellion. It’s just a little transition, but like, frame are frames, and these ones could easily have been used to explain the plot, or something. I think you get more bang for your buck with this scene, though.

Idk, I like the idea that someone can skip town in the dead of night, explicitly against the desires of his host, but still take the time to stop and give thanks to the house. At that point it feels less like habit or cultural norm and more like something that actually matters. (Er, cultural norms matter, but like, this makes it feels like it matters at an individual and personal level.) It actually matters to Hitsugaya, specifically.

** Even though he was also skipping town in the dead of night, explicitly against the desires of his host, after offering absolutely no useful information or explanation about anything whatsoever.

I want to say it’s adorable, but then I feel bad because Hitsugaya wasn’t trying to be adorable and at this point he’s been Straight Up Not Having a Good Time Bro since minute 3 of this 92-minute film, and I want to respect that. But anyway, although I don’t think of DDR as a piece of Bleach that has a lot to offer in terms of character- or worldbuilding, this scene I hold very dear. <3 All 9 seconds of it.

I also think about this scene a lot because in the scene that follows it, Hitsugaya (who is nothing like SS Arc Escape Master Hinamori, since he runs into Ichigo basically immediately) reiterates his thanks to Ichigo with 礼を言う, his first of a few he repeats this phrase over the course of this movie. I spent like, actual weeks fixated on this expression because I didn’t know what he’d said, to the extent that I could not for the life of me Google it effectively. It wasn’t until a different character in a different series said it that my brain was like ohhhhhh derp <i>Googles rei wo iu</i>.

It’s an expression of thanks/gratitude, literally to speak rei, which is some manifestation of gratitude. It’s masculine and implies a level of distance between the speaker and recipient. From the instances we’ve now heard it, it feels pretty old-school/serious/formal, though it’s not just old-timey because we’ve heard it used in the sense that you might say “I wanted to express my gratitude” in series set in the modern day as well. There’s also a video game that uses it in its dialogue, though idk what games are so idk the context here. And then of course I got really down the rabbit hole and ended up reading about orei and linguistic anthropology, which made morse sense to me than the video game, though realistically I surely know more about video games than linguistic anthropology (I spent sever real-world years completing Ocarina of Time! vs. uhhhh I once shared an office with someone who took a class in linguistic anthropology one time.) That article is talking about something specific that funnily enough isn’t Bleach, but it’s invested in the speech acts, or speech that in itself comprises an act--for instance, that of counterbalancing a debt.

All of that aside, just figuring out the basic phrase felt like such an exciting victory!! Because now it’s a phrase we can reliably hear and understand while watching other things, even when embedded in the middle of a longer sentence, etc. and that’s always such a good feeling?? (During our Bleach movie rewatch last month we discovered that Hitsugaya also uses this phrase in Fade to Black in a completely different context/in a seemingly completely different usage, so who says filler movies aren’t educational! You learn new things every day.) So anyway, yeah, I really love this scene. Lots of wild, if somewhat tangential, memories attached to it. 💖

Also would like to point out that if Ichigo really didn’t want Hitsugaya to leave, he should have simply hidden his shoes. XDDD Foolproof. (Imagine the awkwardness of having to unlace some deeply, deeply unconscious person’s sandals as they bleed out on your sheets. Weirder than shooting yourself out of a magical cannon in order to bust into the stronghold of a society of death gods? I mean, possibly??)

Also love (no, I truly do! “love” is used in a lot of ways on this website but I think it’s very endearing) that Hitsugaya also took the time to fold the blanket, even though he definitely bled all over it. Because like... did he WASH the blanket? PROBABLY NAH. DEFEATS THE PURPOSE OF HAVING FOLDED IT. KFAKF:gKGcfgvbhn

#i also think of DDR as bleach's version of The Revenant because Hitsugaya was one #'bites into the middle of live still-writing fish while standing in freezing river' scene away from being Leonardo DiCaprio #as far as the title of this post and cutting room floor stuff #boy #the amount of time we've spent talking about rust patina in the reigai arc honestly surprises even me #so you know stayed tuned for that gem #(we don't have interesting rust patina thoughts. we just talk about it a LOT)#hitsugaya toushirou #diamonddust rebellion #bleach movies #bleach language #bleach anime #bleach

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cosplayingwitch · 3 years

Text

A Study in Dirt and Stars

September 30 Day Writing Challenge

Prompt: cloud/star gazing

Part one of the five part as-yet-unnamed series. (If you think of a name, let me know in the comments!) Each part will take place a good amount of time apart from each other.

Summary Star Wars AU with fem!reader and Poe Dameron as best friends/roommates (more?) and grad students- reader in archaeology, Poe in history/library science. In this part, the two get stuck when Poe’s old truck breaks down and they have to wait for a tow truck.

Triggers none, unless you have an issue with waiting for tow trucks or dirt/dust. Oh, they do swear too.

Tags: @make-me-imagine

Other tags: light angst, two idiots in love, mutual pining, would this count as angst?

The sound of shovels clanging together startled you out of your focus. You’d been reading up on bioarchaological research methods- something so boring most would fall asleep even thinking about it. You, however, find the whole thing fascinating, enough to dedicate your life to it. That sound was the announcement by your students that the day was done. Normally you’d have let them know this, but in that focus you’d lost track of time.

You shout “Nice work today everyone! Same time tomorrow!” even though you didn’t even notice their actual work. Hey, as long as they didn’t fuck anything up enough that it can’t be fixed, no one would ever know.

The university held a field school for archaeology students every year, mostly upper level bachelors students and the occasional early masters students. Given your status as almost graduating from the masters program, you were easily chosen by your favorite professor to GA the class. Which meant, per your professor, you’d be the one in charge for day-to-day goings on. But if you succeeded at this, it’d be a great addition to your work experiences. Very helpful for getting a job in this field.

Which leads you to look around, seeing that your slightly early dismissal was taken advantage of by the students- they left the equipment strewn about the site without regard for how long it would take you to clean up after them. They’d be in for definite trouble in the morning, you’d make sure of it.

You heard the sound of truck tires coming down the dirt lane that was the only access point for your site. You look up to see your friend coming to pick you up. With your car in the shop- all that dust was not good for the engine- he was your only choice if you were to get to and from work.

“Hey there, Indiana. Discover the ark of the covenant yet?” shouted Poe from the driver's seat.

“Not yet. Did you manage to run out of books in the library yet?” you shout back.

It was always like this between you two. You’d been friends since your freshman year when you took intro to anthropology together. For him, it was a gen-ed class; for you, it was the start of your career path. He was a history major, now working on his masters, like you. He had managed to get a job in the university’s library, though he would probably describe it like he had gotten a job at the Smithsonian. But joking between the two of you was more natural than having normal conversations. One year, he decided to get you a hat for your birthday, one that was suspiciously like that worn by the movie archaeologist. From then on, he called you Indiana instead of your name as an inside joke between the two of you.

You wouldn’t ever tell him- but you kind of liked it.

“Can’t leave quite yet, Mr Librarian. The students left this place a mess, and if Professor Solo decides to pop by the site in the morning with it looking like this I’d lose all hope of ever getting a job.”

“So? I can help! As long as these aren’t some kind of state-of-the-art technology shovels.” he teased. You could tell, he just wanted to get home. And even with the both of you working together, this could take a while.

About two hours later, once everything was packed up for the night, Poe went to start the truck so you could get home to your shared apartment (who better to be roommates with than your best friend?). And it wouldn’t start. He tried again, and again. Nothing. I guess even momentary exposure to this dust could mess with an engine, you thought. Or maybe his twenty year old truck had just finally kicked the bucket. You’d teased him about that truck for a while now, always joking about it someday just giving up and leaving him stranded somewhere.

Of course, you’d always imagine yourself as coming to his rescue, not being stranded with him.

“I guess you were right about it up and dying someday.” admitted Poe. “So are we walking or what?”

“It is getting dark, but it will take forever to walk back to the university. We could call a tow truck? Sit around waiting until it gets here?” you suggest. “It gets so beautiful out here. Without as much light pollution, the stars really shine bright.”

Poe was never one to turn down an activity that involved astronomy. That was his ‘secret’ hobby. He told you once that his dream when he was a child was to travel among the stars, but with that not accessible to him, the best he could do was study those who made the advancements in astronomy.

The tow truck would take at least an hour, the lady from the dispatch center told you. It was the bad luck of location and calling on a busy night. You didn’t mind, it was more time to spend with your best friend.

“It’d probably be more comfortable to lay in the back than in the dirt.” suggested Poe. You knew that wasn’t the only reason he suggested it. He also hated getting dirty, so the idea of laying directly in recently disturbed dirt had to be unthinkable to him. (This was another thing you teased him about often.) However, this time he did have a slight point. If anything, it would probably stretch your back out more than the ground could.

With both of you perched on the end of the truck bed, you watched the stars together. Poe pointed out the various constellations. Even though you knew most of them already, you let him continue because you knew how happy it made him. Not much of a sacrifice to keep your best friend/roommate, you thought. You zoned out while he started rattling off facts about famous astronomers. He’d be the one to know all this- astronomy+history would always mean Poe would know about it.

You thought about how nice this was. The two of you laying back, talking, nowhere to be until the morning. You could get used to this.

Every so often, you’d chime in with a fact about the mythology behind the names of the constellation. Poe assumed you knew these from your anthropology classes during your undergrad. Truth was, you’d learned them for him. That way you had something to add to the conversation when he was discussing astronomy, which was frequently.

It was inevitable that the tow truck did eventually show up, and your night of stargazing would end. It never seemed like two hours had gone by with just you and Poe laying there together. And just like that, your evening together was over.

When you eventually get back to your apartment, it’s past midnight and all you want to do is take a shower to get all the dust, dirt, and sweat off of you from that hell of a day you had yesterday. “Maybe I’ll call Professor Solo in the morning, see if he can take over for the day.” You think. After all, shouldn’t he be teaching his own class?

And maybe, if by some miracle your car was ready to be picked up before noon, you could return the favor by driving your boyfriend best friend to work.

You stop yourself in your tracks. God. Did I just think what I thought I did?

Yeah. After a day like that, your brain had to be at least a little scrambled, right?

At least you didn’t say it out loud. Poe would never stop teasing you about that.

When the two of you got home after midnight, Poe was beyond exhausted. Luckily, he wasn’t scheduled to work until after noon tomorrow. Or, with it being after midnight, would that be today?

Whatever. I just need sleep, Poe thought.

But he couldn’t sleep that night. (Morning? Every time Poe thought about that it made his head hurt.) He was too wrapped up in thinking about the night you just spent stargazing together. Just laying there, talking, sharing space facts and constellation myths.

He just couldn’t get past the relationship the two of you had. No pressure, no one constantly asking when they’d get together already. Just two grad students, hanging out and having a good time together.

Maybe, Poe thought, he could even be glad his car broke down while picking up his girlfriend best friend from work.

Wait, Poe though. Not my girlfriend, my best friend. I’m not ruining our friendship because I had one thought about her that way. Besides, he continued, who knows if she’d even like me that way.

Poe did fall asleep a little while after that, but not before sending in a request to his boss for a sick day. There was no way he’d get enough sleep to go to work tomorrow.

Author Note- I appreciate any comments/likes/reblogs if you would! Also, this is my first fan fiction published on Tumblr, so please be nice (and leave constructive criticism if you have any). I’ll probably also post this to Archive of Our Own at some point, but for now it’s only on Tumblr.

I have to say, I do enjoy writing for my two idiots here. Next chapter/part will be published on 9/10, so come back for that if you like this. And if you really like this, message me to be tagged in the next part.

#meras30daywritingchallenge #star wars au #star wars fan fiction #Poe Dameron #fan fiction writing #writing challenge #still new to this #these two are idiots #angst?#i dont know

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sarita-daniele · 3 years

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Hi, angel! Hope you're doing alright 💓 (hola ángel! También hablo español :) ) I was wondering if you could give some advices in starting out in an arts career?

Hola amigx, ¡perdón que nunca vi tu mensajito! I’m not on my Tumblr very often and definitely forget to check my messages. Luckily my favorite causita @luthienne told me you’d messaged me!

I don’t know what arts discipline you’re in, so feel free to let me know if the advice I have doesn’t apply to you (and ignore it!). There are so many ways to build an arts career, but I’m happy to share some things I’ve learned through trial and error along the way.

(Outrageously long post below break!)

Educate yourself in arts technique, but also study widely.

Techniques are important in art, but only as important as the concepts behind them. When I was younger, I wowed people by drawing near-photographic portraits, but that technical talent and skill alone couldn’t make me a professional artist. Memorable artwork has not just a how, but a why. It isn’t just the object but the story behind the object, and the meaning of the object in the world. Art is about what interests you, what makes you think, what you most value and want to change in this world. So as you build an arts career, learn the techniques behind drawing, woodworking, casting, writing, music-making, whatever your discipline is, but take time, if you can, to also study history, sociology, anthropology, ecology, linguistics, politics, or whatever else you’re drawn to conceptually. Study as widely as you can.

The studio art program I went through (a public university in the US) was very technique-forward; we signed up for classes according to technique, like printmaking or small metals, learned those techniques, completed technique-based assignments. Then I did a one-term exchange at arts university in the UK that was very concept-forward. We had no technical courses, just exhibition deadlines, and what mattered in critique was the concept. Both of these schools had their strengths and flaws, but what I learned was that, to be a practicing artist, I needed both technique and concepts that I genuinely cared about and could stand behind. If I could go back and change anything, I would probably take fewer studio courses (after graduating, I couldn’t afford access to a wood shop, metal shop, or expensive casting materials, and lost many of those skills) and more courses in sociology, Latin American studies, linguistics, ecology, anthropology, etc., because my artwork today centers on social justice, racial justice, Latinx stories and histories, educational access and justice, the politics of language, and community ethics.

And please know that whenever I talk about seeking an education, I’m not talking solely about institutional spaces. College career tracks in the arts (BFA, MFA, etc., much less high-cost conservatory programs) are not accessible to everyone and aren’t the only way to establish an arts career. You can study technique and learn about the world using any educational space accessible to you: nonprofits that offer programming in your community, online resources, Continuing Education programs. And of course, self-education: read as much as you possibly can!

Know the value of your story.

I come from a Cuban/Peruvian family and grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA. My father’s family fled political violence surrounding the Cuban Revolution and came to the U.S. when he was a teenager. My mother was born in Brooklyn to Peruvian parents on work visas and moved back to Lima in her childhood. I grew up with these two cultures present and deeply embedded in our household, in our language, our food, our sense of humor, our sense of history. And yet, some residual assimilation trauma still affected me. I drifted towards the most American things, the whitest things, English authors and Irish music, in part because I enjoyed them but also because those were the things I saw valued in society. I wanted to fit in, wanted to be unique but not different, wanted to prove that I could navigate all spaces. The reality of marginalized identities in America is that our country tells us our identities are only valuable when they can be seen as exotic, while still kept inferior to the dominant, white American narrative (note that this “us” is a general statement, not meant to make assumptions about how you identify or what country you live in).

But as an artist, all I have is my story, and who I am. I wasn’t willing to look at it directly. For years, I avoided doing so. It turns out, though, that I couldn’t actually begin my career until I reckoned with myself and learned to value everything about myself. To fully acknowledge my story, my history, my cultural reality, my sense of language, and my privileges. So I encourage young artists to look always inward, to ask questions about themselves, their families, and what made them who they are.

The reason for doing this is to understand the source from which you make art. Sometimes, however, for marginalized artists, the world warps this introspection into a trap, pigeonholing us into making art only “about” our identities, because that work is capital-I-Important to white audiences who want to tokenize our traumas. This is the white lens, and if anything, I try to understand myself as deeply as I can so that I can make art consciously for my community, not for that assumed white audience.

Know that your career doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s, or like anything you’ve envisioned up to this point.

As a high schooler I imagined that a life in the arts meant me in a studio, drawing and making, selling my work, getting exhibitions near and far, and gaining recognition. It was a solitary vision, one with a long history in the arts, rooted in the idea of individual genius. My career ended up completely different. Today, my arts projects involve teaching, collaborating, collecting interviews and oral histories, and creating public installations, rarely in traditional galleries or museums.

As you work towards an arts career, figure out what does and doesn’t work for you: the kind of art you like and don’t like, the kinds of spaces that feel comfortable and those that don’t. I always thought I wanted to be part of traditional galleries, so I got a job working in a high-end art gallery in Boston during my grad program. Once in that space, however— even though I found the space calming and the work beautiful— I realized that there was something that I deeply disliked about the commodified art world. I didn’t like that we were selling art for over $10,000, that our exhibitions were geared exclusively towards collectors and wealthy art-buyers. The work was often technically masterful, but didn’t move or connect with me on a deeper level, and I realized that was because it wasn’t creating any change in the world. I liked work that shifted the needle, that made the world more inclusive and equitable, that centered marginalized stories (that gallery represented 90% white artists). I liked artwork that people made together, which drew me to collaborative art. I liked artwork that was accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy, which drew me to public art. I liked art exhibited in non-institutional spaces, which led me to community spaces. Since I was in an MFA for Creative Writing, I liked interdisciplinary art that engaged performance, technology, text, that was participatory and not just a 2D or 3D object. Figuring out all of these things led me to apply to my first major arts job: as a teaching artist in a community nonprofit that made art for social change in collaboration with local youth, in a predominantly Latinx neighborhood.

My career path didn’t look like anything I expected, but I love it. The bulk of my income comes from teaching creative writing and art classes for nonprofits, working as a core member of a public arts nonprofit, and freelance consulting for book manuscripts. I love being an educator and consider it part of my creative practice. I love that I’m constantly collaborating with and talking to other artists. I love working with books and public art every day. I publish poetry, fiction, and literary translations, and exhibit artwork I’ve created in the studio and through funded opportunities.

Fellow artists tell me often that I’m lucky, that my “day jobs” are all within the arts. But there are downsides to the way I’ve chosen to structure my career. I’m constantly balancing many projects, and my income is unstable. It’s difficult to save and plan towards the future,. I get by, but financial instability isn’t an option for many artists with families and dependents, with debts, medical expenses, and just isn’t the preferred lifestyle for a lot of people. I know artists who worked office jobs for years to support their practice and gain financial stability. I know artists who had entire careers as lawyers or accountants before becoming artists full time. I know artists who teach in public schools or work as substitute teachers. I know artists who are business owners and artists who work in policy and politics. I know artists who work in framing stores and shipping warehouses while being represented by galleries. These are all arts careers, and I admire every one of them. So as you build your career, don’t feel like it has to look like anyone’s else’s, like there’s anything you “should” be doing. Focus on the kind of artwork you want to make and what kind of work-life balance is best for you, then structure your career around that as best you can.

Any job you use to support yourself can connect to an arts career!

I get asked often by young people looking for jobs what kinds of jobs will best propel them towards an arts career. I believe that any kind of job can connect to and support an arts career, and I know that some suggestions out there in the arts world (like “get an unpaid internship at an art gallery!” or “become a studio apprentice to a well-known artist!”) assume a certain amount of privilege. So I want to break down how different kinds of jobs can connect to your art career:

1) Jobs that allow for the flexibility and mental capacity to create. My friends who work restaurant jobs while going to auditions fall into this category. Who work as bartenders in evening so that they can be in the studio by day. Who dog-walk or babysit or nanny because the timing and flexibility allows for arts opportunities. My friends who are Lyft drivers or work in deliveries. These are often jobs outside of a creative field, but they can be beneficial because they don’t drain your creative batteries, so to speak. You still have your creative brain fully charged, and some jobs (like dog-walking) even allow for good mental processing (you can think through creative problems). As long as the job doesn’t drain you to the point where you have no energy at all, these kinds of jobs can be great because they allow time and space for your creative work.

2) Jobs that place you in arts spaces, arts adjacent spaces, or spaces where you can learn about material/technique. My sculptor friends who work in hardware stores, quarries, foundries, or in construction. My printmaker friend who interned with graphic designers. My writer friends who work in bookstores and libraries, artists who work in art supply stores. My friend who worked with her dad’s painting company and got to improve her precision as a painter, which she then took back to the canvas. My teen students who get paid to work on murals or get stipend payments for making art at the nonprofit I work for. My filmmaker friends who worked on film crews. Friends who worked as theater ushers, in ticket sales, or as janitorial staff at museums. All of these jobs kept these artists adjacent to their artwork, whether through access to tools, materials, supplies, or books, through networking and conversations with other artists, or through skillsets that could enhance their art.

3) Jobs that deeply engage another interest of yours, that bring you joy or can influence your work in other ways. If there’s a job that has nothing to do with your art but that you would love, do it! First, because I believe that the things we’re passionate about get integrated into our art, and second, because any job that gives you peace of mind and joy creates a positive base from which you can create. My friend who worked at a stable because she got to be around horses. My friends who worked at gyms or coaching sports because it kept them active. My friend who worked in a bike repair shop because he was obsessed with biking. An artist I knew who worked at the children’s science museum because she loved being around kids and planetariums. An artist who worked at a mineral store because rocks made her happy. If you have the opportunity, work doing things you like without worrying about whether it directly feeds your arts career.

Because believe it or not, all jobs you work can intersect in some way with your art. You’re creative— you find those connections! A Nobel-Prize winning poet helped his dad on the potato farm and wrote his best-known poem about it. Successful novelists have written about their time working in hair salons and convenience stores. A great printmaker I know who worked in a flower shop began weaving botanical forms and plant knowledge into her designs. The key in an arts career is to see all your experiences as valuable, to find ways that they can influence your art, and to be constantly thinking about and observing the world around you.

As for me, I worked as a tennis instructor, a tennis court site supervisor, an academic advisor, an art gallery intern, and a coffee shop barista before and during my work in the arts!

Let go of objective measures of what it means to be good.

I was always an academic overachiever. Top of my class, merit scholarships, science fair awards, AP credit overload, the whole thing. On the one hand, I grew up in a house where education was valued and celebrated, and my parents emphasized the importance of doing my best in school— not getting good grades, but working hard, doing my personal best, and reading and learning all I could. I loved school. I loved academics. And I’m not saying this to brag, but to lay the groundwork for something I struggled with in the arts.

It is jarring to be an academic overachiever and enter an arts career. I thrived off of objective value systems: study, work hard, get an A. If I worked hard and learned what I was supposed to learn, I earned recognition, validation, and opportunity.

And then I entered the arts. The arts are entirely subjective. We hear it over and over— great artists get rejected hundreds of times, certain art forms require cutthroat competition, etc. —but it’s hard to understand the subjectivity of the art world (and the entrenched discrimination and commercial interests that affect who gets opportunities and who doesn’t) until you’re trying to live as an artist. That you can work hard on something, give all of your time and physical effort and mental and emotional energy to it, only to have it rejected. That what you think is good isn’t what another person thinks is good. That there is a magical alchemy in the act of creation that can’t be taught, or learned, but must be felt, and that you can be working to find that light while actively others try to extinguish it. That you can be good and work hard, yet still not get chosen for the awards, the exhibitions, the publications. If you chased being “the best” your whole life, you’re now in a world where there is no “best”, where greatness is subjective, where the idea of competitive greatness is actually detrimental to artists supporting each other, and where work that sells or connects to white, cishetero traditions is still the most valued.

After struggling with this for a long time, I came to the conclusion that the most important thing to me now is making the art I want to make, the art only I can make, whether or not it fits what arts industries are looking for or what’s going to win awards. If I make art I believe in from a healthy mental and emotional place, doors will open, even if they aren’t the doors I expected. So try to let go of any sense that worth comes from external validation. Learn to accept critical feedback when it is given kindly, thoughtfully, and constructively. Surround yourself with friends and artists who who can talk to about your work, who build up your work and help you think through it rather than cutting you down. Don’t believe anyone in the arts world who thinks they get to be the arbiters of what’s “good” and who has “what it takes”. People have probably said things like that to the artists you most admire, and if they’d listened, you wouldn’t have experienced art that changed your life.

Work to gain skills in basic business, marketing, and finances for artists.

Many artists (at least where I am in the U.S.) go through an entire arts education without receiving resources or training in the financial side of the arts world. Your arts career will likely involve some degree of self-promotion and marketing, creating project budgets and grant proposals, artist statements and bios, sorting out taxes, and other economic elements. I can’t speak to other countries, but for artists in the U.S., taxes can be extremely complex. If you’re awarded a stipend, grant, fellowship, or employed for gigs or one-time projects, you’ll likely be taxed as an independent contractor and have to deduct your own taxes. Through residencies and exhibitions, you may pull income in multiple states and countries, which can also affect taxation. If you’re an artist who doesn’t have access to resources about finance and taxation in your arts program or who doesn’t independently have expertise in those fields, I recommend finding ways to educate yourself early: online resources, low cost courses, or even just taking your financially-savvy friends out for a coffee!

ANYWAY SORRY FOR THE LONG POST I HOPE SOMETHING IN THIS DIATRIBE WAS HELPFUL I HOPE THERE WEREN’T TOO MANY TYPOS AND I hope you have the most wonderful, fulfilling arts career! <3

#resources #writing life #arts life #arts career #visual art #studio art program #mfa #bfa #arts education #i have no chill when you ask me questions like this #long post

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sirphillipcranestanaccount · 3 years

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Okay, I have questions about your Lost & Found Universe (I actually have a lot but I don’t want to annoy you)

Is Eloise the only one to entertain grad school?

Did they all go to university? where and what did they study?

How did Pen, El and Edwina get in the situation where they live together?

(I’m really sorry if any of this is mentioned in the story, but I actually have a terrible memory and second guess myself half the time wondering if I’ve imagined it or if it’s real lol)

I was so excited to get home and answer this ask! Also, you could never annoy me! (Especially not when I am begging for questions lol).

This got super long so I put it under the cut.

Regarding College, I haven’t mentioned it in the story, but I did do a little ramble about it months ago. I am going to repeat it though because 1. I am a narcissist and love repeating myself and 2. Because I have put more thought into it since then and want to add to it. So here goes:

Bridgertons

Anthony got his MFA in English at Columbia and later his MBA at NYU and is currently the Publisher and Editorial Director at Bridgerton Press (the independent publisher founded by Edmund’s father in the 50′s)

Benedict attended the Art Student’s League of New York, so he doesn’t have a “degree” per se, but he wanted to grow as an artist the same way the likes of Pollack and Rothko did. He is now a painter of significant renown, his preferred medium being oils, his preferred styles being impressionism and expressionism. He does most of his work in his studio in the Adirondacks but often comes to the city to do business with galleries

Colin double-majored and got his bachelors in journalism and anthropology at Boston University and has spent the years leading up to our story globe-trotting Anthony Bourdain style for a variety of publications

Daphne followed in Colin’s footsteps and got a bachelors degree in journalism at Boston University and is now a staff writer at The Atlantic

Eloise got her bachelor’s in English at NYU and spent a couple of years as a copy editor at Bridgerton Press, she soon decided that she would much prefer to create rather than edit, so she decided to get her masters

Francesca got her bachelors in Fiber Science and Apparel Design at Cornell University (where she met a Canadian business student named John Stirling) and has been running her own fashion label out of Toronto and NYC

Gregory got his bachelors in marketing from NYU and has been “freelancing” (read: living off of his trust fund and making poor decisions)

Hyacinth is majoring in linguistics at Columbia and wants to be a literary translator.

Non-Bridgertons

Phillip is getting his Ph.D. in Biology, doing his dissertation on the genetic engineering of peas. He got his B.S. in Botany at Connecticut College, where he played hockey (much to the chagrin of his father who wanted him to play D1 hockey at Boston College)

Penelope got her bachelor’s in journalism at NYU and spent a year and a half getting coffee for her editors at the New York Post (a job she despised). So she and Eloise decided together that they’d both go back for their master’s degrees. Penelope is pursuing her master’s in Cultural Reporting and Criticism.

Edwina got her bachelor's at NYU in Classics and Art History (With Emphasis on Archaeology) and is getting her master's in Classics. She wants to be a museum curator.

Kate got her Bachelor’s in Marketing and her MBA from Fordham University and met Anthony when she got hired as marketing manager for Bridgerton Press

Simon got his bachelor’s in mathematics at Columbia (where he and Anthony were roommates) and went on to get his master’s in actuarial science. He now works as a consultant in Boston.

As for Eloise, Penelope, and Edwina living together, Eloise and Penelope grew up in the same building and had been best friends since they could remember. When Anthony got together with Kate, Edwina, Eloise, and Penelope became fast friends and decided to live together during undergrad!

Hope you enjoyed my rambles!!!

#lost and found #bridgerton modern au #emily tries to write

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vanityloves · 3 years

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anyways im gonna listen to/read the fuckin...rise of the ogre shit bc ive been putting it off 🪓🥴 im gonna put stuff under the cut bc im gonna be TALKING n dont wanna make a new post everytime

piss

ok he performed for 2 pounds 50. which is basically $3 today i- well it was absolutely a power play on his father behalf that also had the promise of money so.

also lol he said Rejection fueled my ambitions which, yknow,, i already knew but it still hurts and i will continue to talk ab it xoxo

AH HELP. "...if ebay had been invented at the time he would've sold me online there and then,"

"man hands on misery to man, yknow"

THEN PROCEEDS TO CONNECT IT TO MUSIC/HIS CAREER. this man said :) the one thing i truly have a passion for. the one thing i fucking like.

oh yeah. bullied by students AND teachers.

oh god hes 42ish during this interview? ok.

the fuckin school bully saying he wouldve acted differently if he knew what hed become

getting called "faceache", then proceeds to call 2d that. jfc he really does just repeat what everyone says. really "treating others how i was treated/how they treat me"

maybe thats why? hes kinder to fans? bc :] you support me and like me so, ok ill return that energy

MURDOC GETTING HIS ASS BEAT N PARADING HOME LIKE WELL I WON BC 'I PISSED YOU OFF' SJDJD

a real rowdy boy. absolute nasty boy. fraud and arson... shooting ppls windows with his air pistols

black sabbath being a huge inspiration? fucking absolutely.

became a satanist n shit at age 16? "it fitted me like a glove" "heavy metal and devil worshipping became my favorite past times" ajsj funny that ppl in trying times often seek religion or following of some sort

heavy metal being his favorite, n loving the clash, while hannibals was more punk based

hannibal breaking murdocs nose for the 2nd and 3rd time for playing his music on hannibals turntable

he doesnt sound that bitter? ab hannibal? he doesnt sound incredibly fond but he talks ab how he got him into a lot of music. so, i imagine they we're a bit closer than i thought?

international baccalaureate in antisocial? anthropology?

MURDOC IS ACTUALLY SMART HE WAS JUST. NOT INTERESTED IN THE SUBJECTS? I GUESS? (also,,, he literally Built cyborg noodle and i think he had a PhD too lol. but its always nice to hear hes actually...yknow, interested or good at other things)

alright but murdoc having a fascination w/ other cultures - or at least some interests, that lead him to actually study the damn subject and "pass with flying colors"

'fuck college though. im gonna be a rockstar'

he sold his soul at 18ish? whenever the fuck he got kicked out but college was mentioned so my brain goes to 18ish idk

he lived with his father still and paid rent via low paying jobs one including 'part time dressing as santa'

help he was ab to take a Personal Job for quick cash and uhh well, "still made me call him sir though" he really said 20 dollars is 20 dollars, huh "that story was totally true"

alright, 1997,,,

2d stuff

loves zombie stuff? thats really cute, and is freaked out by the way they move. god he rambles

both he and murdoc are horses in the chinese zodiac

[[jfc ok if the official shit compares them a lot i understand why ppl ship them but Dont. its a narrative foil and that doesnt always mean Romance jfc.]]

SUMTHINK.

truly... a lil stinker. super cute bouncing baby and a "bit thick" which is stull so endearing to me. hes just a happy man!

excitable 10 year old and would dance around his room

jfc the fact he has normal/caring parents. i kinda forget how opposite hes supposed to be from murdoc but i think thats another thing jsjsysg (murdoc said why isnt my tragic story making me famous why does he get to be the Star. no wonder he acts like a loon)

i still dont get how gettin bonked by a tree branch made him go bald and also turn his hair blue

big tiddy nurse mommy,,,

went to the same school as The Cure and got decent grades despite hittin the noggin quite hard. WANTED TO BE A STORM CHASER... OMG??

oh thats really cute, hed bond with his dad by building keyboards toegther 🥺💕

messed around with paints and graffiti? artistic king

MURDOC AGAIN: QHDJ 'VILLANOUS' GANG HELP

oh yeah d day...new instruments, new band, new singer - and 'had to be the best or no dice' and absolutely CONFIDENT that his songs were bangers ajsjd

but on that same note, had absolute faith (or desperate) in 2d which i love

ransacked the fucking music shop jdjdj and 2d said he was Just Standing There behind the counter the whole shift hdhdh

"thats when your eye came out, yeah" "yeah!-" HELP WHY DOES HE SOUND SO HAPPY AB IT ?? yes he said ut hurt but he sounds...ok

jfc murdoc ragdolling this poor mf around. dunking him and slapping him around. actually? so incredibly terrible and abusive and i hate him for that 🔫 im sorry 2d stans. we dont condone that behavior here ong.

how and why the FUCK did 2d's parents allow that fucker near their child after that i??? help. wtf. his moms a nurse why didnt she just have murdoc sit in plain view of other people. god damn.

2d flying out the window n hitting the curb "whoops"

"just two black holes...[ah] it looked great...a blue hair, blacked eyed GOD- the girls would go wild-" "pretty boy looks" ???? HELP. HE DOESNT GO LIGHT ON THE COMPLIMENTS, HUH

RUSS TIME

oh yeah, he straight up kiddnapped this man help. idk how he managed that, russ is a Big Man??

AND MURDOCS MUSIC WAS SO FUCKING SEXY GOOD that russel said hm alright ill stay, :] out ifbhis owm free will im screaming.

"oh this is one of them febreeze commercials" "uh . yeah sure. *murdoc turning on his Sick Tunes*" but that either means? it was just his guitar playing the convinced russ? unless he and 2d recorded sumn?

"2d was the looks, murdoc the brains, then russel truly was the heart"

'while 2d and murdoc liked music, this man was a MUSICIAN' god fucking bless this book holy shit ny man russ getting some respect. he said back hurts from carrying this band.

murdoc basically heard this guy had big trauma that gave him So Many Skills n said "thats what i want" ok idk thats actually really? inch rest ting to me. seems that murdocs fine handing out compliments but i guess that where his charisma really helps out yeah?

"he was going to be in my band whether he liked it or not" ...murdoc-

HELP. 2D IS LIKE BRO GO ON IM LISTENING 🥺 despite hearing the story 50-60 times and murdoc said fuck off you lil shit.

ok irrelevant but i love his voice! its super comforting n nice to listen to 🥺

HELP MURDOCS SO BITTER. "NOTHING THAT HAPPENS TO US IS NORMAL" WELL YEAH. THIS IS TRAUMA CENTRAL.

idk how/why he sucked up all his friends souls though ... how are they all possessing the same person. they said "its my turn on The Russ"

DELL IS HIS ACTUAL, LITERAL SOULMATE...KING...😭

went to a private school,,, and was already possessed? and the thing where he gets bigger and smaller is a reoccurring thing?

was in a coma for 4 years?

hiphop machine...time and history...the ultimate set i guess.

his knowledge was infinite and hes a "Renaissance man" hes so fucking smart our king. jack of all trades but a master of drums. he said i know im good and what of it

PAULA.

HELP. HE RMBRS THE STALL: CUBICAL NUMBER 3 🥴 IF I DO RECALL 🤤

yes russel our king. fuck up his nose 5 more times. probably stunted his growth too. he shrunk after russ gave him a wallop im sure

why dies paula sound like tracer overwatch

also only dated 2d for 2 months before joining the band?

HELP SHE REALLY WAS THE FIRST MURDOC FUCKER: "but when i saw murdoc with his thick greasy hair, green teeth and yellow skin i thought 'oh this is the ine for me!'" "OH HES SUCH A DANDY-" HELP ME IM HQJDHD

sick in the head...like i want to hurt people help girl. shes fucking Crazy. but she rly said damn i didnt hear back from him again 😭 and my purse is gone JSHHD

MURDOC: SHE WAS DEPRESSINGLY UGLY *still fucked her*

NOODLE TIME

"small japanese person!"

2d: we werent gorillaz until noodle arrived!

im dying the reason he chose gorillaz. 'swinging through the jungle baring my ass'

noodle really said "im just happy to be here" and she balanced everyone out 😭 "she gave off pure love and the fact that she could laugh at murdoc REALLY helped too" RUSS... IS BABY

JFC MURDOCS SO FUCKING CONFIDENT IN THIS BAND IM LIVING FOR THAT. HE SAID YOU WANT US SO BAD IT MAKES YOU LOOK STUPID. THE CHARISMA

2d rambling ab some girl he met and "ssSs" "whats the s stand for hawhaw" "i dont know!".

THE RECORD LABEL GUY.

one song is all it took i ❤ good for them

just murdoc talking ab the party that they threw for thier deal and saying "you dont know how much of a dick i felt like [when carrying one of those huge checks]" like oh thats whatll make you a dick? alright.

A FOOD FIGHT THAT WENT SO HARD THAT IT KNOCKED 2DS TONSILS OUT? WHAT THE FUCK

ahshdj damon and murdoc not getting along bc of Rival Band One Uppery + damon calling murdocs cuban heels crap since ge wore steel ones with gold spurs.

MURDOC FEELIN EMBARRASSED BC HES 'QUITE PROUD OF HIS SHOES'

but the band and damon getting over music and their ambitions and became a "paternal figure"

HELP MURDOC SAID AWIOGA @ RACHEL WHICH MADE HER THROW HER DRINK IN HIS FACE AND SPLIT FROM 2D. kinda sad actually, she said i still like 2d but murdoc kinda ruined it by trying to get it in with me, it put a strain in our relationship :/ oh god murdocs That Dude

nov 31 1998: started recording :]

40 tracks that got cut down to 15 holy shit

KONG STUDIOS 🤲

hooking up cameras in every room ejdjsu

webby artist of the year in 2006? holy shit

noodle learning ab kong studios omfg

JFC. YES I KNEW KONG WAS BUILT ON/IN A CEMETERY BUT I DIDNT KNOW PPL FOR THE FUCKING PLAGUE WHERE THROWN THERE HDJD

built in 1739?

the ghost of the first owners ghost still roams around in the kitchen in the early hours and moans 'aaa glass of water'

theres some rotting bullshit near the studios and in the summer its fucking TERRIBLE

the former owners were a biker gang, and they all died in a fire

murdoc said this place has bad vibes. i want it.

grim weather

the building feels impossible to escape from huHgg

#rip lol i feel annoying but my blog my rights ig #brainworm ivy #gorillaz rambles

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thedreadvampy · 4 years

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So this was sent to me by @atiredpan weeks ago when the White Jon conversation was very live and I'm posting it (belatedly) with their blessing (they didn't want to put it up publicly and have it seem like an attack which I really very much appreciate but wouldn't have minded) and I percolated for a few days and then got very busy for a few weeks. Response follows.

So I feel weird about how I'm responding to this stuff, I'm launching rapidly into taking about/explaining my own experience in a way I'm worried maybe comes across as a direct comparison. It kind of feels like I'm talking in a way that's like brushing off your experience and saying OK BUT HERE'S WHY I'M RIGHT and that's not what I'm trying to do, it's just that there's not much I can usefully add to what you've said - you know your experience better than I do, and I'm not gonna go around trying to read into it or reexplain it. So I'm going to talk about where I am/have been coming from, but not with the intention of countering your points, all of which I think really resonate.

First off, the post where I was like "Jon is white and if you disagree you're Wrong" was, unreservedly, just a shitty post and I'm not suprised it upset a lot of people. I'm really very sorry about that, it was thoughtlessly written and pretty stupidly posted.

I totally get that my whiteness has fed into how I hced Jon (and as I think I've said before I saw Jon a certain way well before I engaged with any fanworks, just as you did). There's a lot of reasons I imagined Jon as white from pretty early on, a non-negligible one of which was like...That's Jonny. This is a podcast by Jonny, about a character with the same name and mannerisms as Jonny, and Jonny is extremely white. It would have felt weird, when I was listening to TMA as a Friend Podcast, to stick a brown face onto what at least appeared at the time to basically be a self-insert character of my white friend. Now that's a really personal thing informed less by the story and more by the circumstances under which I've interacted with it, but it certainly laid a baseline. I didn't really have a clear mental picture of Jon (or most of the characters) for a looooooong time (for an artist I'm really not a very visual thinker) but I had a few sort of mental sketches (Jon is short white balding and awkward, Martin is tall biracial and scruffy Basira is fat and somali Melanie is my friend from work etc) which I developed a long time before I encountered fanworks.

I saw the alienation you mentioned and I connected it to class and gender, not race, because I’ve met a lot of cis men, white and otherwise, who interpolate trauma, class insecurity, insecurity about their own abilities, and so on into withdrawal, denial and snappiness. So for me I had an interpretation of that element of his personality which was pretty much race-neutral, and then I had these existing cues leading me to assuming he was white (largely that Jonny is white, but also wee stuff in the story that...it’s not like anything substantial enough to remember, let alone justify, but there were certainly interactions that pinged whiteness for me personally)

There are actually iirc a few throwaway references to Jon being promoted above more qualified candidates throughout (or at least I thought I knew that before s5), but the time I decided I thought White Jon was an obvious conclusion was of course the conversation where Sasha expresses frustration about it. and the context of that conclusion (at least as far as I can see) wasn't "people of colour can only exist in subservient positions/defined by oppression" but was informed by two things that were going on with my life around the time that episode aired

I had been having several conversations with friends of mine (and largely friends of Jonny's) who work in London in the museums/archiving sector and who are the only women of colour in whole departments or even whole museums, and who experience so little career mobility compared to their less-qualified white counterparts (we're talking about women graduating top of their class at Oxbridge with anthropology or library science masters and stellar original research, with a decade or more of impeccable work experience and acting up, being left in internship and low-grade positions, while white men who "fit the culture" but have 0 museums experience sail into upper management positions and then stay there until they retire). So I'd come almost directly from these conversations into what to me sounded like exactly the same gripe in TMA.

I'd been at that point working for about a year and a half on co-coordinating the anti-oppression committee in my workplace, which was a very Good Progressive Activist Charity with Good Lefty Principles, and over the course of experience sharing and discussions both with colleagues of colour and along lines of wealth, disability, class etc, I was very much confronted with the realisation of how much 'being adequately qualified' meant different things for middle-class good-university white men vs much more highly skilled and hardworking women of colour or people of different class and wealth backgrounds. Obviously I'd known that before in principle, but not really having been in Salaried Workplaces (as opposed to like. service and retail hourlies) I hadn’t got so up close and personal with it. So that was also very fresh in my mind, this like...big substantial experience of how Good, Well-Meaning, Caring, Thoughtful, Woke white men just........did not need to think about this. at all. and were startled and discomforted to face it. and that this was also true of most white middle-class women. and these conversations were really carved down the middle between white middle-class European women saying ‘this is such a surprise when we have such an equitable hiring policy and diverse staff, that there’s this gender gap’ and women of colour in the room wearily saying ‘yeah, there’s a gender gap, there’s always a gender gap and it is always a racialised gender gap’ so yeah I was definitely thinking about the intersection between being passed over at work because of gender and because of race.

The point about Tim is interesting because I think for me what’s getting lost is that I don’t think Jon is entitled as like...a Character Trait. He’s not like...Toxic Masculinity Man. He is very anxious about boundaries and about his own capacity to do harm. But it has to be pointed out to him where he’s doing harm. He doesn’t notice where he’s been unfairly advantaged, and that’s to me much more reflective of most people’s relationship to white or male entitlement.

As I say, that exchange with Tim and Sasha cemented the Jon Is White hc in my head specifically because it was so reflective of conversations I had had with women of colour working in similar workplaces, about white men, usually about white men they generally liked or at least didn’t have beef with beyond their unfair advantages.

It seems odd to me to frame ‘bitching about your boss on your friend’s behalf to make her feel better’ as more similar to white entitlement/white privilege than any of that tbh? That’s just...being friends with someone?

Anyway I recognise that it’s not white entitlement to accept a job. Obviously it’s not, it’s just sensible under the circumstances, you get lucky and you grab it. For me my sense of Jon as white-because-of-this is not “he took a job he shouldn’t have taken,” it’s more about his obliviousness to the impact he has on others, and also primarily how people react to him. The interaction between Sasha and Tim is saturated with the of course it would be him I mentioned above, but even before that he walks through the world not expecting to have to think about anything but his conscious decisions, and he’s caught aback when people see him as out of place or as having power above his station.

I think it’s impossible to extricate ‘this is where my head was at’ from that interpretation, and also like obviously my own whiteness is a big factor. And not just my own personal whiteness but the place I grew up (which was 98.3% white) and the world which reflects back whiteness. So this is in no way intended as a bolshy This Is The Correct Headcanon the way my Bad Post was bc examining it I’m like...yeah I mean this is about how I personally interpreted this based on where I was at at the time. But I do feel like there’s some communication gap in what it is about this unqualified promotion thing that pinged me - it’s not that All Bosses Must Be White And All Brown People Must Be Downtrod, it’s something quite specific about the tone and tenor of the interactions around the getting-a-job.

But also? Idk. Kind of unrelatedly, and people obviously should feel free to disagree with me on this, it feels kind of off to frame this as defaulting to a white Jon? I sort of think that my idea of Jon as white is very much not ‘white until proven otherwise’ - part of the reason for my original strident tone was that I felt that I was being expected to drop a headcanon I had for specific reasons and default to the fanon version of Jon without actually having any reason other than ‘this is how the community thinks he should look,’ and without really understanding anything about what that means, and while obviously defaulting to a non-white headcanon isn’t like...entrenched in the way that defaulting to a white headcanon is, it does seem to me like this is perhaps part of why white fans slap brown skin onto a character without thinking into what that means or why they’re doing it.

The thing I’m struggling with as regards my personal headcanon here is that I could decide to only ever draw Jon as Fanon Jon, but it wouldn’t be because I had strong reasons to see him that way, it wouldn’t be the same as why you see Jon as brown, or why I see like...Melanie as Indian, it would literally be Default To Standard in a way it isn’t for you. And I don’t feel that I have Defaulted To Whiteness, or where I have it is for reasons specifically to do with Jon (I visualised Jon as white because I visualised him as Jonny, who is white), not because I think every character is White Until Proven Otherwise. Like, my reasons for understanding Jon as white may be bad reasons, but they are reasons, not post-hoc excuses (I can’t like...prove that. but I know it to be true at least on a conscious level). I didn’t go Oh Jon Is White Because Everyone Is Unless I Have Reason To Think They Aren’t, Hooray, Here Is A Post-Hoc Justification For Why It Isn’t Racist To Think That. So while I am totally on board with the idea that it may be shitty, harmful or poorly thought through to hc Jon as white, I’m not sure I can fully see it in myself as being default. But I do understand that that isn’t necessarily what came across in my original short post.

Honestly, the reason I took issue with Fanon Jon and Fanon Martin in such a bolshy way in the first place was that I didn’t get why these characters were universally seen as Asian and white, respectively, and had such strong and consistent fanon images, when none of the other characters did, and when I was seeing people drawing people like Sasha and Melanie and Tim as white way more when in my mind there was no reason to assume they were white. On an emotional level I guess I think either there’s Fanon As Lore, or there’s no fanon (and I prefer the latter) and my discomfort came from the place that the one character I absolutely saw as coded as white in the core cast had this one really specific Ambiguously Brown Fanon Look (which from what I’d seen at the time didn’t seem to be like...backed with anything or coming from any personal interpretation for most of the white fans I was seeing on like Twitter and Tumblr) but white headcanons are everywhere for characters like Melanie or Sasha or Georgie, who seemed to me to be unambiguously people of colour, or characters like Tim or Martin (who could perfectly reasonably be people of colour and who I hc as Rroma and biracial respectively)? I don’t know, it’s difficult to express, but I find it frustrating.

#tma #White Jon #idk sorry to post this so separate from the rest of the conversation I have been Busy

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ohfreckle · 5 years

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fic: hearteyes, motherfucker (malec; pg)

The experiment recounted in this fic really took place. The idea behind it was to see if strangers can fall in love, starting from the premise that mutual vulnerability fosters closeness.

Written for the 3B Countdown Calendar.

If Magnus hasn't been able to find true love after twenty years of hit and miss, surely a scientific experiment won't change that. Who does still believe in love at first sight anyway?

It’s not until the very last second that a flutter of nerves sends Magnus’ pulse tripping. Something in his chest clenches with a flash of panic. What if this changes everything? But then the door opens and all Magnus can do is step into the unknown.

Whatever he expected from a room in which a scientific experiment is about to take place, this isn’t it.

Magnus expected miles of cables and neon light glinting off a wall of monitors, the noisy whirr of computers and cameras following his every move with their red blinking lights. Either this project is grossly underfunded, or Magnus watches too many Sci-Fi movies. The room is austere, empty except for two lamps, a table with a tape recorder, and two chairs. The soft, clean white of the walls is soothing Magnus’ nerves.

It’s just talking. Magnus is an exceptional and (so he’s been told) charming conversationalist even on a bad day. He can answer a bunch of questions, even if he thinks the research topic is pointless.

Strangers don’t fall in love. In lust, yes, Magnus has done that plenty of times. But not love. Most people can’t even tell the difference and end up hurt and disappointed. Magnus wishes he could claim that he isn’t one of them.

Lust—yes. Oh god, yes. Magnus’ stomach drops when the door on the other side of the room opens, and out steps the most gorgeous man Magnus has seen in—ever.

The meaning of tall, dark, and handsome shifts in Magnus’ mind, sudden and irrevocably, forever reshaped to bear this strangers’ face. Something twists in his chest and spreads through his veins, sharp and hot like fire. Magnus recognizes the first spark of interest, so vivid he’s instantly swept away by images of short, dark strands of hair slipping through his fingers and generous lips sliding against his own.

As instructed they sit down at the table, facing each other. “I’m Magnus.” Magnus extends his hand, pleased when the man doesn’t hesitate to shake it. His handshake is warm and firm, his palm a little damp. Nerves. At least Magnus isn’t the only one.

“Alec. Hi!” Alec’s smile is small but it reaches his eyes. It’s impossible to mistake the glittering in them for anything but blatant interest that matches Magnus’ own. Pity. It seems this experiment is ruined before it even started.

Their introductions are brief. They both live in New York, and Magnus learns that Alec is a homicide detective with the NYPD. It surprises Magnus, but that is probably more because the detectives in the late-night reruns rarely look like they stepped out of a high gloss magazine. Magnus supposes they both don’t quite fit the mold; people rarely associate a professor in anthropology with the crisp, navy winged eyeliner he took great care to apply this morning.

“Well then, I believe we have some questions waiting for us,” Magnus says, finding himself a lot more eager to get this thing started than ten minutes ago. “Ready to bare your soul?”

Alec’s dry snort tells Magnus that he isn’t the only one that didn’t come here of his own volition.

As much as Magnus loves his friends, their meddling with his love life is a constant point of irritation and has led to more than one embarrassing situation. And yet, here Magnus is again because his best friend signed him up for this experiment. Cat conveniently forgot to tell him before it was too late to drop out, counting on his reluctance to be unnecessarily rude. Sometimes having friends that know him so well sucks.

“You go first.” Alec pushes the stack of small cards in the middle of the table towards Magnus gingerly, almost as if he’s trying to convince it to be gentle.

“I imagine this is quite different from what you’re used to.” Magnus winks, making it clear that he’s just teasing.

He needn’t have worried that maybe his joke fell flat. Alec barks out a low laugh, looking positively delighted. “Yeah, I’m usually on the other side of the table. Maybe I’ll learn a new trick or two. Mix things up a little with the perps.”

“It will be my pleasure to help you out with new experiences,” Magnus says and picks up the first card from the stack, not at all charmed by the way the corners of Alec’s mouth lift at the corners. Attraction, nothing more. “When did you last sing to yourself?” He reads the neat print on the card out loud, laying it down on the table between them. Magnus hesitates for a second, but Alec picks up on it. Of course it would be Magnus’ luck to be partnered up with a real-life detective who's not only a trained interrogator but most likely versed in reading even small nuances of body language.

“Now I’m curious,” Alec says, picking up the card and twirling it between his fingers before he lays it down, tapping it thoughtfully. They’re nice fingers, long and strong with perfectly manicured nails. Magnus can’t help but mirror the motion, keeping his fingers just barely from touching Alec’s.

“Actually, I sang to myself on my way here. An old lullaby my mother sang to me when I was little. After all these years it still soothes me when I’m nervous or upset.”

“You were upset when you came here?”

Any reservations Magnus might have had about sharing something so personal vanish into thin air the moment Alec’s eyes soften and he covers Magnus’ hand, squeezing lightly. Magnus barely knows this man, but everything about Alec screams sincerity, makes him feel safe and appreciated.

“Nervous,” Magnus admits, swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat. “I could have been paired up with a yeti.”

“Who said that you weren’t?” Alec grins and lets go of Magnus’ hand with a parting squeeze. “My sister always tells me that I look like a caveman when I haven’t shaved for two days after a double shift.”

“As an anthropologist, cavemen are somewhat of a specialty of mine. They’re quite fascinating. Broad chest, lots of hair and testosterone.” As soon as the words tumble from his mouth, Magnus holds his breath. He’s a master of innuendo, and even if he doesn’t try, something not entirely appropriate often slips out at the most inopportune circumstances. Like an actual scientific experiment. Oh well, it’s not as if he’s invested in the outcome, no matter how alluring the company.

“Good. That’s good.”

That’s all Alec has to say on the matter, not bothered in the slightest as he reaches for the next card, navigating the slightly awkward situation with remarkable aplomb. But then, terrible puns probably don’t even register as a blip on the radar in a seasoned cop’s daily routine.

“Given the choice of anyone in the world, who would be your ideal dinner guest?” Alec reads, his brows drawing together as he places the card on top of the one Magnus just answered. “What does that even mean? An ideal guest is somebody who doesn’t complain about the food even if the vegetables are soggy and helps with the dishes, but I guess that’s not what this means.”

A barrel of emotions flickers over Alec’s expressive features, none of which Magnus can read. Alec casts him a long look. This time it’s him who’s trying to decide if he can trust Magnus.

“Hey, it’s okay if you don’t want to say more. You already answered the question. Nothing says you need to give a name.”

“No, it’s not—I just don’t think about people I don’t know, not in that theoretical way the question suggests. I like to think about the people I know and care for. I’ve got my work cut out with that.” Alec laughs a little and shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “That sounds way deeper than it is. It’s just a stupid question. I don’t know everyone in the world, so how would I know if they’re an ideal dinner guest?”

Alec is a grown man, but frowning over a question he deems pointless he looks so much like a disgruntled cat that Magnus bursts out laughing. Most people would have chosen an artist or a politician to surround themselves with an air of sophistication, but Detective Lightwood disputes the question. It’s such a different viewpoint from Magnus’ own who thinks about strangers for professional reasons and out of curiosity all day long, but presented so calm and matter of fact that Magnus wonders how he didn’t see any fault with the question himself. It’s been a long time since Magnus was this intrigued with somebody outside his line of work.

“Tell me who you’d like to have dinner with, then,” Magnus prompts, not quite ready to move on. “Out of all the people you know.”

“My brother Jace.” Alec’s answer comes without hesitation, his mouth and eyes softening with fondness. Magnus doesn’t have siblings, but if he had he hopes they’d look at him like this. “He’s a terrible dinner guest, always helps himself first and takes the biggest steak. Always finds a reason to duck out of helping with the clean-up. It’s been like that since we were kids, but in return he doesn’t complain about my cooking and pretends he actually likes it.” Alec grins, looking at Magnus from beneath his lashes as if he’s confessing a secret, and Magnus finds himself drawn in and leaning close eagerly. “We always tease our sister Izzy about her abysmal cooking skills, but the truth is that I’m not that much better.”

“That sounds lovely. Seems like dinner with your siblings is quite an entertaining affair.”

“They used to be.” Something akin to wistfulness settles over Alec, dimming his smile like the sun becoming veiled by clouds. His whole body draws into itself, his knuckles white where he clasps his hand on the table. It seems impossible how small this literal mountain of a man can suddenly appear. Magnus’ throat constricts with sympathy, and he has to stop himself from reaching out consciously. He barely knows this man. But it feels like he knows him, and it didn’t stop Alec.

“And now it’s not?” Magnus skims his fingertips over the knuckles of Alec’s hand, skin prickling when the knotted fingers relax under his touch. It shouldn’t be this easy, shouldn’t feel so natural.

“I—I did something I’m not proud of.” Alec swallows and looks at their hands, loosening his grip so he can turn his hand and brush his fingertips against Magnus’, lost in thought for a moment until he physically pulls himself together. They’re barely touching, electricity crackling in the sliver of air between their skin. It makes Magnus’ breath catch in his throat, but it seems to settle Alec’s emotions. “We haven’t talked in weeks. It all seems so stupid now, so petty. I should go and apologize. I will.” Sucking in a deep breath, Alec slumps back in his chair. “You know, these questions are total garbage. You weren’t wrong about baring our souls. Can’t they just ask us about our favorite burger?”

The heavy air between them lifts as soon as they aren’t touching anymore. It helps Magnus to clear his head enough to remember to reach for the next card, gives him something else to focus on than this strange connection that seems to surpass simple attraction.

“Let’s hope I didn’t jinx it then,” Magnus says, holding his next card up between two fingers. He means it. As fascinating as he finds Alec—fascinating being a massive understatement, he’s riveted—this is about all the soul-baring in front of strangers he can stomach without copious quantities of alcohol.

“I like your nail polish.”

One quiet remark, and the shaky equilibrium Magnus regained seconds ago is once again shot to hell. There’s no hidden meaning in the words, no come-on, just Alec’s quiet, absolute focus on him that makes something in Magnus’ chest loosen and unravel at an alarming speed. It’s unsettling, the whole experiment is. Magnus feels off-kilter, more drawn to Alec with every passing second, and he isn’t sure he likes it.

He didn’t ask for this.

In the back of his mind a voice that sounds like his friend Ragnor snorts inelegantly. Ah, my friend, but you did.

As much as Magnus wants to object, he's never been prone to deceiving himself. He's still a romantic at heart, wants to believe in that one true love that will get under his skin so deep he'll never want anyone else. He just doesn't think it's out there for him. All around him people are happy and well into starting their own family, and at thirty-three all he has to offer is a battered heart that was broken and stomped on one time too many.

But what if?

"I'm sorry if that was too much," Alec's voice cuts into Magnus' thoughts when the silence between them stretches out uncomfortably long.

"No! No, not all. I just don't usually get compliments without an ulterior motive. It's always Magnus this, Magnus that. Or people wanting to get into my pants." Magnus shrugs unapologetically. It's not bragging if it's the truth. He's been around the block, perhaps once or twice too many. A warm body is an excellent cure for just about everything.

"Shame, people should be nicer to each other." Alec stretches and rolls his shoulders, wincing a little around a yawn. "Sorry, long night at the precinct."

Magnus tries to focus on that, yet another glimpse of the kind and thoughtful man he can sense under the handsome facade, but it's impossible not to notice how Alec's shirt stretches tightly over his broad shoulders and chest. Magnus is only so strong, and Alec’s particular brand of intelligence, paired with heart and devastatingly good looks are quickly drawing him in.

“Anyway, the color suits you.” Alec inclines his head towards Magnus hand where he’s still holding the card between his fingers. “I’ve never seen a guy who can pull off sparkly, turquoise nail polish. It’s unusual. Special. Like you.”

The bold statement sends a flutter of warmth through Magnus, curling in his middle and quickly traveling up until he can feel the tips of his ears grow hot. Without a doubt Alec will notice it, but at least Magnus manages to keep his voice steady. “Are all detectives this blunt?”

“Only when the situation calls for it.” Alec smiles, quite obviously pleased with himself. “So, what do you have?”

“What do you consider your greatest achievement in life?” Magnus reads, glad it gives him something else to think about than the slow, erratic thud of his heart.

"That's a question for long nights of introspection, but I think we're already pushing our allotted time frame."

Magnus puts the card on the smaller pile and loosely clasps his hands. "I don't like to think there's just one single accomplishment that obliterates everything else I've done in my life. From an outsider's perspective my academic career as a professor at one of the top universities in the world most likely is the pinnacle of success. I love my career and I work hard for it, but I don' t value my personal achievements any less for it."

„I imagine you have quite a lot of those as well." Alec nods, his face serious and intent as he listens, his hazel eyes fixed on Magnus. "I get it. My job is important to me, but I want to be more than just Detective Lightwood. I need to be Alec, too. Matter to someone as family, a friend, a lover."

"Since we're both here, it would seem we're still working on the latter," Magnus laughs and winks to lighten the mood. It's working. Alec smiles, a little sheepish, his eyes lighting up with humor and a faint flush spilling down his neck. He really is exquisite.

If they'd met in a club, Magnus would have made his move already, willing to forget pretty much every standard he has about potential partners for a face and body like Alec’s. Intellect isn’t exactly a necessity for a night of anonymous passion. Hell, Magnus has half a mind to tell Alec screw this, let’s get out of here. The way Alec’s eyes keep straying to his mouth tells him he wouldn’t be turned down. But there’s more to Alec than stunning looks, more to the heat that’s spreading languorously in Magnus’ system. Less than half an hour and Magnus is already in much deeper than with people he’s known for months.

Magnus wants to call it potential but it feels like more than that. Potential means something might happen, but hasn’t it already? Wishful thinking, the magic of the moment, whatever it is, something is there between them and Magnus wants it. It scares him; too much too soon, like standing on the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go but taking a leap of faith.

The next questions fly by in a blur, scraps of information painting an even more captivating picture of Alec. Magnus files away Alec’s indignant Hey when he can’t hold back his surprise at learning that Alec plays the piano, offering the same sentiment in comfort after Alec’s halting confession about his strained relationship with his father. That’s another thing they have in common, and once again Alec’s hand over his own is a welcome touch that soothes an ache Magnus thought long healed.

“Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.” Alec leans back heavily and runs a hand through his hair, muttering something Magnus can’t quite catch but that sounds a lot like for fuck’s sake.

“Out with it, darling.” It’s really just a slip of the tongue, but oh, if Magnus had known that the simple endearment would make Alec look at him like he’s two seconds from rounding that table, he would have done it an hour ago. Heat burns its way up his spine, sharp and sudden, leaving behind a lingering warmth that feels almost like a touch.

Almost, but not enough.

There’s a split second of hesitation before Alec straightens and meets Magnus’ eyes. “I almost got married. Tuxedo, white gown, the whole shebang.”

“That’s—interesting?” The warmth that a moment ago suffused Magnus whole body simmers down and gives way to mild confusion. “Forgive me, darling, but you don’t strike me—”

“As straight?”

“Straight, bi. I just don’t think women are your type.” The ridges of Magnus’ ear cuff tickle against his fingertips as he fiddles with it. It’s a nervous tick, something he unconsciously does when he’s uneasy, but like hell Magnus will admit to that. He meets Alec’s eyes straight on, lowers his lashes just the tiniest bit to make it a challenge.

“Fuck no, I’m so gay I can’t even think straight,” Alec snorts. It should be gross and unbecoming, not even vaguely attractive. Maybe it’s simple relief that makes Magnus find it charming. “I wasn’t out back then. My parents arranged a marriage, and I was so deep in the closet that I didn’t know how to get out.”

“This story is truly scintillating, Alexander, but I’m glad you got out eventually.” Magnus quirks a smile, some of the tension easing out of him when it’s met with a smirk. The thought of Alec being with a woman (or really anyone) shouldn’t affect him at all, but here he is, a sour taste lingering in his mouth. Christ.

“That was the last time somebody called me that. Alexander,” Alec clarifies. “Right before I said No in front of the altar and came out to half of the city’s old money families. My mother almost fainted from sheer outrage, and my father told me to be a man and go through with it anyway. Which in return made me almost faint because I couldn’t breathe around my anger and disappointment.”

“I take it that’s part of the reason for your strained relationship?” Magnus isn’t sure what’s worse. Having a father who shows so little regard to his son’s feelings, or one who isn’t around at all. Either way, they both drew the short straw.

“My mother eventually came around but I haven’t seen my father since then.” Alec doesn’t look particularly upset. An old wound then. Magnus knows more about old wounds than he cares to admit. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t occasionally hurt.

“That wasn’t an easy thing to do. I’m proud of you, Alexan—Alec.”

“No, I like it.” Alec leans forward, their hands touching unerringly again. Just a brush of their fingertips, but it grounds Magnus, soothes his scraped raw nerves. Alec seems to feel the same because his eyes are bright and warm when he looks at Magnus. “It sounds different from you, like it matters. Like I matter.”

Magnus swallows around a lump in his throat. "You do matter. So much," he says, his voice hoarse, and he means it. To me. All of this may seem like a forgotten dream tomorrow. Magnus feels torn, spread thin by sharing so much of himself. He's unsure how much of what he feels are his own emotions and how much is a product of the intimacy that's forced on them, but Magnus knows that Alec is special. However they will go on from here, nothing will change that and Magnus will be richer for having been allowed to spend time with him.

Nodding jerkily, Alec smiles. A private, tiny thing that's all the more precious because Magnus put it there. "Thank you."

"Well then, second to last one. Shall we?" Magnus reaches for the next card of the now significantly smaller stack, eager to break the silence that follows after their last exchange. It's not an uncomfortable silence, quite the contrary. He has an inkling that quiet times with Alec are something to be cherished, but this moment feels private and he's reluctant to share it with whoever is undoubtedly listening in.

"Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?" Magnus reads the question and now it's his turn to mutter 'for fuck's sake'.

Goddamn, all of a sudden he's so sick of this soul striptease. Getting to know Alec has been nothing short of a revelation but Magnus wouldn't mind continuing their conversation over a triple shot latte and some lighter topics. He has opinions about Prada's spring collection and a feeling that Alec might just humor him. As he does right now, waiting patiently while Magnus mentally cartwheels through his thirty seconds of conniption.

"You okay?" Alec's voice is warm, soothing, a hint of concern deepening it. If that's his interrogation voice, criminals from all over the city must be standing in line.

"Yeah, let's get this over with." Magnus forces a smile, dropping it immediately when Alec gives him an unimpressed look. Well, it was worth a try. "This is a sore topic and in a way one of the reasons I'm here today."

Not even his best friends know what's sitting on the tip of Magnus' tongue. He pauses, looking at Alec for—he isn't quite sure what but receives nod and a smile anyway, and that's what makes him jump. "There's a box on the shelf of my office. It contains tokens from everyone I've ever been in a relationship with. Some remind me of happy times, lovers who crossed my path and we were right for each other until we weren't anymore."

"And some memories were not so happy?"

"I've loved once with everything I had, only to find out that person betrayed me in any way possible. I closed myself off years after that. Until—“ Today. Magnus carefully looks down on his flawlessly painted nails, not quite sure what he's implying. He's not in love with Alec. It's impossible. "Once or twice each year I open that box and go through its contents. It reminds me that I'm capable of love. Even if it isn't in the cards for me right now, which is entirely my fault, it gives me hope that one day I will find somebody who loves me the way I deserve. And that's why I would save that box even if the whole building would collapse around me."

"It's not your fault, it's that person's fault." Alec looks genuinely upset, a deep furrow between his eyes marring his lovely features. "But I get it. I don't love easily and I don't let myself be loved easily. Or so I've been told."

Magnus laughs ruefully. "What a pair we make."

"I'd say a pretty good one." Alec meets Magnus' eyes without reservation, frank and so soft it makes Magnus tremble with the effort to sort through his warring emotions.

"Put on the headphones on, start the tape, and stare into each others eyes for four minutes," Alec reads after picking up the last card. He barks out a laugh. "Now they're going easy on us?"

Magnus isn't so sure about that, but he's pleasantly surprised when the tape provides merely a background of ambient noise that fades into nothingness. Combined with the stark white of the room it feels like Magnus is falling, his world shrinking, their surroundings fading until it's just the two of them.

There's a green ring around the hazel of Alec's eyes, faint laugh lines Magnus didn't notice before surrounding them. It's a comforting thought that despite his often gruesome job, Alec still likes to laugh. As someone who celebrates life, Magnus can’t even imagine facing death in all its forms each day. If he had to, though, laughing with friends and family would be an absolute necessity to hang on to his humanity.

Right on cue, Alec smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It softens his classic features, makes Magnus wonder how he'll look when he outright laughs with his head thrown back in mirth or happiness.

An image of Alec stretched out on the golden sheets in his loft flashes through Magnus' mind, Alec’s face relaxed in sleep and his lashes casting shadows against the crest of his cheek in the early morning light.

Magnus never takes anyone home.

Maybe it’s the heat that’s creeping up his neck, maybe his thoughts are splashed all over his face, but as soon as Magnus’ imagination takes flight, Alec’s gaze drops to his mouth again and the room around them grows several degrees hotter.

With the temperature, Magnus' heart rate spikes too. They aren't even touching but his skin prickles with Alec's imagined touch, and in the back of Magnus' mind his thoughts from earlier are rushing back to mock him. Instant attraction kills any possibility for deeper feelings? The hot mess of emotions in his chest, an explosive mix of want and something much softer, tells a different story.

Magnus wants. It’s not a new experience. He’s burned hot and fast like this before, but it’s been a long time since it felt like kindling rather than straw fire. Yes, he wants Alec with an intensity that feels like a punch to the chest, but at the same time he’s suffused with an inexplicable bone-deep satisfaction that’s rooted in the joy of simply being in Alec’s company.

Four minutes should last an eternity. In this room with Alec, they are over in the blink of an eye. Magnus startles when the tape runs out, the silence almost deafening around them. Before he can think of something witty to say, the door across the room opens, and an assistant calls for Alec to follow. His own name rings out a second later.

Everything goes so fast, Magnus doesn’t have the presence of mind to protest, to tell them No, he needs to talk to Alec. He remembers being briefed about the protocol, but right now he doesn’t give a damn. He doesn’t even have Alec’s number.

As a scientist, Magnus knows that experiments need to be documented and evaluated with utmost diligence. He also knows that the research assistant who asks him even more questions than he just answered is only doing her job. By signing the agreement before he went through that door, he agreed to everything that's happening now.

All rational thinking though can't alleviate the growing sense of urgency that makes Magnus snappish and even more impatient by the minute. Biting his tongue when the assistant's tablet crashes for the third time, Magnus is only mollified when she asks his consent to give his contact information to Alec. He signs that form with a bit of extra flourish, grumbling just a little when she rolls her eyes that yes, Mr. Lightwood will be asked to do the same. Well, maybe Magnus asked twice, but scientists can't be trusted.

After yet another technical mishap with the printer, Magnus is finally re-released into the real world. He's still thrumming with nervous energy and too many emotions, but he takes his time buttoning his coat and binding his scarf. Even if Alec decided to stick around and wait for him, he’d be long gone by now. Even angels aren't this patient. He'll have to wait for Alec's contact information or his call, hoping against all hope that the tablet saved at least this bit of information. Damn. Patience admittedly isn't a virtue he can claim for himself.

Magnus steps out of the building, ducking his head against the cold and debating on which direction to take. A walk and maybe a cup of coffee might do him some good to clear his head. So caught up in his thoughts, Magnus only notices Alec unfolding his tall frame from one of the benches lining the street when they're already standing close enough to touch.

"Alexander!" Magnus breathes full of wonder, reaching out for him at the same moment Alec reaches for him.

"I thought I missed you," Alec says quietly, fisting his hands into the lapels of Magnus’ coat. His nose is red from the cold, and he's shivering in his too thin jacket because he waited for Magnus.

Something in Magnus cracks. A surge of warmth sweeps through him, sweet and heavy, leaving a dull roar in its wake that makes it impossible to form a thought beyond Yes.

It must show on his face, or maybe he said it out loud. Everything slows down as he tilts up his face and watches Alec’s eyes drop to his mouth again, their breath mingling in the chilly air between them. Alec’s skin is cold as he brings a hand up and strokes his thumb over Magnus’ cheek, but it still leaves a path of heat that sends Magnus’ heart racing.

“Can I—”Alec starts, his lovely brown eyes almost black when Magnus nods.

“Hey” someone shouts, a bicycle bell ringing up a storm behind them because they’re standing in the middle of the pavement. The moment is broken, and Magnus sighs with regret as he feels Alec straighten. Despite his warm coat, he suddenly shivers. Neither of them moves, though, the cyclist already gone and forgotten.

“Fuck,” Magnus says with feeling.

“Fuck,” Alec agrees and huffs out a laugh, brushing the back of his fingers against Magnus’ cheek. It almost makes up for the kiss Magnus was robbed of. “Should we get a drink first?”

“I was just about to get coffee.” Magnus nods and steps back, starting into the direction of a little coffee shop he saw on his way here. “You look like you could do with a something hot. Other than me.”

Alec laughs, throwing his head back before he quickly falls into step with Magnus. He looks even better than Magnus imagined. It’s only a short walk, seemingly even quicker with the additional spring in Magnus’ step. He didn’t miss the first in Alec’s question about getting a drink, and Magnus always collects.

***

Alec squeezes his eyes shut and rolls onto his back with a groan. It’s late already, little specks of dust dancing in the pale sunlight that’s streaming through a gap in the curtains. The other half of the bed is empty, he can tell by the lack of weight against his side, so he might as well get up. Not bothering with more than a pair of boxers, Alec steps out of the bedroom, following the delicious smell of fresh coffee and pancakes.

He could get used to this vacation thing. Especially if the first thing that greets him is the sight of Magnus in nothing but a pair of boxers and his favorite apron.

“Morning, Mr. Lightwood-Bane,” Alec murmurs as he steps behind Magnus and slides his arms around his middle, mindful of the spatula Magnus is brandishing. “This smells amazing.”

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Lightwood-Bane.” Magnus tilts his head, giving Alec better access for the row of kisses he lays against his throat. “They better smell amazing. I had to borrow butter from Mrs. Rafferty downstairs because somebody distracted me yesterday and we never made it to the grocery store.”

“Isn’t that the purpose of a honeymoon?” Alec hums, stealing a bit of the pancake Magnus slides onto a plate. “Staying in bed all day and never leave the house?”

“Larceny before noon, detective?” Magnus scolds, his voice mock-stern as he swats at Alec’s hand. “We should at least stock up on food. I think I’m still blushing after listening to Mrs. Rafferty prattle on about the many creative uses of butter.”

“Did you learn anything interesting?”Alec grins and fills two cups of coffee, sitting down at the table while Magnus carries over their plates. His apron says ‘kiss the cook, often and everywhere’, framed by a glittery heart. Alec would be a terrible cop if he couldn’t carry out a direct order, and Magnus doesn’t even try to resist when Alec pulls him into his lap and starts on the arduous task to kiss him breathless.

Breakfast turns into brunch as they share small bites of pancake between kisses, each one longer and heavier than the last, their hands roaming over hot skin in long caresses. It’s only been three months since Alec snapped at Izzy for signing him up for an experiment he thought to be utterly pointless, three months filled with love and happiness and Magnus. Everyone, even their closest friends and family, called them crazy when they invited them for their impromptu wedding last week, but Alec couldn’t care less. This—Magnus is it for him, and he knows Magnus feels the same, so why wait?

Eventually, they’ll have to emerge from their touch-drunk bubble and face the real world again. Neither of them had been able to take off more than one week from work on such short notice, and there was no time for a proper vacation. Alec thinks he likes this even better, just the two of them in their home. They have a lifetime for traveling together. One honeymoon trip every year sounds about right to Alec.

They'll have to buy something nice for Izzy for making him go to that experiment. Maybe a toaster, but unlike Izzy, toasters belong into the kitchen and can explode, so perhaps a fruit basket.

"Alexander, I’m afraid you're not doing a very good job," Magnus interrupts his thoughts and wriggles a little in his lap, tugging on his apron. "Kiss me, or do I have to call the cops?”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Alec murmurs against Magnus’ lips. He does take orders very well.

#malec #malec fic #shadowhunters #My writing

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aliceslantern · 5 years

Text

Beyond this Existence: Counterpoint, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 6

Summary: After being recompleted, Ienzo vows to do everything in his power to atone for the atrocities he committed in the past. But this life hasn't been easy, and he's plagued with memories and nightmares. When Demyx suddenly reappears, the two discover that they have more in common than they thought, though the secrets in their past might tear them apart. Zemyx (Demyx/Ienzo), post kh3

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

There was no need to panic.

Ienzo’s veins were tingling and acidic. Breathing hurt. I am not dying. This is a psychological reaction. You are being too dramatic, Ienzo.

There was no need to panic.

He needed to find the logic in the situation.

Feeling sexual attraction was normal. If he’d had a standard puberty he would have experienced it by now, most likely. He’d only ever felt an aesthetic appreciation for people. This was deeper, more intense, but altogether normal . And considering how rarely Ienzo was around people his age, it did make a sort of sense that the first person he fixated on was the only one in the castle of his generation, and who hadn’t played a part in raising him.

There was no need to panic. This would pass with time. Wouldn’t it? It wasn’t as if he could actually act on these feelings--he couldn’t even imagine it--

That wasn’t true. He could.

The thought of it alone tightened the longing and anxiety so tightly together that for several long minutes he couldn’t think at all. He could only let it wash through him.

Ienzo would have to be composed. It would be over soon.

He slept restlessly and tried to figure out the best way to spend his time the following day. To borrow the old phrase, he felt like he was stuck between a rock and a hard place--his investigation into Sora’s disappearance was painful but solitary, and his translations with Demyx were peaceful but risked his sanity in a whole new way.

But he was too anxious to think about trauma, so he went down to the study room. To his immense relief, Demyx was not there. Rather than study the music, or parse more lines, Ienzo spent several hours refamiliarizing himself with the structure of the written runes and the most common characters, participles, and gender pronouns. He made himself eat lunch. When he returned, he tried to study, but found himself in a haze of dissociation.

“How do I be a better person?”

Demyx startled him in two ways, and he nearly fell out of the chair. “I was not expecting you today.” He looked up. The warm sunlight played off his eyes. Ienzo tried to will himself not to feel. He was not staring or ogling, merely making eye contact. As one does.

“I… I thought I needed a break. But I wanted to talk to you.” He looked a bit sheepish.

Ienzo smiled despite himself. “Well, do you need my permission?”

Demyx hesitated. “It’s just that you seem to know so much more about being better. And I… want to.”

He sighed. “I’m glad to hear that, but it’s not so simple. I’m still trying to come to terms with it myself.”

Demyx sat down next to him. His proximity was almost too much, and Ienzo pulled his hands through his hair. How on earth did people go around feeling like this all the time? He grounded himself in the heaviness of the subject, but his voice faltered anyway. “It’s about… knowing your own wrongdoings, your insecurities, your flaws, it’s about understanding where they came from and why, it’s about all the choices you make, broad and narrow, every single day. Morality is not simple, it’s not just darkness and light.”

“I know that. I’m not as dumb as I seem.”

He blinked. “Have I ever said you were?” Demyx was shocked into silence. Ienzo, again, felt guilty. They’d all been so careless and cruel with him. He was just as brittle as Ienzo. The words spilled from him almost of their own accord. “You’re not dumb. You are sharp, you think clearly, you see things I cannot see. I think you have a problem with your self worth, and I think more than anything that’s what’s been holding you back. This existence has given you ambition like I’ve never seen before from you. Don’t squander it. Please.” He’d taken Demyx’s hand and squeezed it. He had to let go. Didn’t want to. Demyx looked down briefly at the hand he’d touched, then back to Ienzo’s own. Why did it seem that he’d also wanted that touch? You’re projecting, and poorly at that.

Demyx nodded. “I’ll try.”

“Good. I will help you how I can.” He was smiling involuntarily; it seemed to have been ages since it wasn’t forced. Demyx smiled back. For a moment he felt warm all over, and the anxiety was bearable.

Demyx broke eye contact, his hand touching his chest. He gasped, a tight, pained sound.

“Demyx? Are you alright?”

For a second time since they’d begun their studies, he fainted. Ienzo, again, felt helpless. He slipped off his lab coat and put it under his head. Demyx was breathing hard and fast, and his muscles were fraught with tension. Ienzo took his pulse. It was uncomfortably high, as was his temperature. He was about to call for Even when Demyx stirred, not quite breaching consciousness. Ienzo kept monitoring his pulse. As the minutes passed, it improved, but remained erratic. Somewhere in this, Demyx found the hand holding onto his and squeezed.

A shiver of relief passed through him. “Oh, good, you’ve come to. Can you speak?”

“I feel sick,” he mumbled.

“You’ve fainted.”

Demyx sat up woozily. Ienzo eased him back down. “Rest for a minute, okay? You’ve a bit of a fever.”

“I felt cold this morning.”

“That might be it.” Ienzo had his doubts. After several more tense minutes, Demyx’s pulse settled down to normal. “Can you sit up?” He slipped an arm under him and gently hefted him up. Demyx swayed a little. “We’ve got to try to get you to bed, alright? Lean against me if you have to.”

Even only taking part of Demyx’s weight, Ienzo still felt weak. In his peripheral, Ienzo noticed how terrible he looked, washed out and humiliated and fighting tears.

“Do you think this is systemic?” Ienzo asked. “Or psychological? What were you thinking about immediately before you lost consciousness? Do you remember?”

He didn’t speak. A pink flush crept into his cheeks. It could’ve been something painful, and Ienzo regretted asking. Demyx stumbled; Ienzo could barely take the extra weight.

“I’m wondering if I should get Aeleus to come carry you. You’re very weak.”

“Please don’t,” he said desperately.

Concern welled in him. ““Clearly something has upset you on a deep metaphysical level--”

“I can’t tell you.” A sharp statement.

“Is it very personal?”

Demyx nodded.

“Alright.”

Eventually they made it. Ienzo rolled his shoulders, knowing he’d be sore later.

“I’m sorry,” Demyx said. He looked so weak, so sad, but if he didn’t want to talk about it it wasn’t like Ienzo could be much help.

“I’m not as strong as I used to be,” Ienzo said. He sighed. “Get some rest. I’ll come check on you in a few hours.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

There it was again, that surge of pity. “Do you believe I’d just leave you lying there?” Ienzo asked. Demyx hesitated and shook his head. He didn’t fully trust Ienzo. But why should he? He hadn't earned that trust. “Hopefully this pain you’re experiencing is temporary,” he said, and left.

Ienzo took a moment to try and process all he was feeling. The logical thing to do would be to try and avoid him, at least until these feelings began to fade. He wasn’t used to his thoughts being in disagreement with his body, and to an extent, his heart.

He was too brittle, too undeserving, of romantic love.

He saw Even coming down the hall, his long blonde hair still wet from bathing. “Ansem was looking for you,” he said. “When you’ve a moment, go join him in the lab. Aren’t you still dallying about with Demyx?”

“It’s not dallying,” Ienzo said tiredly. “We’re actually working on a legitimate research project. It’s a very old score with lyrics in runes.”

“I never had much patience for anthropology, but it is very important to understand the past. I can see why you’d be drawn to it. Though I can’t help but wonder. What is it like working with him? I can’t imagine it’s easy.”

Ienzo felt a shiver of anger at Even. “Actually, it is somewhat refreshing. He’s smarter than he acts. I wish you would ease up on him just a touch. He’s as vulnerable as I am.”

He considered that. “Is that so,” Even said.

“Might you do me a favor? He’s fainted again. Could you check up on him in a few hours? I was going to, but I should see what Master Ansem needs.” He briefly described what had happened.

“Yes, I suppose. He is quite sickly, isn’t he? It’s a wonder why I’m not as well.”

“We’re all handling it differently.” Ienzo himself felt exhausted. “Thank you, Even.”

Ienzo headed towards the lab. His legs were heavy, and his shoulders ached. Still, when he approached Ansem he tried to neaten his posture.

“Good afternoon, Ienzo.” Ansem smiled. “I’m sorry to tear you away from your personal project, but I have something that I think might be of use to you.” He patted the chair next to him. “Mickey answered my letter.”

“How is he?”

“He’s doing as well as he can, I suppose. He’s glad to be home, with the queen. Of course he’s worried about Sora, but we all are.”

“Yes,” Ienzo said. He wasn’t sure how this related to his work.

“It turns out he himself had some rather intriguing data. He sent it over a few days ago, but it took me about as much time to get it sorted. Look at this.” Ansem pulled up a file. A lifelike, digital model of a younger Sora was frozen on the screen.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“This Data Sora was created in order to fight viruses hidden in Jiminy’s journals. Jiminy’s descriptions of Sora were so clear and detailed that he developed the same behaviors, and, Mickey believes, a similar heart.”

Ienzo felt his heart start pounding. “I had hypothesized that perhaps we could trace Sora’s disappearance using the bonds in his heart. If this is at all accurate, I might be able to test it.”

“You’d have to program a very intricate simulation, but yes, that’s what I was thinking as well. Mickey was also generous enough to send over all of the recordings of this Data Sora he could find, and Jiminy sent copies of his journals for you to review.”

Ienzo touched the model of Sora on the screen. For the first time, he wondered if it were actually possible for him to save Sora.

“We should watch these recordings firstly, and then we can tweak copy and tweak the model appropriately. We might not have access to Sora’s newer memories, but we have the journals, which might allow us to fill in some gaps.” He opened the first of the recordings. “You might want to get comfortable. We’re going to be here for some time.”

#beyond this existence: counterpoint #ienzo #demyx #zemyx #demyx/ienzo #beyond this existence #short one this week lads

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sagastar-blog · 7 years

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MemoToTheMetaverse 2.4 “Gaia Says to Jeff, Let’s Take the Black Keys Car Service!”

Gaia, our hero, the story’s 16-year-old tomboyish female protagonist, walks around in a magnificent green, blue, and white bathrobe. Her long darkreddishbrown hair is dripping wet. Gaia is the planet Earth in human form, and has always been entirely awake, or aware of this fact. She’s recently emerged from the family “scuttlebutt,” a solar-powered steam room of sorts off the side of the family’s entirely ordinary first-floor Highland Park, NJ, apartment. She speaks into a hairbrush:

Gaia: So glad to be here with Dan and Patrick of the Black Keys. Guys! Good morning! What brought you to The Orchard on this leg of the current intergalactic tour?

[Dan Auerbach--the lily-white reformed stoner father / lead singer of the indie blues rock duo from Akron known throughout the universe and beyond as The Black Keys--is a large Bert from Sesame Street doll.]

Dan: Ummmmm. Gee. Let’s see. Well, I guess we figured we were in the neighborhood, you know, New York is kind of a thing...Hey, um, Do you guys have any coffee here? I could also really use a bagel. Like, with cream cheese, yeah? Thanks. Okay, yeah.

Patrick, a narwhal hand puppet and the drummer in the band, wears hipster glasses and grunts somewhat rhythmically: Me too. Please. Thanks. Whatever.

Gaia (turns towards the kitchen and yells): Daddy! Do we have any bagels left?

[Jeff is Gaia’s 39-year-old father, who has sole custody but, as any parent must no, very little immediate control over his daughter. He’s actually a young Bengal tiger in disguise as a human and also the Master Creator/Destroyer of All.

Jeff: Yeah, hold on. Do they want everything like usual?

Patrick the narwhal begins gnawing on the top of Bert’s head while gently spanking it from below with its tail, and grunts: “Sure thing, boss.”

Dan is distracted by Gaia’s proverbial “décolletage.” It must be said that Gaia is a beautiful, buxom, and rather rambunctious young woman, and has been for a few years now something of a man-eater. More problematically, she’s been neglected by her boyfriend/cousin-in-law, Amateratsu, the local mediocre neighborhood son, thanks to the way she’s been done dirty and wrong by life--HER LIFE, yes, but still--in recent times.

Dan: Thanks so much Jeff, that’s great. Gaia’s taking good care of us in here.

Jeff: She’s a fantastic hostess. You should check out her bedroom! It’s kind of a mess...Gaia, do you think you could maybe try sweeping some day?

Gaia (returning to her interview): Dan, Patrick, do you ever wish a great wind would come along and wash away all the beer cans and bottles? I mean, like, take Akron....maybe all the rubber tires and factories and stuff should be...

Dan: Burned?

Patrick the narwhal has heard this story so many times already. He continues drumming on his lap, staring rather obtusely at Gaia’s round ass as she busily picks up last night’s detritus. He doesn’t mind getting interviewed today because he owes his ex-wife so much in arrears for child support that he’s willing to put up with Bert’s narcissism for yet another day.

Gaia: I was thinking, wouldn’t it be nice if Brian Wilson and the rest of the Beach Boys could just bury the hatchet and do, like, a benefit for the environment or something? Like, what is it going to take for some big shot celebrity musicians to actually get involved in American public life?

Dan: What we need, clearly, is the American version of Bono. Otherwise, Africa will become China and then we’re all fucked.

Gaia: Precisely. (prepares her hookah for the day’s first toke....Jeff doesn’t mind that Gaia is going through a phase in which she smokes as much cannabis as she wants when she’s at his house. She’s not always home from school, so he figures it’s a balanced approach to Creation/Destruction.)

Patrick: Do you think we could hit that?

Gaia (eyes smoldering): Butt of course, Monsieur Patrick. Et toi, Dan? Qu’en volez vous?

Dan: Did you just ask me where I’m flying next?

Gaia: EH bien. Si vous voulez faire le countertransference avec moi, ca va couterez...(she lights up)

Jeff (buttering and cream-cheesing the bagels): Gaia, I’m serious! Your room!

Gaia (tucking her Bert and narwhal weiweis into her bed): I suggest we take the Black Keys Car Service to the eco preserve.

Jeff: Gaia, can you please explain to our guests what that will entail?

[Pollux and Castor emerge from the basement, all sparkly. They’re stars from an intergalactic talent competition known as Copernamici. As the head stars in the constellation Gemini, they are Amateratsu’s siblings, relatives of Jeff and Lucius. Pollux is slightly brighter and cheerier in general, whereas Castor has a beautiful, rich baritone voice.]

Castor: I was hoping we’d get to go to the preserve. There’s so little nature here in The Orchard, which is kind of ironic, don’t you think?

Pollux: Yeah, I was just thinking that it’s weird that there are signs all around this town, what is it called here Highland Park, that say things like “Tree City U.S.A.” and “No Hate Here.” They can’t even see us when they look up at night! Where exactly is the eco preserve, Gaia?

Gaia: Sore subject. Which is why I suggest taking the Black Keys Car Service! Daddy, you explain in a longwinded monologue which is not exactly a siloloquy but who cares because Shakespeare was SUCH a bitch...

Jeff (sets down the coffee at the C2 Center for Educational Brainwashing, where he is paid 27 dollars an hour to help privileged children improve their SAT scores): THE BLACK KEYS CAR SERVICE is one of the greatest ideas ever. It is the solution to the problem we face today aboard Spaceship Earth. (speaking into the ship’s PA system microphone) Humans! You have, since the dawn of the industrial revolution, been shitting in your own scuttlebutt! You have been, like cyborgswine, befouling your own trough. Your pollution--Ohio, we’re looking right at you...OH GEEZ, Cuyahoga was a great R.E.M. song about you burning rivers...where are you Michael Stipe when the galaxy needs you?--will no longer be tolerated. I have come here, people of Earth, to save Gaia. Only, the way it works is that Gaia doesn’t need salvation. Gaia, your planet Earth, will outlive all of you. Life will persist on this planet whether you want it to or not...at least for a little longer. The point here is that I am here to protect Gaia from all of you who have been either neglecting and violating her. (Hugs his daughter tightly.) The latter is worse than the former, but there are no innocent people in this world of ours, right Gaia?

Gaia (not a victim..a survivor): Correct.

Jeff (continues): Now. You, humans, will end this farce of an existence. You have serious environmental problems which you are not capable of fixing by yourselves. The first step in solving a problem is admitting that you have a problem. The Black Keys Car Service is the best way for you to admit you have a problem.

Jeff and Gaia step out to their electric car.

We’re not suggesting that you need to trash your entire civilization. No. That’d be impractical. You need to recycle it. You need to throw away a lot of stuff that’s bad.

Amateratsu (offstage): I SUGGEST FEEDING ME!

Jeff: Let’s shoot a bunch of shit into the sun, like old junk that’s bad for Gaia. Let’s figure out a way to use nuclear and other technologies sustainably and responsibly. There are no such thing as “bad nukes,” just as there are no such things as “bad phones.” You have technology and you need to learn how to use it wisely. I say I’m wisdom unemployed. I don’t need to spend my time pretending to teach here at the C2 Center for Educational Polyamorous Cockblocking and Blueballing. It’s not very fun, rewarding, or productive for me. (Imagine that, John Lenin!)

It’s not easy for you to accept that you’re a computer virus and that your existence is a threat to lots (not ALL) other life here on Earth. I get that! We have a suggestion...

Gaia (grabs the mic and screams as loudly as possible): Just send an ordinary unmarked car to Jeff’s house at 35 S. Fifth Avenue in Highland Park, NJ, 08904, U.S.A, Earth, Dimension 1(?)=1 / infinity. (Everyone knows my real address is one over infinity!) But make sure it’s like really smooth and cool...you know, like it should be the kind of car service that Dan and Patrick would use and then try to cash in on by selling out...like El Camino.

But it can’t be an El Camino. It should be like a 2002 Ford or something. Not eco-friendly! It needs to be authentic and real, like Akron but WORSE. If I’m being violated, at least let Jeff on the Lester GangBangBus. You know what I mean? SO the one thing about The Black Keys Car Service is that it’s got to be both legitimate and correct. There will be no “Black Keys” cds or music or anything directly related to the Black Keys in the car, obviously. The music should be a delightful mixture of T. Bone Burnett classics, which is to say stuff that would sell at Starbucks and not offend Jeff. This is how Jeff learns! By doing human anthropology. We don’t hate your culture. We just have taste and need a little bit of respect, so like, no music referencing “niggers,” “bitches,” and other unsavory aspects of your filthy human world. I’m sorry, but there’s a difference between you listening to what you like in public and you exposing me and my Daddy and my friends to your pollution. We need to be protected, like in an eco preserve!

Jeff: What Gaia is trying to say is that I don’t ask for much. You’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. That’s fine by me. I’m used to it. But now that you’ve been caught, you have to admit it. You have to admit what you’ve done and you have to do it soon by sending The Black Keys Car Service, which is recognizing me as someone valuable and worthy of dignity and respect, as well as adoration, of course.

Send me a private car with a driver--let him be exactly like the dude who plays bass and also keyboards for the Shins, if not that guy himself!--who recognizes me as JustJeff and takes me where I want to go. For free (i.e. without charging me money or making me feel awkward). You know who I am, so stop pretending! Allow the driver to speak to me like a normal person. It will be great! And please let there be bagels with cream cheese and coffee in the car. Other than that, there’s nothing else for me to request. If you do that, i’ll know that we’re going somewhere together.

If I’m going to save you, Gaia, it’s going to be on my terms, not theirs. We have a lot of work to do and must take practical steps. The Black Keys Car Service is the best way to get moving in the right direction.

Gaia (fidgeting with her phone): OMJ, I hate this phone! (throws it out the window and turns up the music, which I believe is some Dusty Springfield song, but we can’t be sure...)

#black keys #justjeff #memotothemetaverse #michael stipe #cult gaia #gaiaonline #gaia #astronomy #astrology #amateratsu #sci-fi & fantasy #fan fiction #comicon #comic books #theology #rolling stone magazine

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pickyperkypenguin · 7 years

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A little life update, as I somehow have gotten into a habit of those, whenever I feel like sharing and yet don’t want to dump it all on one person.

First of all, I am so sorry for not being much communicative lately - I love keeping conversations with you, my dudes (you know who you are, hopefully), and all this lack of contact is due to some strange sluggishness that has taken over my mind and body lately more than usually, and the excess of work that I have at uni. May is the toughest month of the summer semester, so please forgive me, and wait, I shall be in form in no time.

The other thing is, gods, it’s spring and I’m feeling it with all my channels. As always, I go into some shaky imbalance these time of year, and it’s a steady period from March to May when I’m just... It’s hard even to express it, but it’s been like this for me for as long as I remember, though it has mellowed out somewhat over the last couple of years. Like, you know, I have never been so perspectively happy that something is over, after I realised my puberty was over. It has solved some things, though my health is still far form perfect.

Speaking of, as I mentioned my desire of losing weight and just generally fixing myself a bit, I had also started to think about what is wrong, and thanks to a coincidence, I’ve stumbled upon - after a good few years - Ayurveda again. And this time on a better site than previously. Plus, it is probably a better time now, when I’m actually caring more about my diet and have a significantly larger control over it than when I was a teen. It’s also so much more interesting to read about all this stuff after four years of studying cultural anthropology.

So, according to this theoretical frame, I am a kapha-pitta type of dosha and right now I have an excess of kapha in my body (they have both the prakriti and vikriti test on the site I was using; funny thing, I’ve got a score consistent with the one I remember from when I was like somewhere between twelve and fifteen, which implies that ones dosha is, indeed, a constant thing throughout a lifespan), which would explain a lot of things. It also explains why I tend to eat the food I do or have the stance towards physical exercises and fitness that I do. The worst thing is, as in every type of medicine, here the cure is also bitter. In my case, quite literally, as I should enjoy now more food that has a distinct pungent, astringent, or bitter taste. As much as I can totally do with the first two, bitter is... Ugh, gods, why. I hate bitter food. I can’t stand bitterness in leafy greens, which would be allegedly beneficial to me. I imagine, but there has to be a roundabout way. Maybe more turmeric? I need to think my way out of this.

Ayurveda had also pointed out for me, that I need routines (my heart skipped joyfully) that are energetic (my heart sagged sadly in my chest, limp like a disappointed sloth hanging from a branch). Is there a roundabout way? Let’s hope so.

It’s a nice thing, to find a system appealing enough to believe in it for a moment, and not think so much about where its holes are. I’m struggling with the belief part of, well, everything basically, for the most of my life. It just lies in my character. Anthropology only increased that. So, to find a thing that I would be charmed enough by to keep one eye closed on its flaws and inconsistencies is a pretty rare and rather enjoyable happenstance. I would like to stop thinking and analysing so much, and to engage and live-in-the-present more. That would do me a solid. But, well, the problem with not feeling persuaded to believe is, well, not feeling persuaded. You can’t believe, when you don’t believe. Simple as that, and rather tiring, as we’ve established with my friend in our last conversation. Nothing revealing or comforting, except for a brief consolation that comes from a well formed argument that results in a clear final conclusion.

I will be missing that, when he will go to Germany, to pursue his Masters. That he will get in, I have no doubts. They’d have to be stupid not to take him in. But, well, I will sure be missing our intellectual sparring matches and lame jokes about Žižek, and his You know, Wittgenstein said... and mine ‘Cause Foucault... It’s not a thing one can do with just about anybody. I mean, we aren’t overly close, but we do have that common ground that we meet on, and we care about the well being of the other, and the mere distance won’t change anything about that, except for reducing the easy access to a spontaneous you wanna go for a pint?

It’ is a thing, though, the reduced amount of people that are still here. My people, I mean.

Prague has reduced drastically my social life, as it has cleansed it from the relationships that were hanging there like a jacket one haven’t used for the last three years, but for some reason still kept in one’s closet. It has also verified the sizes of the rest of my friendships and did a diligent check-up on their quality. Not many has left.

I don’t know why I am almost completely unable to make new connections, and where the fault lies (in my character? in my standards? in my depressive tendencies?), but I feel like this place is getting more and more empty for me. It wasn’t very filled before, but now it has only grew colder, more distant and at the same time suffocating. I don’t want to go anywhere. I never did. I just don’t want to be here.

Nothing keeps me here, actually, except for my family (but that is not a problem, and the example of my sister only confirms it). I feel like I’ve grew out of this city, this country - but haven’t grown to anything else yet. Is this the way I am supposed to be feeling? Is there a solution to that? Or is this the problem within me, the thing that I won’t enjoy my life, if I first won’t fix my inner problems?

Is there a way to think my way out of this? Or is this a proof, that I have to do the thing, that is and has been ever the hardest for me - to do/act/make?

youtube

#whatever life #long post

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a-scribbling-intruder · 7 years

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Fanfic Recs pt.1

Soo this was long overdue. I don’t really read fanfic that often, and when I do it is mostly things other people have reccomended to me. So i’ve always wanted to create my own rec list to return the favour, but somehow never got around to it. So yay years later, here’s at least a start. Will probably sort it better if i update it. Anyways if fanfic and any of these fandoms are your cup of tea, enjoy. Mostly gen and either humour or horror, it think. Fandoms included: Harry Potter, Death Note, MCU, LOTR, Sherlock Holmes, Original Fiction and weirdly, Samurai Champloo

Harry Potter (and Crossovers with Harry Potter)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/9238861/1/Applied-Cultural-Anthropology-or Applied Cultural Anthropology (Or how I learned to stop worrying and love the Cruciatus) (Hermione/Tom Riddle) Really well done, pairing is not the main focus (they’re not even together yet), instead hermione being her usual brilliant self but being sorted into slytherin. She isn’t just suddenly evil, she’s still righteous and wants to better the world. But exactly this (with a little help of a unassuming black diary) leads her down a slippery slope. (Ongoing.)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/11160991/1/0800-Rent-A-Hero 0800-Rent-A-Hero. Harry has finally gotten rid of snake-face and settled down with Teddy and Andromeda. Cue inter-dimensional space vortex opening in his living room. Summoned from his finally peaceful life by Dumbledore and the Order to solve their voldemort problem, Harry is less than pleased. But can he truly just ignore them? Grudgingly „Harry White“ accepts the free post as divination teacher at hogwarts and starts befriending his female interdimensional counterpart, Iris Potter, all while wanting to get revenge on Dumbledore and trying not to get too involved with Tonks… The beginning is a bit grizzly but overall it is definitely more on the humorous side, and also poking fun at so many fandom chliches! (Last updated 6 months ago, so there is still hope…)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/10954546/1/Framed-Fractured Framed and fractured. During the fiendfyre-incident in the Room of Requirement Harry barely escapes through some kind of black hole. Now he’s stuck as a painting in the RoR, with a surprisingly sane, young and healthy looking Tom Riddle as the only visitor. The painting only decipts a bleak room, the door is shut and strange shadows lurk in the 4th wall whenever the RoR is not used. There is also an old diary there, speaking of monsters just outside of the room… – very interesting start, tom and harry haven’t really interacted yet but the descriptions of the timelessness in the painting and the “unexplained horror” vibe are fab. (Ongoing.)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/10136762/21/ The Case of the Man who was wanted. (Harry Potter x Sherlock crossover) Harry Potter lives as a fugitive after being accused and imprisoned of a string of murders after the defeat of voldemort. Sherlock gets called to solve the case of the mysterious death of the Dursley couple in Surrey and finds known terrorist and fugitive Harry Potter inside, who, unexpectedly, claims to be innocent. Sherlock gets involved in not only the world of witchcraft and wizardry, but also in a strange man who seems kind of hollow and has many well-kept secrets… (Again, the kind of lovecraftian creepy horror vibe i love. Ongoing.)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/11115934/1/The-Shadow-of-Angmar The Shadow of Angmar. (HP x LOTR crossover) Harry gets summoned by the witch king as „the master of Death“. Broken and battered, he starts searching for a way home in an unknown world where his magic doesn’t work. Has FANTASTIC world building and a very bitter and world-weary Harry. (Ongoing)

Marvel Cinematic Universe

http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/425428 The Calculator by katsu. THIS IS MY FAVORITE FANFIC IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD. Just imagine Good Omens but more superheroes-and-supervillain themed. Loki is not going full villain like in the thor movie, but instead is more of a chaotic-neutral kind of guy more keeping the supervillainery for appearance’s sake and the occasional meddling to aleviate the boredom. But then he takes the meddling a bit too far, and karme comes to bite him in the butt. Big time. I really don’t want to say more about the plot bc it is so brilliant and original. Just read it. Also, have a quote (this is only a footnote, actually, so imagine what the real fic mus be like): “yes, he had filled several little leather-bound diaries with childish scrawls of red ink that read things like, “Die Thor” and “You never really accepted me!” And then he’d attended a few sessions of primal scream therapy and taken a modern dance course at the local community college. Between finding a constructive way to express his anger and making some lovely friends that he still had tea with every Wednesday afternoon while they chatted manicures, fashion, and lap dogs, he felt much more comfortable in his own skin these days. All it had really taken was escaping the poisonously macho atmosphere of Asgard, which according to Kevin was something like living in Omaha and not being interested in Football.“

http://archiveofourown.org/works/5460221 Genesis by teaberryblue. Reluctant to make the truth about their secret weapon known, the American Government tells the world that Captain America is a man named Steve Rogers. According to public record, he died, tragically, in 1945, and he became legend.In 1998, the Avengers find a body trapped in ice. She’s alive. Her name is Eve. She has Captain America’s shield. Featuring a slightly different cast as the Avengers and brilliant discussion of gender issues, kinda whimsical-poetical writing style. (Oneshot, completed.)

Death Note

http://archiveofourown.org/works/461685 Murmur in the Shell. Light Yagami’s dead, L is dead. Yet the idea of them stays in the world, embodied by black notebooks that always will fall. History repeats, even if nobody wants to be a part of it. After all, there will always be new players. (Near, new!Kira. Really nice, jus a short ficlet about the roles we sometimes must play and the ideas of dead men we pick up along the way.) (Oneshot, completed).

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/9380249/2/ Rationalising Death. Light Yagami finds the Death Note, we know the rest. But in this story, light talks all his steps through with his inner voices (like „Test It“ aka „Death“, Moral which everyone kinda ignores and also could be called Caution, or Practice). Its less cracky than it sounds now, i promise. Rather, it’s a very interesting character study bc it doesn’t just paint Kira as a sociopath with a god-complex (well, that too -) but explains his actions as being very, very human (while not excusing them). Seems to be dead at 10 chapters but i still would recommend reading it bc its brilliant, the style is a bit like hpmor’s. It explains the thought processes of everyone (L, Light, Misa, Ryuk, all that jazz)) very thoroughly and is also quite amusing (light comparing hinself to batman consantly, e.g.). But the best part is probably Misa’s characterisation (i’m not gonna spoil it for you but omg) –> https://m.fanfiction.net/s/10580913/1/Rationalising-Fiction Rationalising Fiction also check out this nice lil’ timestamp (recursive ff?) of another author wherein Misa realises she is a fictional character. Very meta, very lovely.

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/8415898/1/God-of-the-Machine God of the Machine by The Carnivourous Muffin. The OC/SI Anna Jones suddenly appears in Light Yagami’s bedroom. When you read about fictional characters they can fall kind of flat, not that they’re not interesting but you always know they’re not really like you. Light seems less scary, L less creepy and Misa… well Misa always seems insane, even in the Manga. So Anna Jones is fucking terrified, curses herself for not paying better attention to the details in the manga and has to consider her survival and the prices she’s willing to pay. (Yes, this is the Self-Insert Trope but played so well. Also very philosophical. Ongoing. Also, go read everything by this author while you’re at it.)

Other

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/9915682/5/ The Last Christmas. A industrial engineer takes up the mantle of santa claus and gets some dangerous ideas about the true meaning of Christmas… (No fandom, or is that like the mythology fandom?, anyways, it’s creepy and give’s you some food for thought, although the story itself isn’t that polished. Very interesting and original take on santa claus!) (Completed.)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/2865379/1/Nenju Nenju. Samurai Champloo. Because no anime has ever kindled a bigger need for a love triangle. This one’s fairly good and really long, with a nice dose of angst but a happy ending. (Mugen/Fuu, Jin/Fuu, Mugen/Yanusha)

#fanfic rec #fic rec #death note fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #rec list #if anyone ever reads this enjoy #how do i put a cut in this srsly #typos in abundance bc mobile #also bc english tbh #sorry for that

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