when i was a horse | mcshep, .6k, t
thank you @pinkoptics for providing me with comfort and entertainment while i’ve been sick! and indulging my silly little ideas <3<3
read it below or on ao3
“A horse?”
“Yeah.” That comes out sounding more like a sigh than anything else as the blankets shift around on the bed. “A horse.”
“You fell asleep listening to me explain the finer points of tuning the deep space sensors and you dreamed I was a horse?”
John wrestles the blankets down, presumably just so Rodney can see the creative way he’s got his eyebrow raised, since he doesn’t say anything, just levels Rodney with a bland look.
Or he’s hot again.
“It makes sense,” Rodney says, setting aside his laptop and grabbing the thermometer off the nightstand. John’s fever had broken the day before, but Rodney’s not above being cautious. “Maybe. Horses are strong and fast and you like them, for whatever reason.”
John glares at him, but takes the thermometer anyway, shuffling up on the bed so he’s sitting up before sticking it under his tongue.
“And,” Rodney continues, curling his fingers to stop himself from smoothing John’s hair off his forehead. “And a horse could get you away—you did say you were captured, right? Stranded?”
The thermometer beeps and John squints down at the readout before setting it aside. “Normal.” He tips his head back against the headboard. “Don’t know why I still feel like shit.”
“Seems pretty normal for someone fighting off an alien infection,” Rodney says, pushing at John until there’s room for both of them on the bed. He gives a thought to the laptop across the room, but his tablet’s on the nightstand and that’s good enough for now. “How about next time you think twice before marching through a strange swamp with an open wound?”
“You weren’t complaining at the time,” John says, but he’s sinking down into his cocoon of blankets, throwing an arm around Rodney and pulling himself close.
Stealing one of John’s pillows to give him some relief where he’s propped up against the Ancient design of John’s headboard, Rodney finally allows himself a moment to run his fingers through John’s hair—manfully ignoring the fact that it’s 48 hours overdue for a wash. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, “but you’re bound by the limitations of having a human body, just like the rest of us.”
“Yeah, well,” John says, pushing his forehead against Rodney’s hip. “Tired of lying around all the time.”
Rodney very strategically does not point out that if John weren’t as sick as he is, he wouldn’t be lying in bed, because nothing ever keeps John in bed for long unless it’s serious—and not even that’s a sure thing. It’s not something Rodney’s ready to tempt fate over.
He says instead, “Was I heroic, at least? When I was a horse?”
“Don’t remember,” John says, and he’s fading fast. He hasn’t been able to stay awake long and Rodney’s really more than happy to let him rest but—
“Did you ride me?”
That has John grinning, a smile pulling at his lips even if his eyes remain closed. “Rodney,” he murmurs, exasperated and amused and Rodney’s heart feels more than a little full.
“What?” he asks, warm and in love and happier than he’s been since Carson had told them John would be just fine. “It was an honest question! You’re the one with your head in the gutter.”
John wraps himself around Rodney more firmly, his breath warm and distracting. “Teach you to ride a horse,” he says, only a little nonsensically.
Grabbing his tablet one-handed, his other hand still preoccupied with John’s hair, Rodney supposes it’s a good thing that the deep space sensors are running just fine.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE WAS A KNIGHT...
the visual inspiration for this was a combination of Frederic William Burton's Meeting on the Turret Stairs and also Bernardo Cavallino's The vision of St. Dominic receiving the Rosary from the Virgin
this was supposed to be just a one off illustration to get the thoughts out of my system, but then I started thinking about medieval politics and warfare and plagues and a castle and home as both a place of refuge, a prison, and a tomb, so perhaps they will end up as ex voto characters as well.
you may say, hey! that rosary looks like it has too many beads! it's a fifteen decade rosary, probably. dominicans are really into marian devotions. it works out.
also. spiral style stair cases. oh boy. it was that unexpectedly more difficult than I originally thought it would be to draw. the more I think about it, the less I understand them, even though I had a million photos of the stairs in front of me while I was drawing it.
⭐ I have a tip jar (ko-fi)!
⭐ and other places I’m at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app
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