#(but now i have access to so many books i think it's unavoidable)

[whereistheonepiece]

Currently wishing I could read two books simultaneously.

[tossawary]

I'm interested in reading a nonfiction book specifically on the disabling nature of pregnancy, childbirth, and childcare, and how this intersects with traditional gender roles and legal + financial oppression within many societies, but I'm also interested in reading about the intersection of feminism and disability more generally. (Preferably something that is not bioessentialist or transphobic nonsense.) Does anyone have any recommendations?

Let me ramble beneath a cut here on the area of interest I mean here. I promise I mean none of this in a weird bioessentialist or transphobic way, I've just been thinking a lot about how the physical realities (limitations, dangers) of reproduction affect our social structures, both in an activism way and also a fantasy worldbuilding way. I think "Dungeon Meshi" set off my thoughts on these things when it delved more seriously into the pain of long fantasy lifespans and the unavoidable violence of the food chain.

More generally (not talking about "Dungeon Meshi" any longer), I've taken note of fantasy and science fiction worlds which incorporate technological advancements for the author's convenience, allowing characters to act more freely and sidestep more realistic consequences of their actions, without apparently considering what these advancements mean for the shape of a society. These advancements include: effective birth control, effective protection against sexually transmitted health issues, relatively safe childbirth, relatively safe abortion, and substitute breast milk for infants. (And often menstruation is never mentioned.)

In most of these generic fantasy worlds I've encountered, the way that magic (or sufficiently advanced technology) shapes society is not the point of the story.

(Side note: I'm going to talk a lot about fantasy worldbuilding here, but I want to make it clear that I recognize this is a very serious topic and real people all over the world suffer from a lack of care regarding these issues. When I suggest that I find exploring these issues in fiction "interesting" or "fascinating", it's stemming partly from frustration in seeing these real and concerning issues represented so rarely in exploratory fiction meant to give voices to our nonfictional concerns, not that I find people's pain entertaining.)

A magic tea that keeps a character from getting pregnant exists as a device so that the reader can enjoy those sexy scenes without having to worry about birth control. An author might make a magical people "immune" to infections for similar reasons; now the audience can enjoy the "thrill" of unprotected sex with an incubus (impregnation kink) without having to think about the ick of getting syphilis. Magical healing exists to get our favorite character safely through childbirth, not because the author is interested in exploring what this might do to a world's birth rates. Magical infant formula exists so that our characters can look after an abandoned newborn, instead of dealing with the historic tragedy of infant mortality rates. And so on.

Many stories have alternate focuses besides this kind of technological + social worldbuilding for a variety of reasons! They just want to write sexy scenes or intricate political plots or sweeping adventures! That's fine! Sometimes, I also do not want to fucking think about the violent and deadly history of human reproduction.

And many OTHER stories DO deal with these things! I have read fantasy stories that say, "Hey, if magical healing is a thing, especially a thing that works as well or even better than our modern medicine, people would definitely try to control access to magic for power. And the religions of this world probably have lots of opinions on it. And it would generally effect the culture of this world on a foundational level, huh?" For some stories, this kind of worldbuilding is their whole thing. I have read some fantasy stories that do at least somewhat take into account what magical birth control and potentially reproductive autonomy might mean for the people there, though I might personally think that this kind of freely available technology would revolutionize society to a far greater degree than those fantasy worlds often depict.

See, I don't believe in gender or sex binaries, people are a lot more complicated than that, biology is a lot more complicated than that, and restricting legal rights and medical care and social roles based on either of those things is ridiculous. But I don't think it's unreasonable to point out that there are significant biological differences between groups of humans. (With blurry lines to these groups! Intersexuality is very much a thing!) Reproduction is necessary for the continuation of our communities, and in our reproduction, the pregnant parent bears a far greater physical burden and risk than the non-pregnant parent, which is really fucking unfair to everyone, but it's just the way that nature has it set up and we have to live with that process at the moment.

(Side note: no one should have to be pregnant or give birth if they don't want to. I also believe that, ideally, no one should have to care for a child if they don't want a child. This rambling may accidentally sound like "women are DESIGNED to have and care for children" nonsense, but 1) no human being or anything alive on this planet was "designed" for anything, that's horseshit thinking that's incredible harmful to people who physically cannot have children or are choosing not to have children so as to not pass on genetic issues, and 2) childfree people can do whatever they want forever. I may interchangeably use "pregnant people" and "women" because I'm switching off talking about physical reproduction and historical/modern oppression.)

(Also, yes, polyamory is a thing in relationships, and also people won't always live in partnership with the other bio parent of their children for whatever reason, but just go with me here for now.)

Historically, pregnancy and childbirth is a burden than has been borne by women. Currently, around the world, this is still a burden borne largely by women. And I've been wondering a lot about how much the oppression of women in our societies intersects with the oppression of the disabled. Even in ideal pregnancy and childbirth and childcare, without medical issues, it is a process that is at the very least temporarily disabling.

Some rare individuals can basically do hard labor throughout their pregnancy, up until the day they give birth, and then they're basically miraculously ready to run a marathon afterwards. Sure, whatever.

Most people do not have this experience with their pregnancy! Even if they do not experience more serious medical issues (which are a very real risk), a pregnant person is likely to at least get tired more easily and require more rest, to experience nausea and have specific dietary and nutritional requirements, to have achy feet and an aching back and other achy body parts, to have their mobility restricted by their belly and by looking after their belly. And so on! This is just scratching the surface!

By the end of their pregnancies, many people are unable to work. Many people are forced to work through draining pregnancies anyway, to get the supplies or money to survive, and suffer a variety of health issues later down the line. This inability to work leaves a significant group of people (the people who are producing the next generations within a community!) reliant on the compassion of their partners, families, or larger communities.

What if a society does not have a structure in place for those who cannot work? And who have no one to look after them? What if a person's partner or family or community is abusive? A physical and financial power imbalance is created by the unavoidably disabling nature of pregnancy.

And then there's childbirth, which comes with a very real risk of death or permanent health issues, to those with the best of modern healthcare and without. I don't feel like I need to get into this one too much.

But even if childbirth goes well, even if both parent and child are perfectly healthy afterwards, childcare itself restricts the formerly pregnant parent's ability to do things. Even waving aside the recovery period after childbirth, in a situation without infant formula or pumping + refrigeration, the breastfeeding parent is going to be stuck feeding the child multiple times every day and must stay close to them. In most situations, it makes sense that the breastfeeding parent is going to take on a lot of the childcare, and breastfeeding may go on for several years.

And though many people have done many impressive things with a child strapped to their back, an infant is both helpless and fragile. Toddlers are still fragile and still incapable of doing many things for themselves. Any human being, whether or not they were the pregnant parent, suddenly becomes limited in what they can do just by holding a baby. Caring for any human being, including the injured and sick and elderly, can be an exhausting situation and most carers are going to need help. Caretaking is work that will put limits on your ability to do other forms of work to survive.

And non-pregnant parents also deserve societal support! Especially if they have lost their partner for some reason or another and are now the sole caregiver for a child.

Thinking about all of this has underlined to me again just how much disability activism does for all "other" forms of activism. No one is better positioned to see how our societies fail to help and to care than those who need help and care to survive. What if a person cannot safely work? What if the work they can do is not enough to care for themselves and their dependents? What if a person cannot rely on the "compassion" of their local community? What would society look like if it was legally structured to provide unconditional support?

Reproductive rights and bodily autonomy seems to often become a high point of control. I'm not criticizing fantasy stories where magical birth control is readily available and it's just not an issue! It's nice to imagine that! But I do think it's worth thinking about how things like effective birth control and safe abortion potentially completely changes the way a society operates, giving people new control over their own bodies and futures. It's worth asking what power structures keep women (and other marginalized people) oppressed within a society when technology / medicine exists that could let them live freely. Is it a class issue? A religious issue? Can women legally tell men to fuck off or are they basically property in this setting?

(I think a lot about that one anecdote someone told about how their grandparents couldn't share a bedroom at one point, because though the couple loved each other very much and wanted to have sex, they just couldn't risk pregnancy again after all of the children they'd had and they had no effective birth control.)

(I also think a lot about the woman who tweeted about how birth control was good not just for "family planning" but because she wanted to have sex and didn't want children. She's the one who created / popularized the iconic phrase "die mad about it", I think. Amazing work.)

(I also think about how long it took for "marital rape" to be recognized as an issue and I want to fucking scream. It's STILL an issue in many places / situations.)

A society that does not freely provide medical care and childcare can never truly have "equality between sexes". Looking around at countries which complain about "declining" birth rates ("women choosing not to have children!!!") while also making it hellish (medically dangerous + a huge financial burden) to be pregnant or give birth or have children... I think I see part of their problem. Historically and into the modern day, pregnancy requires making yourself horribly vulnerable to your partner / family / community, and given the choice, even if they may want to be parents, a lot of people simply cannot afford the risk and burden of giving a child a good life. Pregnancy and childcare are often disabling and a lot of countries around the world treat disabled people terribly.

So, I'm interested in reading more about disability and feminism, as well as disability and children's rights, and disability and a lot of things, honestly. Or maybe something that just talks about childcare and pregnancy across a variety of societies around the world? Everything to do with "women are inherent this and men are inherently that" is bullshit, but there is an unavoidable power imbalance in reproduction (pregnant partner versus non-pregnant partner, which has historically been women versus men) which looks like it may have influenced traditional gender roles somewhat within some societies.

So, I'm looking for book recommendations.

[klawsfangs]

What a relationship with Klaus Mikaelson would include:

-Ok so obviously Klaus is really protective given his many enemies and he would literally do anything to keep you safe.

-Sometimes that can be exhausting since him beeing overprotective will probably end up with him not wanting you to go anywhere without him.

-that also includes : You want to go to a party with your friends? Cool klaus surprisingly has time too. You want to go to a concert of your favorite artist? How nice klaus also really likes the artist and yes he would love to go to this concert with you. You wanna go out to the bakery to get a cake? ,,don't stress yourself love, I will pick it up for you"

-so be prepared that he will pretty much follow you everywhere or makes sure that you don't even leave the house.

-even tho after some time it can start to get annoying you know that he only does that because he loves you sm and is scared to be without you

-let's discuss that "scared" topic a bit more. Klaus isn't really one to show his emotions and feelings. So when he opens up to you, you can be certain that you really are important to him.

-Once you gained his trust, which will be a hard and long way, he will literally talk to you all the time. His enemies tried to do that. His siblings annoyed him with that. He killed that person because of that.

-you will soon learn that he talkes about it sm because he wants to be understood. He wouldn't want you to be afraid of him or mad because of the things he does. He wants you to know his reasoning behind his actions so that you won't leave him.

-but if he does soemthing that really upsets you oh lord he would stop at nothing to earn your forgiveness. From your favorite flowers till a big vacation to your favorite country.

-we all know that klaus is soemone with MUCH pride so he isn't soemone that would normally beg. But if he really messed up then he would even get on his knees for you for sure. After all this man is completely wiped for you.

-He would do just about anything if you asked him too. Backstage tickets for your fav event? This new restaurant that just opend? This island that you really wanna travel to? Please he's klaus freaking mikaelson, he already booked and bought all of that for you.

-which brings us to our next topic. Gifts. Now this man knows how to give gifts. He know all your desires and wishes even tho you might never told him. One sparkling in your eyes when you look at soemthing? Well he knows what to give you to Christmas then.

-he has access to things and clothes you could only dream of. 1000 years of collection pays off. He will always have just the perfect present for you at hand. And he will always be happy to spoil you with them.

-When it comes to spoiling he really knows no end. Just this little things like your favorite flowers or the new book that you wanted will be daily received by you from him. But it can also be much bigger things like the car you always dreamed of. And if you want to go shopping well he his money is yours so don't even think about using your own money.

-how ever even tho all this things sound nice, there are some things that will also be unavoidable when you date nik.

-you will for sure get kidnapped by his enemies from time to time. Yes klaus will always get you back and protect you but still that can leave damage on you. You're in danger of getting anxiety, trust issues, panic attacks and other unpleasant things. After all kidnapping is not soemthing you just forget about, especially not when it happens often and not just once.

-You will get dragged into the Mikaelson family drama. No way around that🤷‍♀️ So believe me when I tell you it will never get bored with them. You will get involved in fights that aren't yours and you will not be able to get out of all of that easily.

-klaus however always tells you that he can send you away till the fight is over or that you will stay at the compound the whole time. He would never be disappointed or mad at you if you choose to not fight. He will always be there for you to comfort you and protect you when you need him and he will never drag you to things you don't want.

-in general he would never be disappointed in you. You broke his car? ,,it's okay my love I'm not mad, I will just buy me a new one" You accidentally failed the task he gave you?,, no need to be angry with yourself sweetheart, we will just do it together tomorrow" God you could even lose the damn white oak stake and he still wouldn't be really angry at you. Sure he would be a bit tensed and mad but he would never let that out on you.

- klaus is also surprisingly willing to cuddle with you. He will always want to make sure that you are warm, safe and comfortable. And where is a better place for that than in his arms?

-it doesn't matter if he's spooning you, if you lay your head on his chest or if you are fully on top of him as long as he can hold you in some way. Soemtimes if he had a bad day or soemthing he would even be the one coming to you for cuddles and not you coming to him. But psst don't tell anyone🤫

-In general klaus is really needy when if comes to your touch and attention. He can't stand when you even look at someone else. Poor boy wants to feel loved cause he never felt that before.

-he will always have a hand on you. Either its him holding your hand. Or his hand is on your tight. Or he will also often put his hand on the small of you back or around your hips.

-and if someone even dares to touch you or look at you the wrong way. Oh God stand that person by. He will probably be dead by night.

-all and all klaus is a really protective boyfriend who would stop a nothing for you. He will always shower you with love and be there for you when you need him the most.

-You are his light just as much as he is yours.

I will probably gonna do another part for the more nasty stuff😉

Goodnight everyone🤍

[bsaka7]

top 5 books you’ve read recently 🎤

I've been on a shit reading kick because I've been like inordinately stressed about moving (on Monday) and finishing my job and all that so hopefully I'll get back into the rhythm pretty soon here. Unsurprisingly, I've been reading a lot of footie books. Thank you for the ask!

Beartown by Fredrik Backman. NOT a footie book. It IS a fictional novel about hockey. The sequel sucks (which is why I reread this). But the original....this is a book that gets sports and sports town and family and love and the tragedies and struggles of a community and winning and losing and loving sports and what comes before that. Backman is my pop fiction GUY. It's a good one.

Invincible by Amy Lawrence. Look, everyone told me this book was good, but this book was GOOD. I really like Amy Lawrence - she's my favorite regular contributor to Handbrake Off, and though I occasionally gripe with her columns, I think she has such a beautiful and generous way of speaking about the game (and player). She loves Arsenal, she loves football. This book is no exception to that, and she had phenomenal access to the Invincibles themselves and...well. I wasn't there, and I'll never be there, and I'll be forever devastated by how it ended (to United, nonetheless), but I will relish getting as close as I can get. I also far prefer reading to watching - though with footie, the watching is unavoidable for any real understanding - and she does a good job bridging the gap that exists there.

Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir. I love a bit of scifi and I think he did a great job creating an "alien" that is interesting and compelling and different and cool. The ending wasn't TOTALLY my favorite but well. The power of science and friendship and teaching and shame and all that. Not too shabby!

Thierry Henry: Lonely at the Top by Phillipe Auclaire. I actually didn't think this book was that great when I read it, although Auclaire does a good job bringing the reader through Henry's career and some of the issues that have eclipsed it at various points. Like I said in the previous post, he has an ambivalence towards Henry that I found very interesting and reflective. I think this is both an interesting look at Henry, the player and the discourses that surrounded him throughout his career about his play and his attitude, as well as some larger themes about football.

Reflections from the North Country by Sigurd Olson. I technically read this for work. Olson is such an important conservationist especially in the upper Midwest and I'd definitely be open to reading more of his work, although I was surprised and disappointed by how..."primitavist" this was at times. I think understanding the discourses at work in "foundational" works like those of Olson are really important in understanding how rhetoric - in this case around conservation and preservation and especially wilderness in the "North Country" - develops and continues to be embedded how we talk about those issues now. At the same time, I do also enjoy environmentalist writings, with their MANY flaws, and this was no exception.

[loonyoz]

Idk I guess I should make a pinned post? Sideblogs, links to my art posts, and info about me below the cut

@hezele is where I’m attempting to write fanfiction

I might make a sideblog for my art someday? Idk

My Art:

Right now I just have very random bg3 art

Wyllstarion Howl’s Moving Castle AU:

Wyll making a pact

Wyll and Astarion

Sketch of Wyll in demon bird form

Sketch of fem!Wyll

Strictly Ballroom Wyllstarion

Sketch of Branwyn, @/odessa-castle 's oc from their lovely fic Nothing Like the Sun. (highly recommend giving it a read!)

Used to have supernatural art and non fan art posted but got self conscious and deleted it lol.

Other notes and info about me:

I would list all my interests (like books, shows, etc.) but uhhh that list is way too long. Honestly I feel like I love most things/genres/media and am always looking for more art to engage with and appreciate.

I try to put alt text on all my posts that have images but I’m pretty sure I’m ass at it lol. Lmk if you have suggestions for me on how to make my posts more accessible or my alt text better and I will do my best to implement it.

This is the internet so I really don’t want to share much about myself, but I think it goes without saying I’m very neurodivergent and queer lol. I use way too many terms but genderfluid, transmasc, and nonbinary are the best descriptors for myself.

Branching off of that I want to say the internet is a difficult place to navigate, especially socially. I’m sure I make lots of mistakes on how to communicate best with people online, but I try my best to do so as respectfully and kindly as possible. The internet is a great way to get information and have discussions about important topics, but there are many pitfalls and problems that can occur that are too numerous and complicated to get into here (although I’m sure anyone whose been on the internet for all of 5 seconds is familiar with them).

I use tumblr mainly to discuss creative media and I also don’t feel I’m qualified or informed enough to speak on most serious/real world topics. So I try to avoid bringing up alot of real world issues on my blog because I worry I would only be detrimental to these causes. Of course, creative media is not off in its own bubble from the real world and so real life problems are bound to be part of the art or discussions.

I bring this up for two reasons. One, I don’t want people to see my lack of activism and feel uncomfortable, or that I don’t care. This is unavoidable but perhaps this alleviates some people’s worries. Two, I want people to know I’m open to constructive criticism and learning new things. If I post something that you think is misinformed or hurtful, and you’re willing to tell me, I want to know about it and what I can do to improve. And on lighter note, I love to analyze stories and art and provide my thoughts and opinions on it. My favorite thing is to have discussions/arguments about interpretations of stories and ideas. So as long you approach me in a respectful/kind way I would be overjoyed to chat.

Anyway if you read this far, thanks for slogging through the wall of text :). Tumblr is glitchy but Im pretty sure most of my followers are bots I need to block 🤷

[yellowocaballero]

Human Relations Snippet: Tim teaches Jon the internet and odious goats are sacrificed to the cult of Bezos

There’s no reason for this to exist. I was rereading a bit of HR and I saw a throwaway joke about Jon wanting to buy Martin a Portal Gun. I started wondering about how that would even work. The answer is, obviously, a 200 year old man squinting at a computer screen wondering why there’s so many horny singles in his area. I get possessed by demons easily, so I took three hours out of writing my daemon au and wrote this instead. Bon Appetit. 

(Edit, quick clarification: I think that Jon would refuse to use the name for the Beholding that Smirke made up, and although all of this exists in my head and you guys don’t know this, there was a lot of tension between Jon and Jonah’s ‘circle’. So Jon hated Smirke and thought he was a hack. He uses Smirke’s terms to others sometimes for ease of understanding or in deference to Jonah (:/) but I think that mentally he mainly calls the Beholding his own name, The Witness. It rings of that personal and intimate connection Jon and the Beholding has. Anyway, onto the story.)

After one hour in anguished uncertainty, fifty popups that advised Jon of very many ‘hot singles in his area’, six separate sites that Jon’s God had to inform him were covers for thieves that stole money from you, and a very confusing retreat to Jon’s favorite internet page ‘Wikipedia’ as to what an Amazon was, Jon had given up.

Normally this was where he asked one of his personal assistants for help. Normally, he wouldn’t even be trying, and he would have just told one of them to do it. This was how Jon had cunningly mostly avoided using computers for the past twenty years. Some endeavors were unavoidable, and Jon was proud to say that he mastered email in 2010. Or was it 2008? He liked to think it was 2006, but it was possible...never mind. If it was important, the Witness would tell him. 

After one hour in anguished uncertainty, fifty popups that advised Jon of very many ‘hot singles in his area’, six separate sites that Jon’s God had to inform him were covers for thieves that stole money from you, and a very confusing retreat to Jon’s favorite internet page ‘Wikipedia’ as to what an Amazon was, Jon had given up.

Normally this was where he asked one of his personal assistants for help. Normally, he wouldn’t even be trying, and he would have just told one of them to do it. This was how Jon had cunningly mostly avoided using computers for the past twenty years. Some endeavors were unavoidable, and Jon was proud to say that he mastered email in 2010. Or was it 2008? He liked to think it was 2006, but it was possible...never mind. If it was important, the Witness would tell him.

Peter Lukas was right on almost nothing, Jon thought disgruntledly as he slammed his laptop shut - including in his taste of men, company, philosophies, men, patron deities, professions, and men - but he was right in his proclamation that the internet was the degradation of society. Not that he hadn’t sacrificed his morality and sold out, feeding his patron through something called “incel forums” and “Reddit”. Between him, Jonah’s “Excel spreadsheets” and “TurboTax”, and Annabelle Cane’s ridiculous “MMO guilds”, the Society was filling with computer geeks. Jon could always read the wind: he had to keep up, and quickly. 

Besides, Martin had kindly educated him on how it was almost unheard of for a young man like Jon to not understand how to work that Goggle thing. Giggle? Martin was very streetwise and was one of the most insightful people Jon had ever known, he was definitely right. 

Which is why he had to buy him this “Portal Gun” that he wanted. He had even shown Jon the website! And if Jon was in desperate times trying to navigate these confusing webpages entirely with URLs he memorized, then he would take desperate measures!

“I’m going down to the Archives,” Jon said, slithering off the couch and clutching his laptop to chest. Jonah had bought it for him. He appeared surprised that Jon was using it. “I may not be back for a while. I need...a book.”

Jonah didn’t look away from his own infernal machine. It seemed he was on that ‘Excel’ program again. Was it one of those ‘video games’ he kept hearing about? “Do I want to know what you were doing on that laptop.”

“Reading Wikipedia,” Jon said immediately, and somewhat defensively. Jon had discovered Wikipedia in 2001 before promptly funding it and throwing his weight behind its development. He had spent a solid five years convinced a computer was a kind of electronic screen that let you read digital Encyclopedia pages, like in Star Trek. He’d seen Star Trek. Georgie made him. “Did you know that -”

“Yes, yes, have fun. Haven’t you read that entire site already?”

“Not even,” Jon said defensively. “I can’t just sit and read through entire Encyclopedias anymore, Jonah. We know more things now.”

“What a way to describe the last two hundred years,” Jonah said, not even looking away from his computer. “We know more things. Never change, Jon.”

“You’re the one who never changes,” Jon grumbled. But it was a weak comeback, and considering his brand new delightfully short stature somewhat untrue, so Jon breezed out of Jonah’s office with full knowledge that he’d think of a better comeback halfway down the steps to the Archives.

In fact, it wasn’t until he was at the door, and by then he felt stupid for losing a point against Jonah anyway. He easily opened the door, stepping inside and quickly bee-lining for Sasha’s office. Her burgeoning powers were wonderfully flowing in the shape of access to and understanding of technology. He had never seen such gratuitous breeches of privacy as she casually committed. Every day Jon was validated in his decision to save her from the Stranger. A balance, an equal yet opposite Archivist from Jon, would be invaluable. Not that Jonah and Jon weren’t their own yin and yang, but Jonah’s powers were paltry and out-of-date. Mind reading and spying through iconography was so 1960. They needed fresh blood. 

Sasha had been a wonderful choice, and Jon didn’t regret choosing her to act as saviour. Most of the time. Some of the time she -

“She’s not in.”

Jon’s fist halted in front of the door, about to sharply rap on her office door. He turned around to actually look through the bullpen, only to see that Timothy was sitting in his chair chewing a sandwich. Somehow angrily. Definitely suspiciously. 

“Are you sure?” Jon asked dubiously. “Because you’ve lied about this before.”

“Because you should stop coming down here and bothering her.” Timothy balled the saran wrap in his hand and dunked it in the trash can, somehow undoubtedly giving the impression that he wished it was Jon’s head. “Just bugger off.”

Someone was in a snit. Normally Timothy wasn’t this hostile. Jon had thought that learning his name might make him less mean, but it did little to help. But when Jon looked around he didn’t see Martin, and a quick check assured him that both Sasha and Martin were having lunch at their favorite deli and engaging in that plotting hobby they both enjoyed. Timothy had elected to stay behind, stewing in his own angry and paranoid juices. 

He would have to do this with Martin out of the Archives...and he really wanted to take care of this now so Martin would get it before the weekend...and it wasn’t as if Jon was scared of this boy he was one hundred and seventy years older than…

“Uh,” Jon said intelligently, “can you help me with...something…”

Timothy’s face twisted in a novel combination of surprise and disgust. “What,” he sneered, “your evil fear god or whatever can’t figure it out for you?”

“I don’t need others to think for me,” Jon said stiffly. It was something he’d had to say far too many times. “The Witness is less helpful with...troubleshooting...look, do you know how to work a computer?”

Timothy stared at him blankly. “Like, at all?”

“I’m trying to buy Martin this toy he desires,” Jon said desperately. Fuck it all, he walked over and sat down in the chair next to Tim’s desk. He pulled a little bit closer, placing his laptop on Tim’s desk, and ignored the way the other man leaned away. “But whenever I try I keep on seeing alerts about hot singles. I’m not interested in young women, I just need to buy a ‘Portal Gun’. Do you know what a Portal Gun is?”

Timothy continued staring at him, eyebrows raised. Clearly involuntarily, so quick that he may not even have noticed, one corner of his lips was ticking upwards into a smile. 

“How many credit card scams have you fallen for?”

“Absolutely none,” Jon said, very quickly. He pulled out his credit card, placing it on the table. He knew a credit card was involved, although he didn’t know how. “What do I do? Do I swipe it? Is there a port?” He picked up the laptop and squinted at its sides, looking for a port. “I wanted to ask Sasha for help, since she’s the expert in hacking, but surely you know the basics?”

“I mean...I can’t, like, code, but yeah, I can work Amazon.” Timothy carefully opened the laptop, watching the display light up. He effortlessly navigated to an icon on the screen, clicking it open. 

“That’s not right,” Jon said urgently. “You’re supposed to press the E.”

“I do not want to know how many toolbars you have,” Timothy said bluntly. “We’re using Chrome. That’s another way to look at the Internet.” He rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, I got a grandmother, we can do this.”

Jon perked up. “So you’ll help?”

Went unsaid: even though you hate me?

“Whatever,” Timothy grumbled. Jon decided not to press his luck. 

Jon decided that he liked the Chrome better than the Internet Explorer, because it was simpler and Google was on the first page. Tim rapidly typed on ‘Amazon.com’ into the search bar and easily scrolled through the very busy and picture filled page that immediately popped up. Why was everything so fast? Maybe this was why the young people had no attention span: these pages just came up immediately. No flipping for indices for finding anything in phone books. 

“Right. What was it, a Portal Gun? Like from the game?”

“A board game?”

“Video game.”

“Like on a VHS…?”

“Right.” Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, Sasha said that you’re one of the most famous sociologists and anthropologists in British history.”

“I am extremely intelligent, Timothy, and I won’t abide any insinuation otherwise,” Jon said curtly. “I cannot be expected to keep constant track every time there’s another - iPhone or whatever. You have teenagers in your family, correct? Do you always know what they’re talking about? That’s, what, a twenty year age gap? Multiply that by ten.”

That shut him up. Timothy sighed again, much more aggressively, but he clicked the white bar and typed in ‘portal gun’ anyway. “Right. Not fucking apologizing, but right. I still don’t fucking know what ‘Twitch’ is.”

“It’s a brief spasmodic contraction of the muscle fibers,” Jon said helpfully. “Fascinatingly, this phenomenon was first observed in frog’s legs before I was even born in 1780, by Luigi Galvani. Erudite man, by the way, but he couldn’t hold his liquor. It was the birth of the study of bioelectricity, although the exact mechanism of muscle contraction eluded scientists for years.”

“Never mind.” Timothy sighed again, the perfect mix of aggravated and long-suffering. It seemed to be the man’s two favorite emotions. “My grandmother has a PhD and she still can’t figure out her cell, either. We had to get her a Jitterbug.”

Amazon, as Timothy explained, was a kind of shopping mall, except you could pick out what you wanted by its picture and have the shopping mall pack it up and send it to you. Jon didn’t quite understand why people preferred this to just going to a shop yourself, seeing as you could get it immediately instead of with a three or four day turnaround, but Tim explained that Amazon was cheaper, had a wider selection, and didn’t make you get off the couch.

“Oh,” Jon said, finally getting it, “this follows the economic model of large scale businesses underpricing their products to undercut smaller businesses in the area, driving them out of business until they hold monopoly over the market and can raise their prices without worrying about staying competitive.”

Timothy stared at him. 

“I mean,” he said, “I guess?”

“This explains why my Alexa project was successful so quickly,” Jon mused. “With a lack of competition or alternatives, consumers are more likely to accept the dramatic invasions of privacy as normal. Normalizing intrusions into privacy took ages, but my early efforts paid off very well. The Ring doorbell was even better, along with the line of security and home protection systems. We’re now working on live streamed 24/7 surveillance to social media platforms.”

Timothy stared at him further. 

Finally, he said, “Alexa was...you?”

“Of course,” Jon said, baffled. Who else would it be? “I gave Jeff the idea and convinced him it would be profitable. I didn’t understand the whole mechanics of it, but once I gave Jeff a vision from the Witness he was eager to implement the divinely inspired spyware.”

Timothy continued to stare. 

“The evil fear god controls Jeff Bezos.”

“He thinks I’m a prophet, actually,” Jon said helpfully. “I let him become Cardinal of the imaginary cult in exchange for funding some of my more esoteric programs. Had him sacrifice a goat and everything, it was great.” At Timothy’s alarmed look, Jon was quick to elaborate, “It was the most evil goat you’ve met in your life. Morally odious.”

“...for my sanity I’m going to pretend that you said none of that.”

In retrospect, although Timothy had worked at the Institute for a few years, it did take quite a bit of time to acclimate to the fact that the Avatars permanently shaped the shape of human existence in order to better feed their gods. Jon knew better than anyone: when humanity made gods, and gods made man, and man made gods...the feedback loop could self-perpetuate for years. Eternity, if needed. 

But they had no luck on ‘Amazon’. With Jon’s eidetic memory he was able to easily pick out the one that looked most similar to the one that Martin had showed him, but all of the little toy guns were for someone named ‘Rick’. Then Timothy took twenty laborious minutes explaining the entire plot of ‘Rick & Morty’ to him, which Jon patiently sat through. 

“I think young people today deeply enjoy explaining media,” Jon said, once Timothy finished telling him the funny jokes. “I’m very interested in your interests, Timothy.”

“You are so fucking condescending. And please call me Tim, you’re sounding even more like my grandmother.” When Jon brightened, Tim - Tim! - quickly said, “This does not mean we are friends.”

Granted, Jon had never once in his life gave a shit about making friends, but he felt as if he should be making more of an effort with Tim. He was a sort of supernatural brother in law, wasn’t he? Although Sasha perhaps Sasha was more of a favored niece. At least, he would be, if today’s generation found some morality and stopped living in sin. 

Good lord. Now he was sounding like Jonah. Georgie used to joke that he was born in the wrong generation - he should have been born a 17th century Puritan instead. Jon found it a very funny joke. Jonah did not. 

“Are there any other shopping websites?” Jon asked finally, after Amazon failed them. He’d have to call up Jeff later and complain. “Or is this the only one?”

Tim sighed. “Let’s check Google.”

Quickly and efficiently, yet with many lightning fast detours, Tim found another site called ‘eBay’ - pronounced ‘e-Bay’, not ‘ehbay’ - that listed off exactly what they needed. They weren’t under the toy section, instead listed as something called ‘cosplay’, but Tim seemed highly resistant to explaining that one, so he dropped it. 

They picked a likely looking white toy gun that looked the most similar to the one that Martin had liked and Tim talked Jon through punching in the numbers on his card into the website and sorting through the billing and shipping information. Tim helpfully took down the numbers on his card to file later. 

“And...done!” Tim said, pressing a button and leaning back. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“It was ten times as complicated as I thought it would be,” Jon assured him, “but also much more fun. What else can you buy online?”

“Oh, god. What can’t you buy.”

Jon brightened. “Can you buy books?”

“Old Gertrude used to buy Leitners on eBay,” Tim said dully, “so yeah, sure, why not.”

Jon stared at his computer. He carefully navigated the mouse to the big red x and clicked out of the internet browser. “That’s enough of eBay, then, I think.”

Guess he would have to stick to buying Leitners in person. It was no good buying fucked up books from sketchy sources. Always stick to people you trusted, or at least trusted to be themselves. Mikaele was Jon’s favorite supplier since the kid Leitner disappeared, and they had a pleasant working relationship. Mikaele shared his grandfather’s stories about the history and culture of the Maori, and Jon told him which of his haunted artifacts would be the most helpful in the imminent apocalypse. 

“Well,” Tim said finally, gently pushing Jon’s laptop away, “that was...something, great bonding session with my local supervillain, please run back to Elias and bother him instead.”

“You were very helpful, Mr. Stoker,” Jon said, as professionally yet paternally as possible. Tim was six years older than his body, so he’s not sure how it came off, but the touch of grey at his temples helped with the dignified air. “And as soon as you start acting like a man and propose to my Archivist, you’ll make an excellent brother in law -”

“Uh, excuse me?”

Jon spun around in his chair to see Sasha and Martin standing at the door, holding doggy bags and looking somewhat flummoxed. Probably confused at the sight of him and Tim having a civil conversation, which admittedly had never happened before. Possibly also confused at how completely mortified Tim looked. 

“Who said anything about proposing?” Sasha asked incredulously. “Tim, are you -”

“No! No, god no!” Tim stood up quickly, holding his hands out as if he was placating a raging bull. “Nobody’s been saying anything - I would never do that to you -”

“Oh,” Sasha said frostily, crossing her arms and letting the bags swing, “would you.”

That was a domestic Jon should stay out of, even though he definitely caused it. He and Martin sidled away in tandem, huddling near the back of the Archives as Tim frantically pled for his life. 

Sneakily, Jon glanced at Martin out of the corner of his eye. He looked happy. Happy, and just as stressed as he always looked - Jon had never known Martin when he wasn’t constantly stressed out, and he was more than aware that it was his fault. 

He looked good, too. Really nice, broad jawline that gave his face a friendly round shape. Just friendly and round in general, it was really handsome. His hair was as nicely short and ruffles as ever. The big glasses were super stylish, and really framed his face well. Really big, broad hands. Jon, who had always been so poky and tall and thin and gaunt, like some kind of haunted scarecrow that lurked through the corners of time, was envious. He wanted some of that softness and gentleness. Really, he wanted some of Martin’s -

“So what were you and Tim doing?” Martin asked. “I didn’t know you knew he existed.”

“You told me his name,” Jon said anxiously. “I don’t forget the things you tell me, you know.”

Martin smiled shyly and him, and Jon found himself smiling back. “It’s pretty good for my ego to hear that I have something to teach the immortal genius.”

“I don’t know,” Jon said, as Sasha yelled in the background, “I’ve been learning a lot lately.”

“Really?” Martin teased. “Anything interesting?”

“Oh,” Jon said, watching the yellow fluorescent light cast Martin’s dim smile in soft relief, “I can think of a few things.”

[linklethehistorian]

New Working Link to DarkestJay’s English Translation of Fifteen & Commentary on the Discrepancies Therein (PLEASE READ)

Information below the cut for length, as well as spoiler information relating to my article.

If recently you’ve tried to access DarkestJay8686’s English Translation of Fifteen on WattPad through the link I provided at the beginning of my article, you’ve probably already noticed that that link is, unfortunately, very dead; the reason that this has happened is because, sadly, as of late, they — and other translators in the fandom who also post their works to WattPad — have been facing a struggle with their works constantly being flagged on the site and forcibly removed for copyright reasons multiple times over, forcing them to eventually give up and move their content somewhere else where it would be safe from harm.

Upon learning of their arrival on a new, safer platform, I had considered simply exchanging the old link out for the new one at the beginning of my article, where it was before, and altering my notes to reflect this, and I’m sure that I still will as soon as I can find the time to rework everything properly, but in the meanwhile, there’s something I’ve also badly needed to discuss with you all about these translations for some time, and what better time and way, I thought, than to do it in this post where I provide you with the new link?

I’m sure that many of you reading both my article and their translation have noticed that back in the Arcade scene, there was something I had mentioned happening in the novel that didn’t quite match up with DarkestJay’s presentation of those events — namely, Sheep being the first to leave the building, instead of Dazai and Chuuya; well, that difference is actually quite important as one of the main reasons why, while their work may overall be excellent and I do encourage everyone to read it regardless, I still personally would never recommend making it the only thing you read if you want to truly understand Fifteen and all of its events 100% correctly.

Yes, I am saying exactly what you think I’m saying: my information within my article was NOT incorrect — Jay’s translation of the scene, however, was, and if you don’t believe me, you can go read Lea’s translation of the scene and see it for yourself.

Now, before I say anything else, I want to make this 100% clear: I in no way am intending to imply that Jay’s work on the whole is anything but exceptional, nor am I even remotely saying that you shouldn’t read at all; in fact, I highly recommend you do read it in its entirety, because despite a few small mis-steps, as someone who owns two copies of the original Japanese light novel, has read many an English translation, and knows this story extensively well, I will be the first to very enthusiastically say that this translation is actually quite good and very, very helpful overall — an absolutely essential resource for anyone who does not speak the original language but still wants to read, experience and understand Fifteen as if they could. I am extremely, extremely grateful and appreciative of their hard work in making that possible for all English speakers, and I don’t ever want to come across as anything else or make it seem like any of that is any less than true.

That being said, though, it nevertheless absolutely cannot and should not be your only resource on the matter, because if it is, you will unavoidably end up being misled on some matters — unintentionally, of course, but still misled all the same.

Because this was translated well after the anime came out — unlike Lea’s partial but nonetheless equally wonderful translation, which came into existence very shortly after the novel was first handed out in theaters alongside DEAD APPLE, a whole year before the animated adaption was even a concept — DarkestJay’s translation does have some points where it is extremely clear that said television show’s rather poorly handled and highly inaccurate interpretation very heavily affected the OP’s perception of things, and thus caused the OP, Jay, to incorrectly interpret and translate certain parts of some scenes and/or dialogue that otherwise might not have been super clear to someone not fully, extensively familiar with the language.

Specifically, as I mentioned above, there is the one particular instance among the many that I can easily point out: due to the pre-knowledge of the anime’s awful take on the story, there is a point in this translation where Jay simply assumes it to be true that Dazai and Chuuya were the ones to leave the Arcade, with Sheep calling out to their retreating backs, and thus incorrectly translates it as such, when in fact it unfolds in exactly the opposite manner in the original version of the tale; likewise, there are also many bits of dialogue throughout the entirety of the book where the perceived “understanding” of the characters’ nature’s as the show wrongly presented them caused Jay to take the liberty of wording things in certain different ways, or make certain alterations to the type of punctuation used that Jay believed suited them, rather than leaving them in their unaltered states, as they were intended to be read.

This is the major issue with going into a project like this with this kind of confirmation bias; no matter how good your intentions may be, because you expect that you already understand something or know what’s going to happen, you’re much more likely to think it’s safe to cut corners, and rather than carefully researching the context, tone, and other specifics and particulars of every line before you write it out and post it — the way you would if you started with a completely blank slate and no idea of what would happen in it — you will more often than not just assume that it plays out in the way you expect it to if it seems close enough, and quickly go with that presumption as if it is fact without bothering to make 100% sure of it.

Again, no offense to OP, because translation work is very hard, and as I said, overall, it is a wonderful translation and I do think it’s well worth the read, but problems like this are why I personally recommend anyone reading this to also check out Lea’s translated summary with excerpts and translation of the bonus chapter in conjunction with Jay’s, as Lea’s came out long before a Fifteen anime was even a concept and, as such, was completely unbiased — therefore being an excellent source to check facts against where possible.

Of course, there are definitely also some points where both translations are different but neither is actually wrong — as while Lea’s is less literal about every phrasing so it’s not super awkward sounding in English and flows better to read, Jay’s is almost always more literal instead, and thus differences in personal preference for wording can easily diverge while still getting the point across fine in both — but these instances are much different from the ones where it is clear Jay actually slipped up, so I’m sure you won’t have trouble defining them. As much as I would like to be of help in this regard, I must sadly inform you that I will not personally be pointing out all of these slip-ups here at this time, nor do I have any plan to do so at any time in the foreseeable future. for I have neither the time nor the desire to go about critiquing a fellow fan’s work when I’m already dedicating enough time and energy just to writing about the mountain of mistakes that the anime made without also adding more difficult and unnecessary extra work onto that.

If you have any questions about a particular line in the translation and if it indeed is correct, you can absolutely feel free to send me an ask about it and I will try to help you with it to the best of my ability, but beyond that, I will not be engaging with the matter much farther than I already have.

(However, on one last note, I will, for now, add that — as I expect this might become a point of much contention and is something that will come up in my article later on, anyway — the “it must be because I love you” scene that you will find in Jay’s translation is actually not exactly one such instance where a mistake was made, at least in regards to the “‘I love you” bit; if you’re curious about the exact details of how that all works, you can read about it in my post here. So yes, that does indeed exist, and you are free to take it in whatever way you want. I’m not personally an SKK shipper myself, but if that’s your thing, then good for you — go for it and enjoy it; it can be canon support for your ship if you want it to be.)

Thank you for reading, and, as promised, here is the link to Jay’s new account, as well as their Twitter, and where you can currently access their translation of Fifteen. Enjoy.

[See the recent related addendum]

[View the masterlist of my article]

[izartn]

MDZS JGY fic promt

I’m thinking about Meng Yao/Jin Guangyao and I think I would love to read a fic of him snapping in the opposite direction of his desperate grab for power and respect from his shit father. We know, thanks to JGS gruesome murder that at some point, after already being a shitty human doing murdery things, JGY snapped hard and said: “if i’m gonna do the shitty things of running this sect i’ll do them for myself and fuck you to death”. Quite literally. 

So I’d like to imagine a world where he, like, not necessary becomes a much better person; I dunno about the JZX and WWX kill plot, or about NMJ. I think he’s very set in his auto-preservating self-beneficing ways, and if you don’t really work well with that part of his chara then he’s not JGY anymore. 

But instead of being, I’ll become the highest in the cultivation world, so i will be finally respected and listened to (uhm, didnt’ work especially well did it? they never let him forget his mother profession when it was his father who was the absolute worst) he decides that while cultivation is still something to aspire to -can’t forget about his mother dying dream, also longer life and health benefits + being a hero, doing the decent thing- he realises the cultivation sect system as it is horrible. 

He was in the middle of the war, he saw it from both sides. He then went to low to high but still a servant. And it’s always blood what counts. He sees what happens to his other bastard brothers, to WWX when he decides enough is enough, and how he himself is still treated by his Sect despite his intelligence and abilities. And instead of trying to take refuge in the system, he is a bit more self-aware or inquiring; maybe he is more idealistic in some ways? But still oh so bitter, and decides to destroy the system from within.

You know what? Do it so he still rises to Leader of the Jin Sect (without prostitutes murdering and necrophilia; he is now more on the side of the common, so maybe he gets the help of Sisi or someone he knows to aid him poison his father and after he gets them a nice reward and packs them to a new life in Japan or something. Or he simply uses another subtle method without intermediaries or with unaware ones, he is certainly able of doing that when he isnt being an ironic murderer shit.) because it’ll serve him, and to be the leader responsible of making sure the so estimated Jin blood is disposesed will make him smug pleased. To slowly gain power and bit by bit erase the division between the noble clans and people who learn simply bcs of talent, scouting youngsters witht the excuse of replenishing the clans after the war and quiting the idiots nobles from their spoiled positions. 

Hell you can even make LXC and NMJ (did he died before or after JGY becomes Sect Leader? Well if he is still alive, NHS doesn’t destroy him, but then WWX doesn’t come back. If he dies before, then the vengeance is still in play, but it’ll be even more fraughted bcs now JGY goals and methods are a lot more morally grey and watching WWX and LWJ confront that would be super interesting O-O), you can make them see those policies and be like, oh sure, that’s a good thing you’re doing A-yao. But also conflict with their positions in the nobility system, as time pases and JGY subtly passes more changes and brings to ruin those sect leaders more entrenched in the old ways and abusing of their people.

 Programs for literacy, for the spread of knowledge and the civil use of cultivation techniques with the excuse of avoiding beforehand the formation of ghosts and resentment appealing to the lazy nature of the rich while eliminating bit by bit the necessity of their existence, like boiling a frog, the creation of the watchtowers still fits nicely and we know in canon he faced oppposition there so here it’s more important still, even more so Su She I think, will be elated with this turn of events and even more loyal lmao if JGY sells it well and JGY sells his ideas really well. 

Maybe he helps XXC and SL bcs it’s in his interest they find success although he finds them naive; but JGY has a canon soft spot for people who treat him well regardless of his common born status, so. Maybe he intercedes with XY and convinces him to work with him taking out nobles reasonably (I bet XY will like that), and manages to avoid somehow XY elaborated revenge on SL and XXC? or executes him when he is too much of a wild card, but we know how that ended in canon... The best bet is making XY see on his own best interest to help in JGY vision but that’s well. almost crack fic lmao. 

OH! Maybe he finds XY before the massacre of the Chang clan bcs he is searching for someone to help him above table and gets to him by offering a more subtle but still suitable appropriate revenge with the pro bonus of getting to do the same to others after and access to WWX manuscripts. You know this has a much higher chance of working, let’s go with this scenario. So he keeps XY out of his father reach, when he is searching for someone to gain control of the stygian seal and wen ning. Yeah, this will appeal immensely to JGY xD

You know, and JGY being beloved by the people, and having more than a facade of being just or fair, but proving it although it isn't in the interest of the nobles. And as he is politics savvy, although with more effort he could certainly make it so he avoids assassinations or walking in a minefield like wwx etc. 

Depending on the NMJ situation... You could make it so NMJ doesn’t die and then they enter a stalemate of grudging respect bcs JGY wants more an ally in swaying people for his cause than his revenge, although he sure could make non lethal things to inconvenience NMJ lol. And NHS as sect leader wouldn’t have the same power to his decisions and reach, no matter if he is more manipulable; after all isn’t NHS a pampered noble in JGY eyes? Who could be sure if he even would follow JGY anyways... 

And you could give it different endings depending on the development of JGY: a success where he gets to the point were factually the sects aren’t bloods based anymore, just a few like the lan (those traditionalists lol) resisting an unavoidable wave of change taht comes for everybody, and the money doesn’t flow in their pockets like a river to the ocean but instead it goes back to the people. 

You could make it so it’s a partial success bcs JGY is still himself and does more than a few morally grey things that come to light with the NMJ murder reveal, but his changes linger and the common people plus others of the same ideal now trained and in process of being cultivators won’t let themselves be cowered by the awful nobility -another big conflict breeding, and maybe it won’t be successful but people have long memories and books and the new ideals of equality would spread regardless, so it would start again and again each time a bit better-. I think WWX POV in this case would be delicious omg, LXC conflict even more pointed. This would be, I think the more realistic and interesting to write take on the idea. Iand you now, I’m in favor of a novel setting and characterization, but to make it more painful, use the 16 gap of the show and nothing else (i haven’t see the show beyond the first episodes bcs i couldn’t take it lol)  so JGY has more time to make changes. 

You could make a downer ending (this I wouldn’t like lmao, but it’s there) so that shows the cruelty and inability of making changes to something so integrated and supported by itself, that JGY loses much to his revenge he takes more and more radical actions that come back to bit his ass with NMJ and JGS murder revelation. I think XY in here would be appropriate, in an antagonist role as in MDZS. But it still has an impact; JGY’s life, despite his faults was still more inspirational, made better impact than his canon self. Make it poetically tragic and a comment on the futility of trying to change society by oneself, but find beauty in the attempt itself which has created community, which will in the future do the true work of overthrowing the yokes of the high ups, educating and helping each other in their messy human lives.

All this ending, and JL conflict, who at this point has learnt much at his uncle JGY side, who has decided to (dunno about marrying QS and A-Song’s death. depending on your take and ending it’ll have different impact) go on with his labor bc he sees the good on it and swears to not be like the worst of JGY. A legacy he can reconcile with himself thanks too, to the experience of meeting WWX. JL is in a more fraught position with JC in this verse, I think, bc for one, he is more mature/not so spoiled and that would make JC glad, but his ideas are at the same time understable and anatema to JC who puts so much of his life on honoring the clan on making sure the Jiang carry on and his name isn’t forgotten but who recruited from nothing during the war. Who sees the danger in alienating the powers of the cultivation sects bc he saw what it did to WWX and he believes in protecting his own and to hell with the rest. 

So very interesting!!! 

You could spin so many takes from this, it’d be so fascinating and satisfying. I’d love to see the chara of JGY developed in this direction, bcs he has so much potential to waste it in so petty goals. His ambition is certainly big enough to believe he will damn well do a silent revolution well. 

Just, using the classics to argue for equality and education and a good life even if you’re a peasant, using the cultivation basis and its suppose use to better oneself and the world in making a point of avoiding wars and violent retribution (to the public, he’s still a bit of an hypocrit bcs it serves him well to have a stick with which to beat his enemies lmao) and instead use diplomacy and a sort of rehabilitation or service thing. Because those ideas are there, in the different clasics and schools of thought (not confucianism, not as much) it’s just that the nobles and high scholars were never interested and used them to argue for a sort of natural hierarchy were they’re in top. 

 Let JGY create a new school of thought, and LXC and others seeing the merit on it. JGY has the reach and the intelligence and the ability. 

The best revenge is living well and destroying the system which allowed the other to harm you, the ideas, the means. Create a fantasy fulfillment ^^

[skyfallensoldier]

Mobile Navigation || Rules & Mun ↓

DISCLAIMER: I just want to note here at the beginning that while I am considering this RP blog to be historically based, i.e. remaining true to the time period and overall details of John Laurens' biographical information and whatnot, I do not consider myself a historically accurate blog, not entirely. Historical fiction is a well known genre of literature and many, MANY creative liberties are taken within that genre. Think of this blog like you would if you saw an Anastasia Romanov blog. She's dead, we know she didn't survive, and she's been dead a long-ass time; so has Laurens. People still have included her in many works of fiction, even after her body was identified and it was proven she did not survive her family's massacre. I saw a romance book a couple of months ago where she survived that was recently published. Historical fiction, while a controversial thing at times, is a legitimate form of literature.

You don't have to tell me if you think John isn't acting exactly like the real man himself would have, I know that. I'm not going to call John my 'perfect sunshine boy cinnamon roll' or dismiss the privilege he was raised on due to his father, I'm aware he was a real person who had his own personality, virtues and prejudices. I won't deny that while he was certainly a progressive thinking man for the time he grew up in he definitely still had racist thoughts and actions that were indicative of his upbringing. But I'm not on here to debate modern, real life politics, or get into arguments about whether he was a good abolitionist or not. At the end of the day, this is still a hobby for me, and I'm writing for fun.

Basically, don't take it too seriously. I'm a 21st century bisexual woman writing from the POV of an 18th century (likely gay) male soldier, the way I write him is obviously not going to be a perfect representation of who he was. I know he wasn't an amazing, perfect person, but I've still chosen to write a fictionalized version of him for my own entertainment. Please try to respect that; thank you.

Mun Stuff

Name: Luna Gender: Female (She/Her or They/Them) D.o.B: July 23rd, 1996 Age: 24 Nationality: Canadian Sexuality: Bisexual Timezone: Eastern Time (US & Canada) Activity: Daily BIOGRAPHY (SORT OF)

Hello, there! You can call me Luna! I've been interested in writing ever since I first got the internet when I was 14 and discovered FanFiction.Net and now I'm an aspiring author and Roleplay enthusiast. If you include acting/talking out DnD like games with friends then I've been 'roleplaying' since the fifth grade, but I like to think there's always room for improvement. If you ever want to chat I'd love to make a new friend or plot out a roleplay, so don't be afraid to shoot me an ask or send me a private message. Just because my muse can be a jackass doesn't mean I am! I’m a huge advocate for mental health, and if you ever need someone to talk to, please don’t ever hesitate to reach out! Some of my hobbies including literature and writing (of course), digging into mythology from various cultures, practicing solitary eclectic paganism/new age spirituality, drinking tea, and collecting crystals/minerals.

Please note that for the sake of disclosure, I am considered ‘Neurodivergent’, in that I suffer from ADHD, diagnosed at about age six, and have Anxiety and Depression which are directly tied to it. This doesn’t often effect my life on here, but I sometimes have an unpredictable sleep schedule (stay up all night, sleep in late into the morning, etc). I’m usually quick to reply to threads for the most part! I work every Tuesday and Thursday from 5pm to 7pm in addition to odd jobs here and there, during which time I won’t have access to the Internet. The rest of the week I’m on and off all day basically, so you can feel free to contact me any time.

RP Style

⭐️ Please use basic spelling/grammar/punctuation when you RP with me. I'm not a drill sergeant about these kinds of things, I know that typos happen, and if you have a vision problem or such we can absolutely find a way to work around that, I also have no problem roleplaying with people whose first language is not English, so that's totally fine and I’m happy to accomodate in whatever way I can, but it does make it a little difficult to play with you if I don't know what you're trying to say. For this reason I prefer if you not use any text shorthand (lol, idk, brb, jk, etc) unless our muses are messaging each other. Using it in the tags is fine.

⭐️ I roleplay Laurens in a past-tense 3rd Person Point of View (think story-telling format), and generally I don't use icons or text formatting unless I notice my partner does, then I will try to match their style (for example if you use icons and small-text, I will try to do the same, though because formatting isn't possible on mobile, any mobile replies might take longer to be posted than if I were on my laptop). If you have any issues with how I'm writing or need me to adjust my style for any reason don't be afraid to ask.

Contact

⭐️ If you spam me with messages over and over again about something I haven't replied to, chances are I'll drop the thread. I don't mind being reminded because I know Tumblr's notifications are notoriously unreliable sometimes, and humans can forget/lose things, but if you keep poking at me after I've acknowledged you the first and second time, I won't be pleased. Things can get busy on here, or in real life, or sometimes you're just lacking muse for that particular thread, y'know? It doesn't mean I hate you and don't want to RP, I'm almost always up for plotting, but muse tends to fluctuate.

⭐️ My ‘Discord’ is available to mutuals upon request. I don't mind roleplaying on there if Tumblr is being glitchy or you're just not feeling up to formatted/heavily plotted threads, sometimes Discord is fun in that you can do immediate replies without needing the effort of putting icons and formatting into it. I also have a Kik but I never use it. I don't RP in Tumblr's IMs, that's purely for OOC interaction.

⭐️ I also occasionally stream movies/TV shows in group chats or play “in character” Cards Against Humanity game nights, Among Us, etc. If you’re interested, lemme know, I’m always looking for more people to hang out with!

Important

I have no actual triggers that I'm aware of, although snakes do creep me out (mostly shots of them coiled up or images of their pupils), but there are some things I will not roleplay personally for comfort reasons:

⭐️ Cannibalism. You can mention it, for example I won't freak out if someone tells my muse that somebody else ate a person (he might, assuming its not a Supernatural type verse), but I won't RP him engaging in cannibalism, not even in AUs (blood-drinking vampires are fine). I'm just not sure I could stomach writing about eating people. I managed to watch Hannibal, barely, but writing about it? Nah. I can handle lots of horror, gore and disturbing content but not this. Sorry.

⭐ Incest/Pedophilia. I do not SEXUALLY ship with characters under the age of 18. John is not attracted to children, and would never consider sleeping with someone much younger than him.

⭐ I will not write anything sexual with muns who are under 18 years old, even if your muse is an adult. I'll still ROLEPLAY with you if you are under 18 but probably no younger than 16 just because things tend to get explicit on my blogs and I don't want to be accused of corrupting the youth with my foul language and weird opinions, lol. Seriously though, this blog covers a lot of dark subjects and while I’m all for minors exploring that safely through writing rather than in real life, some people aren’t comfortable with interacting with under age people for legal or personal reasons, please respect that.

⭐ Necrophilia. Just... no. Vampire threads don't count, as they're undead and not 'dead dead'.

⭐ Rape. I won't write it with you. I'm okay with mentions of rape, with rape/sexual assault survivor/recovery plots, and even with one character intervening to rescue another from an attempted sexual assault (if an attempted assault does occur, it will be thoroughly tagged and under a cut). I'm fully open to discussing rape recovery/trauma plots as those are things that happen in real life, and it can be interesting to explore how a character reacts to trauma. But anything else is a no-go, sorry!

⭐ Please be aware that I write Laurens as a gay man. However! Because of the time period, violent homophobia and social stigma, he has slept with women before and may be seen flirting with or referencing relationships with women in the past. He is still gay, and still uninterested in being with women long term, he's simply closeted to all but a few individuals. So, unless your muse is Martha Manning (who Laurens DOES love in a manner, and he always will), shipping with female characters on here most likely isn't going to happen unless it's heavily plotted/developed and part of an overall plot, and you understand that it will not be a conventional sexual relationship. I'm sorry if that disappoints you but I've read Laurens as a gay male for so long I have trouble seeing him any other way.

⭐ I will not roleplay slavery plots. This is not up for debate. Roleplaying a highly fictionalized version of a long dead real person who existed during a troubling time is one thing, but I draw the line at that. For this reason, while I'll happily play with non-white muses, muses using non white faceclaims, and crossovers with characters of all sorts, I'll have to decline playing with any muse claiming to actually be writing slavery. There’s a difference between, say, roleplaying a character like Daenerys, a fictional character who was technically a slave-bride sold by her brother, and writing actual slavery from a very real, horrible time period. Slave ownership will of course be mentioned on this blog, that's unavoidable, but just like the mention of rape may happen on this blog from time to time, it will be in reference to a past event or speaking about the subject in general, not roleplaying a scene of it. Please respect this rule, I was hesitant to make this blog at first, because I know it makes some people uncomfortable, but I won't glorify such a horrible real thing that happened to so many people.

Exclusives/Mains

Just a head's up, unless I develop a bunch of chemistry with a particular portrayal of a muse I'm not likely to agree to being exclusives with anyone, unless perhaps it's a very niche or divergent character that has formed a good relationship of some sort with John and I'd have trouble interacting with other versions of that muse. For major characters I just feel it would be unfair to say no to someone who I click with in every other way, solely because I have already befriended someone else writing that character.

I will, however, discuss becoming mains with someone whom I've either developed or plotted out detailed storylines/interactions with regarding our specific portrayals of our characters. This means that I tend to reply to them quickly when I'm online, or may make little gifts (moodboards, aesthetic things, mini ficlets, whatever) for them unprompted, have a verse dedicated just to them, etc. Even if it seems like we haven't done much on Tumblr, there may be a lot of off-site development on Discord or whatnot that led to us plotting out intricate stories for our muses.

Current Mains:

Alexander Hamilton - @quillborn​

DO

⭐️ Send private messages.

⭐️ Send my character asks/starters/memes.

⭐️ Tag me in things.

⭐️ Ask to plot or ship.

⭐️ Ask for angst, fluff, etc.

⭐️ Submit things to me & my muse.

⭐️ Do crack and other ridiculous things with me!

⭐️ Like my RP threads.

⭐️ Like my personal posts.

⭐️ Comment on my personal/OOC posts (if you want to).

⭐️ Comment on my crack threads.

⭐️ Instant Message (IM) me if you'd like to talk, whether we're friends already or not!

DON'T

⭐️ Send hateful messages to me about other people and especially my mutuals; doesn't count if it's about the muse and not the person playing them, however. Also, if I’ve got beef with someone for whatever reason, don’t harass them/send hate to them on my behalf, please. I don’t condone anonymous abuse, attacking others, or harassment. I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself, I promise.

⭐️ Introduce yourself with ‘wanna ship?’ For one, I prefer if we’ve at least started a roleplay together, or have spoken OOC. Auto shipping doesn’t always work out and I hate promising people something only to realize there’s zero chemistry, because then I feel like I’m letting them down.

⭐️ Come into my inbox with just ‘wanna rp?’ and that’s it. Please at least have some idea of what you want to roleplay, it’s not very fun when someone approaches you to RP but then doesn’t offer up any suggestions at all. Remember, you are always free to send me memes, whether we’re mutuals or not, and hit me up for whatever plot you think might interest me! I want to hear about it!

⭐️ Spam me with "reminder" messages if I've already acknowledged you the first few times.

⭐️ Reblog my RP threads if you're not a participant in them.

⭐️ Send me anonymous OOC hate. Hate for Laurens is fine, it's just another form of roleplay.

⭐️ Kill off my character or severely injure/maim my character without permission or having plotted something involving that with me first.

⭐️ Follow me if you're a porn blog. I don't mind blogs that post NSFW content, or smut a lot, etc. I mean blogs that aren't for RP and are literally just a normal looking blog until you click on it and the header and first twenty posts are hardcore nudity and porn. I hate those things.

⭐️ Shame my ships.

⭐️ Complain about my tagging. I put my smut under a 'read more' without exception and tag them as "NSFW //" with two dashes. Things that are not necessarily graphic but still have sexual undertones go under "Suggestive //". I use these tags to avoid attracting attention from porn blogs and porn bots that track certain key words, as such I do not tag my content with "Smut" or trigger words such as "dick, oral, anal, nudity, etc", please block my NSFW and Suggestive tags if you're uncomfortable. Triggery subjects (mentions of rape, animal abuse, torture, mental illness) will be tagged under the name of said trigger with a space and two dashes, example: "Self Harm //", “Suicidal Ideation //” or "PTSD //".

⭐️ Godmod my character. If you’re not sure what is/isn’t okay, come talk to me! I don’t bite! If you’re looking for an example of god mod behavior, here: “X lunged at Laurens, taking him by surprise, and hit him square in the nose, causing blood to spurt.” It might not seem like a big deal but it means that you decided how your character’s actions affected my muse, and not only that, didn’t give him a chance to dodge or anything. Not cool.

⭐️ Ship with me without permission (sending in shippy asks is A-Ok if you're interested in exploring a ship between our muses, I'm talking about things like claiming that our muses are in a relationship without discussing it with me, referencing dates or sexual acts that never happened, etc. I ship mainly with chemistry otherwise things get boring fast.

⭐️ Assume/act like our characters know each other/are closely connected (friends/family/lovers) if we've never discussed it unless it is established in canon/history. This especially goes for original characters. I'm open to Laurens forming deep relationships with OCs obviously, but those have to be developed in character, not just assumed from the first interaction.

⭐️ Attempt to roleplay with me if you are not a roleplay blog/or if you're just trying to RP as "yourself." I don't do Character X Reader imagines stuff. I don't RP with 'fan' accounts, only RP blogs. You can still send asks so long as you're not trying to initiate an RP scenario. For example, asking Laurens what his hobbies are, asking for a blessing etc? That's fine. Spamming me with different actions "you" are talking to Laurens is weird. Stop that. I will also not RP with blogs that claim to roleplay as real life people, such as Markiplier, that's super creepy. This does NOT apply to "historical fiction" roleplay (obviously since that's what this blog is), which is considered its own genre of literature. I'm talking about the above where people will 'roleplay' as real life, currently alive people like YouTube celebrities and ship them with their friends, even if they've made it clear that they're uncomfortable with it. 

⭐️ Get angry at me for doing something you don't like if you don't even have a rules page for me to go by. It's not fair; you can't expect your partners to just read your mind and magically know how you feel. If something bothers you let me know, I’ll make a note about it so I avoid it during our interactions!

⭐️ Use me as a meme resource blog without ever interacting with me. I don't require "reblog karma" for you to follow me, partners are more than welcome to reblog from me, but if we never interact and I just occasionally see you reblog fifteen posts from my meme tag and then disappear again I'm not gonna be happy. Go to the source or to an archived blog no longer getting notifications, please!

⭐️ Reblog my Meta/Headcanons. If they're from a different blog it's fine but the ones I've personally written are for MY portrayal of Laurens. I work hard on most of my stuff and I'd prefer if you didn't reblog it, not because you aren't allowed to have the same headcanon ideas as me, but because then it ends up getting liked or reblogged by lots of other people, spamming my notifications, etc.

OCs & Multimuses

I love OCs and multi-muse blogs (I have my own multimuse sideblog over at @historyremembers, which has other 18th century characters including the Hamilton children and some OCs), so feel free to interact! That being said, please have an about page of some sort on your blog. I can't follow back blogs that have absolutely no information available regarding their character(s). I don't RP with OC children of Laurens. This is nothing personal, but I'm fairly certain he was gay in real life and prefer to play him that way, and he only had one child - who he never even got to meet - in real life, so it just wouldn't make sense to me for him to have other kids running around unless he'd adopted some. If you're a multimuse, I may not follow you back if I'm only familiar with two of your muses if you have a blog of fifteen characters, simply because I'd prefer to keep my dash clean and only have characters/fandoms I'm familiar with on it. I'll still RP with you if you have a character I'm interested in! I just might not follow back if the majority of your characters I do not know, I apologize for this.

If you’ve made it to the end of this, congrats! I know it couldn’t be easy (my ADHD brain was frustrated trying to just write all this up) but it’s necessary so there’s not misunderstandings on what I am/am not willing to RP. I won’t ask for a password since I trust most people to have the courtesy to at least skim the rules of those they want to RP with. 

Have a nice day!

[omgreading]

And I am done. Last time I read it, I gave it three stars, but I bumped it up because it is rereadable. I remembered a lot from the book, I probably did not need to reread it to continue the series. However, the bit about Simon being a vampire, I pulled from the movie. I think it shows more signs or outright says it in the movie. There are tiny hints to it though in the book. We are told many times about him biting the vampires and then Isabelle makes a comment about how fast he was when he came in and helped “kill” the Abbadon. I think that was a little clue.

I think the reason I had a problem with the book before is because I thought the whole they are siblings story-line was stupid. I felt there would be some kind of love-triangle and all that jazz moving forward and I didn’t want to read about it. I also didn’t believe they were siblings and I guess I didn’t want to go through however many books it would take to explore that. However, many people say the series is great overall and I own it, so might as well go through it. I plan on reading The Mortal Instruments and The Infernal Devices. Those two seem wrapped up in each other. If I like those two, I will move onto The Dark Artifices.

Right now, fantasy series are what is the most interesting to me and this is what I have accessible.

I hope any kind of romance plot is not the biggest part of the plot. I understand it is pretty much unavoidable in books, especially YA series, but like, I do not care about romance plots. I just want the story.  

Honestly, I wish I would have just read a summary for this because I didn’t gain any great bit of information that I did not have before plot wise. I am sure the only benefit is that smaller things will be more recognizable. 

[sioneioane]

Spatial Design III

Field Conditions by Stan Allen in Points + Lines, 1985 Field Condition article written by Stan Allen lectures about the experience and representing of space. Field condition is more about the development, experience, and portrayal of space and how we deal with space. While trying to extend our general translation of engineering thoughts, its emphasis is on a variety of undertakings by both craftsmen and designers that reclassify the connections amongst imperceptible and unmistakable, figure and ground, limited and endless. Stan Allen mention in his essay about “the convention of classic architecture dictate not only the proportion of individual elements but also the relationship between individual elements”. In this text, the writer talks more about the relationship between respective elements in space. This idea of respecting relationship between individual elements in a space relates to our spatial project. This semester I wanted to explore the relationship between humans and the atmosphere that surrounds us. I wanted to design a walkway with some design ideas inspired by Filipe Tohi. Filipe Tohi based his work and idea around Pacific Island art form of lalava(lashing) that was used for joining and binding materials together. Meters of colored sennit(kafa) were wound and tied so as to create distinct geometric patterns that were a well -established part of daily life. I believe lalava patterns were a mnemonic device for representing a life philosophy.

Site Visit

What is the importance of colours in relation to the Architectural World?

Numerous hypothetical research work in various orders of learning have managed the subject of colour, its properties, frameworks, and connections. Colour is significantly more than just a layer of paint on a surface, or an instrument of enhancement. It is a fundamental component of plan, and the most expressive, by the importance it passes on, and the mental consequences for the watchers. Colour is a basic component of our reality in the regular habitat as well as in the architectural enviroment. Colour constantly assumed a job in the human transformative process. The earth and its colours are seen, and the cerebrum procedures and judges what it sees on a goal and emotional premise. Mental impact, correspondence, data, and consequences for the mind are parts of our perceptual judgment forms. Subsequently, the objectives of shading outline in a design space are not consigned to embellishment alone.

For this Semester, I want my design to reflect the idea of Colour Complex and relationship between spatial practices and colour, colour as integral to materials, applied to materials, embedded into materials and colour as immaterial.

One of the readings called “Importance of Colour in Interior Architectural Space on the Creation of Brand Identity”, Alnasser addresses the theoretical study behind the idea of colour in relationship between spatial practices. Colour is firmly identified with frame and might be one of its essential properties. Much the same as structures what's more, shapes have their own measurements and measures, hues additionally have their measurements also, physical properties, which will be managed in this work to investigate the likelihood of essentially applying them as indicated by specific specializations. Distinctive hues communicate with one another on logical, basic, and creative bases, as they have their claim frameworks and connections. (Alnasser2013)

Artist Model Filipe Tohi

Examples of Filipe Tohi’s work

Filipe Tohi is also known for his sculptures, Tohi defines lalava as the ‘intersection of two strings that form patterns as they spiral up and down. Without both strings (lines) there are no patterns, both must go together’ Looking at these designs one finds a balance that can be equated with male and female; the lalava becomes a metaphor for the ways people and cultures interact. It is this notion of balance — of the interaction of two entities that so intrigues Tohi. He has attempted to demonstrate this in his models of the lalava designs. Expanding the patterns into three dimensions allows the viewer to see the geometric nature of the patterns, and more importantly to see them from multiple perspectives. Sculptures by Filipe Tohi

Filipe Tohi has always insisted that lalava offer a way of preserving and communicating information. He describes lalava as a ‘visual language’ that can convey ‘principles of cultural knowledge and history’ as well as ‘memories and experiences’. It has not always been easy, though, for audiences to access all of the information encoded in Tohi’s lalava. The patterns of his sculptures and drawings often seem to connote rather than denote - they remind us, with their artful arrangement of lines, of the seas and landscapes Tonga, but they do not obviously communicate specific information.

Weaving

https://artsandculture.google.com/exhibit/inspired-crafts-of-samoa-ichcap/WAJCX9ba-dwMLQ?hl=en

Architecture of Atmosphere by Mark Wigely

In the text “The Architecture of Atmosphere” Mark Wigley talks about the importance of atmosphere in the architecture industry and what atmosphere really construct in a design. “Likewise, the atmosphere of a building seems to be produced by the physical form” The atmosphere is something that brings life into a space or a place. In the beginning of the text, Mark Wigley indicate the fact that the atmosphere of a building is by all accounts delivered by the physical form. The physical form helps to create the atmosphere around a space or a place. Atmosphere alluding to the sensorial characteristics of a space, it insinuates a prompt type of physical discernment, and is perceived through our enthusiastic sensibility. Actually, the atmosphere in a given space or inside is particularly controlled by the way a space is utilized and our discernment of the space is to huge degree likewise what we encounter. In this semester, we were given a site that is based in Glen Innes for our project assignments. The site was Omaru River. Omaru River is waterway in Glen Innes that is now one of the most polluted river in New Zealand. When we went to visit the site, the atmosphere from this waterway was different from the others, because Omaru River is now one of the most polluted waterway in New Zealand, the atmosphere change. The smell of the site was unpleasant. A fresh air brings life into a place, it also compose a space to be alive, and because the smell or the air around Omaru River was muck, the place became dead and lifeless. 

Site Analysis

Auckland City has many different ethnic or national cultures mingling freely. It can also refer to political or social policies which support or encourage such a coexistence. Important in this is the idea that cultural practices, no matter how unusual, should be tolerated as a measure of respect. I wanted to highlight different cultures on my sit analysis, each colour represent different cultures moving around the city. 

Design Concept

Research Context

     “We understand colour in much the same way that we understand the shape of the earth. The earth is round, but we experience it as flat, and act on it according to that practical perception of flatness. Color is light alone, but it is experienced so directly and powerfully that we think of it as a physical entity. No matter what we may understand about the science of color, or what color technology is available, we believe our eyes. Color problems in the design industries are solved with the human eye. Designers work with color from the evidence of their eyes”. (Holtzshue, 2012)

Holtzshue describes how we experience colour in our everyday life. Colour is a tangible observation, and as any tactile discernment, it has impacts that are representative, cooperative, synesthetic, and passionate. This undeniable rationale has been demonstrated by logical examination. Since the body and brain are one element, neuropsychological viewpoints, psychosomatic impacts, visual ergonomics, and colours mental impacts are the parts of shading ergonomics. These being outline objective contemplations that interest adherence to secure human mental and physiological prosperity inside their man-made condition. The colour specifier/creator has the assignment of knowing how the gathering of visual incitement, its preparing and evoked reactions related to the hormonal framework, delivers the best potential outcomes for the welfare of individuals. This is of most extreme significance in differed conditions, for example, restorative and mental offices, workplaces, modern and creation plants, instructive offices, homes for the elderly, remedial offices, et cetera. Each inside themselves having distinctive assignment and capacity territories.  Colour plays an important role in our everyday life, I mean colours has numerous impacts in our regular day to day existences. We have figured out how to react to specific hues in certain ways. For instance, red implies alert/blood/ stop.

Holtzshue describe colour as light (Holtzshue, 2012). The connection among light and architecture happens unavoidably. Light, contingent upon how it is utilized and how it can change the spatial setting. It can influence a space to appear to be wonderful or unpalatable, light likewise plays with scale or it could be utilized basically to feature components inside a space. In my experience with light and colour, these two components gives life to a space nor a place, it makes places more pleasant, agreeable, inhabitable and noticeable. Peter Zumthor in his book called Atmosphere, he mention that

    “the light on things, is so moving to me that I feel it almost spiritual quality. When the sun comes up in the morning- which I always find so marvellous, absolutely fantastic the way way it comes back every morning – and casts its light on things, it doesn’t feel as if it quite belongs in this world.” (Zumthor, 2006)

Zumthor addresses the idea of light or colour and how it impacts us in our regular day to day existence. Light or colour helps makes that magnificent climate inside a space. Zumthor utilizes the daylight early in the day for instance of light that gives us life. At the point when that sun comes up in the morning, when I open the curtains and the light from the sun hits my face, that lights brings euphoria and fervour. It brings new life, new day and new me. We've all experience some tough occasions previously we go to bed however when we wake up and that sun ascends once more, it implies it's another day, disregard what happened yesterday and proceed onward.

Alnasser also mention that there are various perspectives in characterizing hues and their developments. The physicist characterizes colour to be not just a property of things, of surfaces, or spaces, yet additionally that inclination realized by specific sorts of light that can be seen and deciphered by the brain(Alnasser,2013). In addition, Alnasser highlighted the importance of colour and light to the human eye and how we experience it. Colour has the intensity of communicating sentiments and feelings.

Fort Lane at Night time

Experimental Design

Rough Design context (Walkway)

Renders

[silenthillmutual]

The decisions place you in the context of higher authority. No longer an army of one, you have decided to mobilise the population to fight the disease alongside you, since your personal accomplishments were not enough.

i feel like there’s a lot to unpack with this part of the letter

first i’d like to point out that part of daniil’s dialogue with andrey involves them recounting being involved in some sort of riot together

adding all the sums together my guess is that daniil is something of a troublemaker, and that despite some of the truly bitchy things you can have him say (that i will assume are his internal monologue if you choose to have him not say them), the kind of trouble he makes has something to do with unionizing people

i don’t really know how to put this other than like. clearly daniil is a very Proud person. a lot of educated people get that. and one good way to get someone whose fatal flaw is Pride to do what you want them to do is to insult something they should otherwise be proud of...you know, their accomplishments. so the Powers That Be don’t want him to:

make any sort of connections or home among the people of the town

make the town join forces, as it were; part of your job as daniil is negotiation, but you will also get most of your news from people on the streets, many of whom are disgruntled about some sort of inequity they’re dealing with and that you can, if you want, react with outrage at their treatment (see: aspity’s lies about the water, his disgust at how vlad the younger talks about the people who work in the termitary, etc)

actually be successful in combating or even surviving the plague. this is a win/win situation for them; you get a threatening letter from them about how they will leave your laboratory alone (for now) if you are successful in this endeavour, but the truth is that it really doesn’t matter. either what you do should you survive will not be enough for them, or you will die, in which case there is no one left to defend Thanatica. 

i rarely even get that kind of depth and subtlety from books i read or movies i watch so it’s very awesome to see this sort of thing being emulated in a video game.

We expect that the measures you have taken are temporary. Speaking of what may be described as the microclimate of the town, we don’t want any irreversible changes to take place. In particular, we hope that the instructions you have issued would not lead to any undesirable moods among the local townsfolk. We would rather avoid mass psychosis, depression, or panic that are sometimes characteristic of situations like this.

i think there’s two really interesting things going on here.

the first is that this raises a very valid concern, one that you have to talk about in areas of study like cultural anthropology: cultural relativism. you want to study a culture and interact with it, but without being too biased, passing judgement, or changing the way the culture exists too much. to a degree, all of these are unavoidable, both in-game and in the real world. you know that daniil is guilty of the first two even if you never have him say some of the things he’s thinking. 

but i think too many people look at this without nuance - not just as far as this game goes, but for plenty of other media and facets of real life. you don’t want to be ethnocentrist, of course, but not every cultural practice is good or defensible. you see it all the time when weebs try and defend things like hen.tai, lo.licon and shot.acon. there’s an ethical dilemma that comes in engaging with other cultures, and it’s really not as cut and dry as simply calling yourself an outsider and assuming these practices are okay. 

this is a huge misstep that happens in the film Midsommar. i read an article about how the main group being anthropologists is actually essential to the horror of the film; they are able to be gaslit because they let their cultural relativism put them in danger. they ignore the warning signs that they are being initiated into a cult, that they are being manipulated, and even that the cult is made up of white supremacists. it’s very possible that the reason Pelle is a foreign exchange student is to find people like this group of anthropologists who have stepped back too much from themselves their culture. 

this also reminded me a bit of a discussion on reddit i saw about colonized countries talking about their relationship with their colonizers and how those two interact, although Pathologic is so vague i’m not sure if you’re meant to read daniil’s route as being related to colonization or not; i know artemiy’s route has more to do with that, and that seems to be connected to some of the other families in town, specifically the olgimsky’s. 

the second thing that i think is interesting about this, is that it is once again setting daniil up for failure. they don’t want him to change the town too much, but they want him to be successful in combating the plague. given that the town has no hospital or morgue, that the only access to the outside world for them is the train, and that in order to keep the disease from spreading he has to issue quarantine and change how people go about their daily lives? he can save the town OR keep it from changing; he can’t do both. not to mention that the Powers That Be are sending people to help enact whatever changes daniil deems necessary... they are purposefully escalating the situation, knowing that they are going to make him fail in some way or another. 

Please keep in mind that when we offered to cease the persecution of your laboratory and to facilitate your research, we meant that as a reward for you being able to find a surgically precise solution to the problem. It is of no importance to us if you do it yourself or instigate the Inquisitor to do it on your behalf. 

so in other words: the government openly admits to persecuting him. not just laughing him off or ignoring his requests for funding or what have you, but actively attempting to sabotage him.  they will only stop these activities if he is successful - and success to them is “surgically precise” - which i take to mean does not rely on herbalism. this probably sets up why daniil is a pain in the ass on artemiy’s route; his life more or less depends on there being some quantifiable and scientific explanation for the plague and how to combat it. 

the government also doesn’t care about the town. it doesn’t care if the town is successful. they’re not sending other doctors, they’re not acknowledging rubin or artemiy as healing professionals. they’re sending enforcers. if daniil fails to find something of worth to them, everything he’s worked for up to this point in his life will be destroyed. and he will fail, as he’s been told at every turn that there is no scientific explanation for the sand pest and no precise cure. what fixed it last time was herbalism. he’s going to fail, no matter what he tries to do. this is the letter you receive by the end of day 4, and the game is 12 days long. you know before you even hit the halfway point that there is not going to be a happy ending for daniil. 

daniil certainly has a tendency to look down on herbalism, but given that he seems to have had high regard for isidor burakh i think you can take this one of two ways, or perhaps take the third option and say both: either there is some elitism going on that ties into racism, or this could be comparable to people looking at the anti-vaxxer trying to cure every disease under the sun through the power of organic foods and essential oils. (again: i think it’s a bit of both. were there more time for him to explore shit, it’s very possible daniil would grow out of the former. he seems really interested in artemiy, has little tolerance for how the ruling families run things on a basis of violence and various -isms, and again he seems to have some esteem for both rubin and isidor who we learn later are more akin to herbalists, as isidor and artemiy specifically are indigenous) i think this explains a lot of why he says insensitive things (or says things insensitively). 

i think it’s also important to keep in mind that he doesn’t know what’s going on in the clara or artemiy’s routes. he only has his point of view, which as an outsider is going to be heavily skewed by whatever he is told. he can’t possibly know everything. 

i think the last thing i wanted to end this overly long post on was this: his field of study is thanatology. the study of death.

why in god’s name do the Powers That Be want to destroy research into longevity? just food for thought, but this game is 17 years old, and i think it’s especially relevant now. 

[no6secretsanta]

After the credits roll

This is my gift to @prometheanastronaut 

I’ve never written a post-reunion fic before, so this was different and challenging, but I hope you can enjoy this wild ride that was supposed to be a short oneshot and turned into a long, fluffly, angsty but happy monster of a story. Merry Christmas!

- @aoicanvas

***

Shion, at risk of being accused of naiveté, still believed in happy endings. He patiently waited for his own, holding his breath, holding onto hope and the fulfilment of a promise he fiercely believed in. 

Shion, against all odds dictated by logic and reason, got his happy ending. It happened after six years, knocked on his front door one late afternoon and looked at him with stormy, beautiful eyes. 

Two months after that, he wondered if he had placed bets too high on a moment that would pass as soon as it came. If he had been foolish for not worrying more over the infinite of “afters” that would have to be dealt with unavoidably. 

It was, shamefully, a little too late for that. 

*** 

Shion stands outside of the flower shop holding his heart in one hand and a bag with pastries from his mother’s bakery in the other. He picked Nezumi’s favorites and has one second to wonder if that will count for something when the door opens. 

“Oh!” A middle aged woman looks him up at down. She forces a smile. “Afternoon. I’m sorry but we’re about to close, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Shion stumbles with words half-formed, half-forgotten. “No, no! I’m not here to—I’m sorry, I came because…” he tries to peer over the woman’s shoulder but she takes a step forward and closes the door behind her back. 

“As I said—”

“Is Nezumi in? I’m—a friend. I came to see him.”

She looks surprised for a second and her eyes flash with understanding.

“Ah… you’re Shion then. Should’ve lead with that. Come on in, he was about to leave.”

She turns to open the door and for a second her tiny frame is silhouetted against the warm light that spills from inside. As soon as they cross the threshold Shion is hit with the heavy smell of earth and flowers. It hangs heavily in the air almost to the point of being unpleasant. There is a tall display of flowers in the center of the room, dividing it in two narrow aisles. Pots brimming with different colors, smells and shapes line the walls.

He feels a little overwhelmed.

“Nezumi!” The sudden call from the woman in front of him pulls him out of his reverie. “Your boyfriend is here!”

Heat rises to his face and he wants to say something to correct her, wants to explain what he is and want he’s not, but the woman strides forward to the counter in the back while her hands deftly untie her apron, and the words die in his mouth. 

Her short curly hair sticks up in places when she pulls the garment off and dumps it unceremoniously on a chair. She starts picking up tools strewn about the polished wooden surface and putting them away methodically. Shion passes the bag with the pastries from one hand to the other, forcing himself not to stare at the door that looms just a few steps behind the her.

“Hey, be a dear and turn the sign on the front window,” she says suddenly. 

Shion inhales deeply. Smiles.

“Sure,” he says, and turns around to do as he was asked. 

Behind him, he hears the back door opening with a soft click. His right hand is steady while he raises it to pick the sign and turn it around so the “open” side stares at him and the “closed” capital letters rest against the cold windowpane —firmly locked—, receiving the last lights of the sunset. He wonders if there’s some kind of irony in the situation but doesn’t let the thought take rot. His cheeks still feel warm.

“Shion,” a voice calls. 

“Hey,” he says before even turning around. Nezumi is walking around the counter, fixing the collar of his jacket.

“What do you have there?” he asks, gesturing towards the bag Shion’s holding.

“Oh, some sweets, from my mom’s,” he lifts it so Nezumi can take it. “I picked your favorites.”

Nezumi doesn’t take the bag. Instead, his hand moves towards Shion’s hair and pushes some loose strands back, fingers gently curving behind his ear. He’s smiling.

“Why, are you trying to win me over with food?”

The question startles a breathless chuckle out of him. The smell of flowers fills his lungs with renewed force. 

“I thought I had that covered?” he says, phrasing it as a question because there’s only so much he dares to push. He holds the bag against Nezumi’s chest. “If you don’t want them, I’m sure Inukashi wouldn’t refuse—”

Nezumi grabs the bag with one hand and Shion’s wrist with the other. “Inukashi can go get their own sweets,” he says, walking back towards the counter and pulling Shion with him. “I take it you met Nelly? I’m sorry about whatever she said. Nelly, remember I’m taking my day off tomorrow.”

Nelly, who is shorter than both of them, still manages to look slightly intimidating while leaning forward with her hands pressed on the counter.

“When did I agree to that?”

“When you hired me.”

“Can’t recall.”

“It’s in my contract.”

“Is it?”

She’s narrowing her eyes at him but Shion could swear her mouth twitches ever so slightly. Nezumi lets out a unnecessarily long sigh. 

“Check. You do have a copy. Goodnight, Nelly, don’t kill any customers while I’m gone.”

Shion waves a hand at her as Nezumi walks them out of the shop. 

“It’d be on them for coming in after closing hours!” she calls behind them. 

They step outside and Nezumi lets go off him. The sky is soft and golden towards the horizon, but right above them the stars shine beautifully. 

“Is she always like that?” Shion asks, missing the warmth around his wrist. 

Nezumi runs a hand through his hair. It’s short now, no strands falling on the sides of his face, no bangs half covering his eyes. It’s all there in plain sight, always, and Shion aches sometimes with the urge to run his fingers on his forehead, right on the curve of his hairline.

“Yes. But I can handle her,” he looks at Shion and curtseys, bowing his head in mock-respect. “Shall we, your majesty?”

Shion swats him on the head, gently, and starts walking.

***

Nezumi lives in a small three story building that’s in the middle of a new residential area in the West Block. After the wall fell, West Block residents were allowed to come back into the city. It was a gradual process, an uphill battle leaded by the Restructural Committee. The exposure of the corrupt proceedings the city officials had been involved in helped sway the public opinion, but Shion does not remember those days fondly. 

Many in the West Block, however, had no interest in going back to the place that had casted them out. So a big part of the work of the Committee during those first years was aimed towards the improvement of the living conditions there, so if people decided to stay, they would have access to clean water, electricity, safe streets and basic services. That, of course, had been an uphill battle too. The redistribution of the city’s resources wasn’t taken kindly by those who lived in the most privileged areas. Shion does not remember those days fondly either. 

He says so, after Nezumi asks him how hard it was to get a functioning, well equipped hospital built in the West Block. 

“Is there any day you do remember fondly?” 

Shion laughs, because, what can he say? Yes, but only those when I managed to forget you were gone? Yes but only after the first two years, when the pain of your absence had ebbed somewhat? 

He takes prides on his honesty but that does sound an awful lot like guilt tripping, and there’s enough guilt between the two of them to last for a lifetime.

Nezumi must notice something’s off because he glances briefly at him, eyes narrowed, and is about to speak when the guy sitting behind the reception desk of the building straightens in his seat and greet them enthusiastically. 

“Afternoon, sir!” he calls, smiling. 

Nezumi rolls his eyes. “Afternoon, Devan. And I’m no sir.”

Devan ignores him. Shion waves at him and gets a wave back. 

They take the stairs to the second floor and Nezumi walks them to a door with the number “21” on it. Shion can almost hear his heart in his ears. Nezumi unlocks the door and holds it open for Shion to step in first. 

“Please, royalty first.”

Shion rolls his eyes, but walks in anyway. 

It’s a small single room apartment. There’s a bed in a corner, a kitchenette to his right, a low wooden table that occupies most of the space in the center of the room, and a door on the left he assumes must lead to the bathroom. 

It looks empty. 

Not at all lived in. 

And Nezumi moved here—a month ago? Isn’t that enough time to settle in? 

The only signs there’s a person using the space are Nezumi’s duffel bag an old backpack laying on the floor next to the bed. He spots a couple of books under the table, too. 

“You haven’t unpacked yet?” Shion asks, and feels a dull pain in his chest. 

Nezumi closes the door and immediately goes about setting up the pastries on two plates and placing them on the table. 

“I’m used to it. Do you want something to drink? I’m sure I bought coffee.” 

Shion walks towards the bed and sits down. The mattress is comfortable, he thinks as he rests his hands on the comforter. It feels soft and fluffy. Must be new. 

And isn’t that something.

He tries to imagine Nezumi in a store, picking a mattress and a comforter for his bed, and smiles. 

“Used to never unpack?”

Nezumi is rummaging in his cupboards. “Yeah. I never had to, before.” He picks something up, places it on the counter and starts filling the kettle with water. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please. And when you stayed in No.4?”

“What about it?”

“For long was that?”

Nezumi turns around to look at him. He’s got a weird smile on his lips, like he knows what Shion is thinking.

“Almost a year.”

Shion sighs. “And you never unpacked then? A whole year staying in the same place, and you kept your things…” he gestures vaguely towards Nezumi’s belongings, “…like this?”

Nezumi smile widens a fraction. He nods. “Yes. Like this. Problem?”

There’s a sharpness in his voice when he says that. It’s barely there, but stings all the same. And Shion is tempted to dig deeper. That’s was he does, isn’t it? And it’s probably what Nezumi is expecting. 

So he doesn’t. 

“Do you have a nice view from there?”, he asks instead, pointing towards the room’s only window. It’s a tall, sliding crystal door that takes up a third of the wall facing east.

Nezumi expression shifts. He closes his eyes for a second too long. 

Shion waits. 

He’s used to do that, after all.

“I do, actually,” Nezumi says finally, walking to the window to open the blinds. “Want to see for yourself?”

Shion gets up as Nezumi slides the door open to steps outside. The balcony is small and, as Shion stands there, shoulder to shoulder with the person he loves and an open window behind them, he feels like crying and laughing at the same time.

The view is quite something, Nezumi wasn’t joking. From there, he can see the outline of the city sprawling under the sky, lights shining from different corners like small torches lit from each building, all a blur of silhouettes in the distance. And, above and beyond, the stars glitter beautifully. 

And, suddenly, Nezumi starts singing. 

“Pearls from the bottom of the sea, the twinkling stars in the night sky, and the torch of my soul,” his voice is soft, and more beautiful than he remembered. “I offer to you, things that glitter…  The sea turns stormy, and the pearl breaks, the sky turns stormy, and the stars vanish.”

Nezumi stops. He’s not looking at Shion: his eyes are fixed on the city, or the stars—Shion doesn’t really care because he knows that song and he can’t stop himself from staring at Nezumi’s profile. His sharp features are outlined starkly with the soft lights that reach them from the streets below and Shion’s chest hurts, because maybe he’s not the only one who has been carrying his heart in his hand for everyone to see. 

Maybe he’s just really bad at hiding it.

Nezumi turns to him then and leans in to kiss him. Shion meets him halfway and holds onto Nezumi’s jacket, not to keep him close but to keep himself from falling.

They pull apart a minute later, when the kettle whistles from the inside. Nezumi doesn’t let go immediately, instead, he cups Shion’s face and kisses his temples, once, twice, and then his forehead. 

“Come on,” he says then, voice tinted with the hint of a smile. “it’s getting cold.”

So they go back inside. Nezumi makes tea and they sit down to eat the pastries Shion brought. Nezumi asks him about the projects he’s working on and Shion tries not to complain too much but fails. Nezumi laughs, tells him stories about Nelly and her struggles with customer service and by the time the last sweet has been eaten they’re both full and warm.

Shion leaves soon after that. Nezumi kisses him goodbye.

And, he thinks, that’s enough. It has to be.

*** 

He leans back against his apartment door and takes a deep, hopefully calming breath. It’s been a month and the place still feels impossible empty now that Nezumi’s not there. He tries to remember what he did before, during the six years that passed after Nezum left the city with a promise that Shion never let go of. He picks small moments from his memories, remembers falling asleep on the couch with a book in his hands, remembers trying out a new recipe for dinner and filling the apartment with the smell of burnt rice, remembers having Inukashi and Shionn over on a saturday evening. 

He was okay. Tired half the time and working half the other. It was hard, but the city needed him and he needed to pour himself into something that kept his mind occupied. 

There were happy times too. He met many people, made new friends and never allowed himself to build a fortress to keep others away. He grew and learnt and saw his past from a new perspective, taking a step back and wondering, would I do the same, now? 

The answer was always yes. 

So his apartment still feels empty. Logic doesn’t help and the irony of the whole thing is that all he can do is wait and see. 

And waiting hadn’t been the wrong decision, after all. He waited for six years, Nezumi came back and he was incandescently happy for two months. Until Nezumi told him he couldn’t stay there with him, not yet, and left to find a place in the West Block.

It was more than that, of course. There was a long conversation and Shion mostly remembers yelling (once), apologizing, and crying, all in the same sentence. 

He still feels awful about his reaction, but it had been like a punch in the gut. Or like someone pulled the door from under him and he was falling, falling, and there was no one to catch him and he never thought learning how to fly would be a necessary thing.

He probably should have seen it. There were signs, things he should have paid more attention to but dismissed way too quickly, drunk in his happiness, overwhelmed with a dream come true.

Nezumi never got around unpacking, for instance. 

And when Shion asked him about it, he always had a plausible excuse at the ready. And Shion didn’t want to worry, didn’t want to read too much into it, so he didn’t push.

He can still remember the day after Nezumi told him he was moving out with painful clarity: he came back home after what he could objectively said had been a very long day. He was exhausted and it had nothing to do with the amount of hours he had spent at work, or the excessive duration of the meeting he had to be part of. 

He unlocked his door expecting to be greeted by an empty apartment, so it stood to reason that he felt his heart stop when he saw Nezumi sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees and head bowed forward.

“Nezumi?”

He didn’t look surprised. Probably had heard him fighting with the old door lock. He had been stalling on getting a new one for months now. 

“Shion. Hey, I—”

On the floor right next to the couch were Nezumi’s belongings. A duffel bag and a small backpack that had certainly seen better days. 

“You’re still here.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said—”

“I did, but listen,” he stood up and walked towards him. “I know you’ve been silently panicking since yesterd—No. Don’t try and deny it. I still know you well enough to be able to tell.” He raised one of his hands and cupped Shion’s cheek. The one where the pink scar curled on his skin. “I wanted to at least try and reassure you once more.”

Shion sighed and leaned in. Nezumi met him halfway with a soft, lingering kiss.

“You didn’t need to. I understand, Nezumi, I do, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easier for me to accept it.”

Nezumi nodded and moved his hand up to card his fingers through Shion’s hair. 

Shion leans on his closed door, closes his eyes tightly and aches with the memory of it.

***

Nezumi glares at the pot with the Aeonium arboreum that’s pushed against a corner in the balcony and crosses his arms.

Objectively, he knows Nelly wasn’t serious. She’s not going to fire him if he can’t take proper care of the plant for three months but he still feels annoyed for being forced into proving her wrong.

Up until now, he’s not doing a very good job at that, though.

He thought it would be easier. He has experience taking care of mice —and he remembers with a twinge of pain the company of Cravat, Hamlet and Tsukiyo—, so this shouldn’t be that complicated.

Until it was.

A month has gone by and the plant looks sad. 

A noise coming from the narrow alley behind the building brings his thoughts to a halt. He holds onto the railing of his balcony and leans in to look down but there’s no light in the alley, so he’s stares at the shadows for a moment longer and goes back inside.

His cupboards and fridge are almost empty but he still has tea, a forgotten cookie pack and some blackberry jam and that’s good enough. He’s used to live with the bare minimum, after all.

But he doesn’t have to. He hasn’t been in that position for a while now.

He has money for groceries, yes. He has enough money for groceries, for a wardrobe and for a night table. 

In the West Block, as well as in other areas of No.6, citizen don’t pay for rent. Currently, he’s only paying a percentage of common expenses that was calculated according to his salary, and that’s it. The system is pretty straightforward and as far as he can tell, seems fair. Shion had something to do with it, probably.

He asked, but Shion isn’t good at taking credit, even for things he worked years to achieve. 

“I wasn’t leading that project,” he had said. 

He says that a lot. 

Outside, rain starts to pour down loudly. He gets up to close the open window when he hears it again. The noise from the alley. 

He taps his feet on the floor. 

The rain falls, and No.6 looks weirdly blurred in the distance. He stills expects to find himself looking at a wall sometimes. 

He’s always wrong, of course. And sometimes he thinks: we did this.

And then.

No.

Shion did this.

Because destruction and creation are two different things and he only had a say in one of them.

From the alley, he hears a clear, high pitched meow.

“Oh, no,” he murmurs, taking a step back and closing the window quickly. “No. No. With the plant is enough. More than enough.”

He looks at his apartment. His unpacked luggage, the empty walls and the books lying on the floor. 

The empty cup on the table. 

“Damn. Damn it all.”

He opens the window and sticks his head out. Waits. 

And there it is again. Muffled with the rain, but clear now that he knows what to expect. 

He rummages through his backpack and picks up a raincoat, puts on some boots and leaves without locking the door behind him. 

He finds the cat hiding behind a trash can that is not doing much to protect it from the rain. It’s a small, shivering thing, and Nezumi crouches a few feet away, reaching out with one hand.

It’s a test on Nezumi’s patience, because the kitten is obviously scared and doesn’t want to come any closer, and he can’t just stomp forward in case it decides to run away. 

So he stays where he is and calls it with a number of silly names and noises no one will ever hear him repeat again. 

After seven long minutes, feeling his legs starting to cramp and the rain seeping into his exposed arm, the cat walks forward and smells his fingertips.

Nezumi smiles. 

He brings it back to his room, finds the fluffiest towel he owns and wraps it around it carefully. He turns on the heating and sits right next to it, with the kitten on his lap. After a while, it’s warm and dry, his black hair sticking up along his back.

Nezumi thinks back to his empty cupboards, looking at the cat who’s now cautiously walking towards the table, and thinks he can’t avoid grocery shopping for much longer.

***

Shion comes to visit again. This time, he’s waiting for him outside his building, holding a bag with what he suspects are more pastries from his mother’s bakery.

“Nelly caused a strong impression, didn’t she?” he asks in lieu of a greeting as soon as he’s certain Shion can hear him.

He doesn’t bother denying it. “She did. Can you blame me?” 

“Not at all.” Nezumi takes the final steps to close the distance between them. Shion smiles before kissing him. 

It’s short and warm and Shion eyes are lit with fondness when they pull apart. He looks almost the same way he did when Nezumi knocked on his door almost four months ago.

“What did you bring now?”

“Dinner. I hope you’re hungry.”

When they are about to reach Nezumi’s door, he stops, holding the key aloft in his hand.

“Uh,” he says, coherently. “You don’t know.”

Shion looks confused. There’s a beat of silence. Unnecessary, of course, but now Nezumi has noticed that it is not confusion what’s hidden in Shion’s gaze. It’s something like trepidation, maybe. Apprehension. 

But why? 

Shion swallows. “I don’t know what, Nezumi?” he asks, and his voice is soft. A little brittle.

And Nezumi is an idiot, of course. Even after all these years. 

Because Shion is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Still waiting. And Nezumi’s reassurances couldn’t have been enough, even though he wanted to believe they were.

He hurries to explain. “It’s—well, it’s nothing. I have a cat now. Temporarily at least,” he fits his key in the lock and looks at Shion with a smile that doesn’t feel quite right. “I thought you’d like to name it.”

Shion, as it turns out, is delighted. And the kitten loves him, of course. Nezumi hands him a string he’s been using to play with the little bugger and Shion sits on the floor, laughing brightly as the small ball of fluff jumps and runs to hide, staring at the end of string with amusing determination before barrelling towards it again.

“So, what’s the name?” Nezumi asks an hour later, leaning against his bed. 

Shion is smiling, looking at the sleeping cat on his lap.

“I don’t know. Let me get back to you on that, I need to get to know her better.”

Nezumi chuckles, because of course Shion would say something like that.

Then he stops.

“Wait, her?”

“Yes, she’s female. You hadn’t checked?”

Nezumi shrugs. “Didn’t see the point. I only need to keep her feed and out of trouble until I find a home for her.”

Shion’s brow furrows.

“You are not keeping her?”

“No. Why would I?”

Shion thinks for a moment as his hands curve gently over the sleeping kitten’s back. 

“Because she loves you.”

Nezumi does not choke on his tea. But it’s a close thing.

He wants to roll his eyes, or laugh, or mock Shion’s naive assumption in some way, but all those reactions seem suddenly foreign and wrong.

Sometimes he still has trouble remembering who he is not and which are the sharp edges of himself he slowly learnt to leave behind.

“It’s been only a week,” he says instead, “I doubt she’s grown that attached to me.”

Shion shoots him a withering look that lasts only a second. His features soften as he sighs.

“A week is more than enough to learn to love someone, Nezumi.”

And that— 

Well.

He’s not sure they’re talking about the cat anymore. However, it’s unlike Shion to throw sentences with hidden meanings at him, that’s his thing. Besides, bringing up the beginnings of their relationship, all well kept memories from six years ago, seems pointless.

And he should have said something, because Shion takes note of the silence quietly stretching around them and his eyes widen.

“Oh—No, Nezumi, I didn’t—” he stutters, cheeks flushing.

Nezumi shakes his head. “No, no, I—it’s fine.” And he shifts, half-turning toward Shion so he can reach up a card his fingers through his white hair. It’s still ridiculously soft. “So, the cat loves me.“

“Yeah.”

“And that’s why I should keep her.”

Shions closes his eyes, leaning into Nezumi’s touch. “Obviously.”

Nezumi remembers getting to his place after work during the past week, remembers the kitten walking between his legs, meowing softly until he picked her up. Remembers her suddenly climbing into his lap while he read and the warmth of her tiny frame as she curled up next to him at night. Remembers laughing in the morning, when she kept trying to touch a small stain on the wall that was way too high for her to reach.

And then, he remembers Shion, who’s right there but also firmly fixed in his mind. Shion, hugging him tightly when he came back to the city. Shion, waking up next to him for two months with a smile that put the sun to shame. Shion, asking him about his unpacked luggage, soft and worried.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, leaning in close to rest his head on Shion’s shoulder.

***

Shion is in his office when Ada comes in. She doesn’t knock, and Shion immediately knows something’s wrong.

“There was a fire in the West Block. District 4. You have a friend there, right?” 

Shion is already on his feet, picking up his coat, and he has never been so grateful for Ada’s straightforwardness.

“I—yes. Can you…?” He gestures vaguely toward his desk and the papers on top of it, his heart in his throat.  

“I’ll take care of it. Hey,” she steps in front of him and places her hands on his shoulders, grounding him. “Breathe. The situation is under control, as far as I know people have been taken to the hospital already. Nevertheless, I thought you’d rather hear it now than later on the news.”

Shion knows Nezumi is probably okay. Maybe he doesn’t even know there was a fire, but his reasoning does nothing to calm his nerves.

“Yeah, I—thank you, Ada. really.” He manages to smile at her, barely.

“Oh, shush. Take this.” And she places her car keys on his hand. Shion swallows.

“Are you—?”

“Sure, yes. But you have to pick me up tomorrow morning. And you owe me one.”

He gives Ada a brief hug and she pats him gently on his back. “You’re the best.”

“Yes, I know. Call me, okay?”

“I will.” 

He rushes through the building, finds Ada’s car in the parking lot and gets in quickly, his hands shaking. 

He can’t drive like this. He shouldn’t. 

He wishes he could call Nezumi, at least. But Nezumi doesn’t have a phone and probably doesn’t want one. 

The steering wheel feels cold and solid against his forehead. He breathes in and out deeply until he feels a little less panicked; the last thing he needs is to cause an accident on his way there.

His hands don’t stop shaking but his focus comes back to him, he turns on the ignition and drives.

***

He’s not sure who tells him Nezumi was brought in. A nurse, maybe? Or the receptionist. The thing is, Nezumi’s been registered and Shion feels sick. He’s pointed towards a large room where hospital beds line up against the walls, most of them occupied by people who are currently being checked by a nurse or a doctor. 

He spots Nezumi sitting on a bed on the back. He doesn’t run, but it’s a close thing.

Nezumi hears him when he’s a few steps away and his head snaps up, eyes widening. 

“Shion?” he says, surprised. His clothes are dirty, his hair is a mess and there’s a scratch on his cheek. Shion’s throat feels tight.

“Oh, thank heavens,” he breathes, his hands shaking as he lifts them towards Nezumi’s face. “Are you okay?” 

He wants to hug him. He wants to run his fingers to through his hair and bury his face in the crook of neck, but what if Nezumi is injured or in pain and he hasn’t noticed? His hands hover uselessly next to his temples before he lets them fall, clenching them firmly at his sides.

Nezumi reaches out, takes his hands brings them to his lips. “Shion, hey,” he says, before kissing his knuckles, so softly, as if Shion had been the one walking into a fire that day. “I’m fine. They brought me in because I could have breathed dangerous fumes or something like that—the fire was caused by a gas leak. But I’m okay.”

Shion nods mutely. He wants to ask something but the words elude him.

Nezumi must see him on his face. “A few were injured, but nothing bad, from what I’ve heard.”

“Okay,” Shion manages somehow, “okay.”

“Hey, come here.” Nezumi lets go of his hands and Shion feels lost for a second but then he’s being pulled in, one arm around his waist and the other sneaking up to cradle his head. “Breathe.”

Shion is confused for a moment and then he notices he’s shaking in Nezumi’s arms, and his vision is blurred, and—and he’s crying and doesn’t even know when he started. 

“I’m—I…”

“Don’t. Calm down first. You’ve been panicking for who knows how long,” Nezumi murmurs close to his ear, “How did you even know—No. Don’t answer that. You can’t tell me later.”

They’re told Nezumi is free to go an hour later, once his tests result come out. Shion learns he was given oxygen when he arrived because he had trouble breathing. He shots Nezumi a hard glare when the nurse tells him, but Nezumi too busy trying to dust off his pants to pay him any mind. He’s instructed to get plenty of rest, sleep in a reclined position and come back immediately if his headache doesn’t go away the during the night. 

“It’ll be fine,” Nezumi assures him while Shion leads them to the car. “It’s not first time I’ve been in a fire.”

Shion, who’s panic and worries have finally ebbed away only to give space to other complicated emotions, feels a little bit like punching something. 

“That has nothing to do with it. What were you doing there anyway?”

“Passing by after work. I heard screams and—” he pauses, clears his throat. “The firefighters hadn’t arrived yet and there was someone locked inside. People were trying to help but they couldn’t find a way in that didn’t involve catching on fire.”

“And you did?”

Nezumi nods. Shion thinks maybe he’ll say something else but the silence last until they find Ada’s car.

“Is this yours?”

“Uh? Oh—no. This is Ada’s. She let me take it so I could get here faster.” Shion unlocks the doors and they get in. He’s about to turn on the ignition when Nezumi speaks again. 

“I couldn’t help, back then,” he says. His voice is really soft, and Shion’s hand freezes mid-air. “In the forest. I ran. We ran—”

“You were only a kid, Nezumi,” Shion interrumps, gently.

Nezumi is holding himself so still Shion wonders if he’s even breathing.

“I know,” he says finally, keeping his gaze fixed on his hands, “but that doesn’t… I still—”

Shion reaches out and places a hand over his. And Nezumi has never been the one to seek out comfort, but he turns his palm up and laces his fingers through Shion’s without a protest. 

“That doesn’t make it better?” Shion asks.

Nezumi hums in agreement. Shion searches his face and notices: he looks rattled, more than he had noticed, and there’s something haunted in his eyes. 

It’s a novelty. 

Nezumi is quick to put on a mask over whatever he’s feeling. And he’s skilled, too. A talented actor, as Shion well knows.

So he must be making a conscious choice now. To let Shion see him like this. 

It’s a powerful thing to know, Shion realizes, and the pain in his chest turns into something different, something good, for the first time that day.

“Let’s go,” Nezumi says finally. “You still haven’t named the cat.”

Shion lifts Nezumi’s hands to his lips and kisses it in a gesture that mimics what Nezumi did earlier, when Shion was panicked and worried sick. “You’re right, let’s go.”

***

Nezumi’s place has changed. Shion’s hasn’t visited in a month; Nezumi had been going to see him instead since his work had turned hectic with a new project that didn’t leave him with much time to go to the West Block and back. Not if he wanted to keep a decent sleeping schedule and stay sane. 

“Wow. This…” he turns around and smiles at Nezumi, who’s leaning on the closed door. “This looks really nice, I didn’t know you actually liked plants this much.”

“I don’t,” Nezumi admits, walking in and taking off his dirty jacket. “I don’t mind them, I wouldn’t be working with Nelly if I did. Flowers are nice, and meaningful if you know their language. But this—” he waves a hand vaguely towards the different flower pots in his apartment, “this wasn’t my idea.”

There are three succulents inside and on the balcony Shion can see three different kinds of flowers. 

He laughs.

“Oh—don’t tell me…”

“Yes. Probably exactly what you have in mind.”

“Nelly?”

Nezumi picks up his back pack, searching for something. “Yeah. Don’t ask me because I don’t know how it happened. I remember I tried to refuse, I remember she argued, probably threatened me, but it’s not like I believe her when she does that.” 

Shion is still laughing and almost going sideways on his seat on the floor while the cat tries to climb his arm. It must be contagious because Nezumi joins in, laughing quietly as he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorr—”

“You’re not.”

“Alright, but how? She outsmarted you, Nezumi, I didn’t know that was possible,” he teases, raising an eyebrow and picking up the cat from his perch on his shoulder. 

“I let her outsmart me,” Nezumi says, but Shion’s is not buying it because he bursts out laughing again. “Look, even if I had somehow found my way around her arguments, whatever those were, she would have probably figured a way to get into my apartment and I would have found myself with these plants anyway.”

Shion lies down on his back, letting the cat play with his hair. “I think you wanted the plants,” he says, getting his breath back.

“Do you, now.”

“Yes. Nelly must have made sense at some point.”

Nezumi stands next to him and leans so he’s right in his field of vision. “Don’t go taking her side now.”

“Never,” Shion swears, and he’s joking but also serious. Because of course he is. “Go take your shower, you still smell like smoke.”

***

Two days later Shion is waiting for him outside of the flower shop. He smiles when he sees him come out and Nezumi is surprised, but something warm and bright settles in his chest at the sight of him and for once, he doesn’t try to ignore it with a bland greeting. He walks right up to Shion and kisses him instead.

Shion is obviously taken of guard, but he recovers quickly, chuckling against Nezumi’s lips before pulling back.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Nezumi asks, smirking just a bit.

Shion snorts, rolling his eyes, but his gaze is fond so Nezumi takes his hand and start walking.

“Nothing. Just—wanted to see you,” he says. 

Nezumi glances at him briefly. He sounds… unsure. 

Shion has always been refreshingly honest. Nezumi spent a good amount of time thinking he was naive and foolish for letting others see him so clearly and fully. Only time helped him see that as one of Shion’s strengths, rather than a weakness. 

But Shion has been guarded, lately. It’s not a huge difference but he notices it, sometimes, when he stumbles over his words, when he looks at him and starts to stay something only to drop it a second later. 

He’s probably doing it because he thinks that’s what Nezumi needs. Or what Nezumi wants. 

“Shion—” he starts, but doesn’t get to finish.

“I worry,” Shion cuts in, taking a stuttering breath. “That’s not—well. I just, it’s alright if you don’t want it, but after the fire the other day I thought maybe—” he lets go of Nezumi’s hands to get something from his pocket and hands it over. 

Nezumi takes it.

It’s a phone. And old model, used, probably, but looks functional. 

“What—?”

“I can’t reach out to you,” Shion says, and his voice breaks a bit, at the end. “I couldn’t reach it out to you for six years, Nezumi, and that was—-that was fine. Well, it wasn’t, exactly, but I learned to be okay with it. But now you’re here, right here and I—”

He stops in the middle of the street. Nezumi turns towards him and the light of the twilight catches in Shion’s hair, soft and sweet. In that moment, there’s no one in the world but them.

“I was so scared, the other day. And I thought, if only I could call him, if there was a way… and I should have the flower shop’s number, probably, if this is too much, that would be—”

“Shion,” Nezumi cuts in. 

Shion stops, but he holds his gaze, vulnerable and firm. 

Nezumi is obviously an idiot.

“I’ll keep this,” he says, raising the hand that’s holding the phone. “I don’t mind.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t.” 

Shion smiles, tentative at first, but starkinly sincere. And that’s it, Nezumi thinks, as the world goes back to life under his feet.

***

The phone comes in handy. 

Shion gets a call from Nezumi two weeks later and he’s—frozen in place for a second, and then rushes to answer.

“Nezumi?” 

“Hey, busy?”

Shion tries to clear his head. “Ah, no, I’m heading back home right now. Are you okay?”

“I’m alright, but—” there’s a pause, and Shion grips his phone with more strength than necessary. “We have to finish an order someone misplaced,” he raises his voice at the end, irritated, and Shion can swear he hears Nelly cursing in the back, “and I’ll have to stay here for a few more hours.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Nezumi, you must be tired.”

“No, it’s fine. But Venti is alone and I don’t know at what time I’ll be able to get back to her. I left her with plenty of food and water in the morning but—” 

Shion named the cat Ventura, which meant “luck” in one of the lost tongues, and Nezumi shortened it to “Venti”, which meant “twenty” and it’s not what Shion was going for but he loves it anyway.

“But what, Nezumi?” he pushes, frowning.

“If you have time, could you go check on her? You would have to come to get the keys first—”

“Of course I can,” Shion says, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “I’ll be there in an hour, is that okay?”

“Yeah, that’s perfect. Thank you.”

And so Shion goes. He’s—well. He’s elated. That’s it. 

Because Nezumi called him and he’s asking for his help.

It’s different. It’s new. 

Also kind of wonderful.

When he gets to the shop he feels like Nezumi was keeping an eye out for him because he comes outside immediately. 

“You’re here,” he breathes out, and there’s relief in his voice. He looks tired. 

“Of course,” Shion says, and leans in to kiss him briefly. “Here, my mom sends this. Don’t starve,” he pushes a paper bag that smells sweet and delicious into Nezumi’s hands. “There are enough for Nelly too, of course.”

Nezumi’s expression brightens immediately and it’s such a genuine and unguarded reaction that Shion wants to kiss him again.

So he does.  

Nezumi gives him the key and tells him Devan know he’s on his way, so he should have no trouble entering the building. 

When he gets there, Venti walks between his legs and purrs loudly. She’s grown so much; her fur, once matted and spiky, shines where it catches the light. There’s an elegance to her movements that reminds him of the way Nezumi moves, sometimes, naturally graceful. 

He feeds her and changes the water from her bowl, noticing the new additions to the room: there are two more plants inside and another flower pot on the balcony. And there are a few more books scattered around the room. Shion picks them up and stacks them on top of the table before going about making himself a cup of tea. He doesn’t know when Nezumi will be coming back, so he sits down, picks a random book from the pile closest to him and starts reading. 

***

Nezumi comes back past midnight. Shion is curled up on the bed with Venti pressed next to him. He stays under the threshold for a moment, trying to untangle the complicated thing that’s curling around his chest, making it feel tight and light all at once. 

He walks in and locks the door behind him. Shion barely stirs when he touches his shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmurs, quietly. “It’s cold, you should get under the covers.”

Shion blinks sleepily at him. “Nezumi?”

He kisses Shion’s forehead. Venti wakes up, stretches, and purrs to get Nezumi’s attention. “I’m back, I’m sorry it got so late.”

“It’s fine,” Shion slurs, trying to sit up. “I’ll… go, just, give time to feel a little more alive.”

Nezumi snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re staying. Get under the covers and go back to sleep. 

He disappears into the bathroom to take a quick shower, puts on some comfortable pants and heads towards the bed. Shion took off his shoes, but it’s still sitting there, his brow furrowed. 

“Nezumi?”

There are many questions held tightly in his name. Shion’s probably too sleepy to voice them properly. 

It’s okay though, because Nezumi hears them all the same. 

“I want you to stay,” he says finally, and if his throat feels weird he does an amazing job at ignoring it. He gets in the bed and pulls Shion with him, gently, so he can pull away if he wishes. “Do you want to stay?”

Shion doesn’t say a word, instead, he lies down next to him and presses his head into Nezumi’s chest, sneaking his arms around him. 

Venti climbs to the bed at curls up at their feet. If Nezumi pays enough attention, he can hear her soft purring. 

They fall asleep together.

***

Nezumi has just finished the most dreadful order he has ever had to work with at the flower shop. The arrangement itself wasn’t difficult, but the client was a nightmare who couldn’t make up his mind and came barging in with new ideas or changes every afternoon. For a week. 

Thankfully it’s all over now, he reflects, leaning his forearms against the counter and letting his head fall forward. 

“Good job there,” says a voice coming from his side.

It’s Nelly’s voice. But it can’t be Nelly’s voice.

He straightens to look at her through narrowed eyes.

“What did you say?”

Nelly points towards the the direction of the door. “He was an idiot. You saw that, of course.”

Nezumi feels a little lost. As we always does when Nelly talks to him. 

She does love speaking in riddles.

“…I did,” he agrees cautiously. 

“And you dealt with him.”

“That’s my job, as far as I know.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got a temper, as bad as mine, I know. You’re just really good at pretending otherwise,” she comments casually, as if they were discussing the weather. “You could have kicked him out the third day he came asking for the impossible, and I would have supported that. You know that.”

Nezumi stares. He still doesn’t know if Nelly’s approves or disapproves of whatever it is he did now.

Nelly must notice because she sighs dramatically and continues. “That man was stupid because he didn’t trust himself. But you never pushed your opinions onto him to change his mind, you just helped him see, and that’s a good job as far as I know,” she pauses, almost smiles. “How are you flowers doing?”

“What?”

“The plants. In your house.”

“They’re—okay. All of them, actually.” He tries to catch up with whatever is going on in Nelly’s head but fails, as always. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She shrugs. “You need to learn how to see yourself, that’s it, now go and move the sunflowers closer to the window. Enough chit chat.”  

He has learnt not to let his conversations with Nelly rattle him more than necessary because the woman has a short temper and a sharp tongue and doesn’t make much sense most of the time. But parts of what she said stay with him that day until he gets home. 

Venti greets him loudly and he stops to pick her up and take a look around. His room looks so green. The plants are lush and vibrant with life. On the balcony, the flowers bathe in sunlight.

He feeds Venti and leaves quickly, before he can change his mind. 

***

Shion is gaping. He knows he is, but he can’t help it. 

“You—unpacked,” he says, painfully aware of the fact he’s stating the obvious.

Nezumi nods, mutely. Shion’s eyes are fixed on the small wardrobe that takes up space next to Nezumi’s bed. 

He turns towards him and knows he probably shouldn’t say anything, knows his question will most likely go unanswered, but he can’t help it.

“Why?”

Nezumi looks at him, then at his new wardrobe, then back at him. There’s a lopsided smile curling his lips. “Nothing escapes you, right?”

“No—you don’t have to…”

“It’s alright, Shion,” he cuts in, waving a hand vaguely. “If there’s anyone who has the right to ask, it’s you.”

There’s a beat of silence after that, it stretches a bit too long and Shion shifts his weight, waiting. 

“When I was travelling, I liked to always be ready to leave. It was reassuring to know that I could pick up my things and go, and no one would stop me,” he looks up to meet Shion’s gaze. “But I don’t need that here, do I?”

Shion smiles, but it feels shaky and brittle. “I told you I promised myself I wouldn’t let you go if you came back, right?”

Nezumi lifts his hands and brushes Shion’s hair back, so gently he barely feels it. 

“Yes. That’s exactly why,” he explains, fingers threading through soft, white locks. “You can make me see, Shion, you always have.”

Shion lets out a trembling breath. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to say, Nezumi.”

And Nezumi laughs then, soft and genuine. “Don’t worry, at first I didn’t either.” 

***

It’s been over a year since Nezumi came back. He’s been working in a flower shop and living in a small apartment in the West Block for the better part of it. He has a cat named Venti and way too many plants. 

His room always smells like fresh earth and tea, and the floor is covered either in books or in Venti’s toys. 

He has never put much faith in the concept of happiness, but there’s something soft and bright that has settled in his chest and he can’t find another name for it. 

(Or he can, but is still a new taste in his mouth, wondrous and impossible. He can’t be blamed for wanting to keep it close and safe for a while longer)

There’s a knock on his door. 

When he opens it, Shion’s on the other side, smiling at him. 

[alkaliyogi]

WE ARE CURRENTLY IN HELLS PIT OF FIRE AND MISERY…

How did we get here?

2020 is shaping-up to be quite a year; we lost Kobe an important figure to sports yes, but more importantly a role model for black fathers and especially fathers to beautiful brown skinned girls. Now we have COVID, deaths, social distancing and possibly (and I shudder at this thought) mandatory vaccines in the near future.   

Many people lack the vitality and life-force energy required to participate in a democracy. This is not by accident. It was designed this way. 

There is a long history of manipulation of the human race at the hands of the 1% of the 1%- this is what I predict will happen on the other side of COVID;

Travel will become more of a nightmare than it already is. More abuse at the hands of underpaid/overworked security personnel and undignified body searches. I worked in aviation for over 10 years- if you still believe that Arab men flew those aircrafts into the Pentagon and World Trade Towers you are ignorant of the concept of protected air space. The planet’s only Superpower had comprehensive protected air space before, during and after the “attack” on America. Military and law enforcement of this great land long adopted the motto of “shoot first, ask questions later” long before Bin Laden was a spec in his father’s testicles. Besides, who spends more on their military and the protection of their own country than the world’s Superpower?

Already, we are subjected to unnecessary liquid restrictions- you can’t even bring a tub of hummus onboard with you...pause for reaction. If you choose to believe that restricting liquids has saved your life, I invite you to watch a lighthearted episode of “Adam Ruins Everything” where they covered ‘security theatre’ designed to provide you, the average citizen, with little more than a false sense of security.  And if you look at what constitutes a ‘potential terrorist’-it’s a pretty broad net covering how you wear your baseball cap all the way to facial hair grooming standards. Seems like legalized stereotyping, unless of course you’re a polished white male in corporate America.

But perhaps in the fight against mandatory vaccines- even the average white male may find himself in the trenches with us.

Will it be vaccines passports or vaccines with hardware implanted in our bodies? Will we eventually replace handheld passports for data stored in a fingerprint, retina or swab sample? Is that where we’re headed to already? Let’s keep things in perspective, shall we? Thousands of people died on September 11th. Millions more have died at the end of a gun- but the policy makers are very selective with what tragedies they will amplify and how they’ll pick and choose (based on their own agenda) when to introduce new bills or change laws. So even though innocent children die every single year in the greatest country on earth- purchased votes by the NRA (formerly the KKK) prevent amendments to the Second Amendment. Ain’t that something? An Amendment that can’t be amended. You’d think it was written by God and not men. Illusions of grandeur coupled with idolizing the forefathers of America is the exact opposite of being Christian, spiritual, a person of faith, etc. The is the same type of fandom associated with pre-adolescent girls and boy bands.   

An inside job designed to illicit fear of a common enemy (and weapons of mass destruction) became justification for us giving away many of our personal freedoms (i.e. fingerprints scans, eye retina scans, mass surveillance by our smart phones, email providers, search engines, CCTV, etc.). Does this sound familiar? It’s happened before and millions were executed as a result. Hitler wanted complete control of his people- unwavering compliance and that’s exactly where we are headed if The Gates Foundation and the WHO have anything to say about it. China is already practicing this type of population control with their face-recognition software and social behavioural grading system that assigns citizens a credit score that impacts your ability to navigate everything in your life from career, to housing to who and how one travel. Is this what we want? Who benefits? Not you, not I. 

There is growing evidence that COVID is a man-made (military controlled) virus. To many this may seem utterly ridiculous. I would invite you to research this information as discovered by numerous holistic doctors (who have been censored on Google but are searchable on Qwant, a reliable search engine free from the prying eyes of Google surveillance. If you’re wondering why the government would allow for something like a manufactured virus to be unleased on it’s on citizens let me help you. It begins with big pharma and ends with decreasing the human population.

As it stands today over 300,000 people have died- not from COVID but from underlying health issues. Like an episode of Black Mirror- doctors and health professionals are threatened if they don’t adhere to naming COVID as the cause of death. It doesn’t take a genius to observe that the overwhelming majority of people that contracted COVID recovered because they did not have underlying health issues. The Italian Parliament recently went viral for stating this. I’ll say it again, the COVID virus does not kill. Ask any self-respecting health professional/scientist that is not on the receiving end of grants issued by big pharma.  Even the CDC has been corrupted, pick-up a copy of Marcia Angell’s book; The Truth About the Drug Companies: How They Deceive Us and What to Do About It. Marcia Angell was the first woman to serve as Editor-In-Chief at The New England Journal of Medicine, the most influential science journal in the world. She’s done her part to warn us of how drug companies collude not for the benefit of the public, but for their own gain. History will show unequivocally that the real tragedy was not COVID- but the mandatory vaccines that have polluted our bodies for years with unsafe levels of heavy metals, formaldehyde, MSG and more to render your well enough to stay alive and on medications until you die. Newer vaccines will also render you sterile. That is the pandemic we’re headed towards.

Big pharma is greater and more powerful than any government on the planet. And what’s more, they’ve purchased almost every single politician there is to be purchased. In medicine, the first rule is ‘Do no harm’. In Aviation the first rule is ‘if we don’t know, we don’t go’. Thousands of people have had their lives permanently changed when their once healthy children were exposed to vaccines that left them autistic, some children have even died. Unless you can prove without a shadow of a doubt that vaccines are not harmful and toxic (which they have not proven) why do we agree to subject perfectly healthy, clean bodies to foreign matter? And no, vaccines did not eradicate polio- you can still catch that shit. The difference is more people have access to clean food and water today than ever before. As more and more countries develop, more of the planet’s population can practice better hygiene. Vaccines have cured nothing. Measles, malaria, hepatitis are still around!

Fun fact: the US government actually owns more patents of the measles virus than anyone else. Something to chew on.

Are we going to roll over and pretend that the supposed benefits of a vaccine for a non-lethal virus outweighs the damage is can have to the nervous system and reproductive functions of millions of people? We’re already dying a slow death with pollution in the air, water, food and soil we’re consuming. A great portion of the population is already unable to conceive naturally- which is your body’s way of telling you your currently too sick to create new life. So, what do we do? We employee fertility specialists to implant us with embryos instead of addressing the foundational causes and habits for our body’s rejection of bringing new life to our sick planet. 

The world’s population is nearing 8 billion- very few people have died during this pandemic relative to deaths associated to lung cancer, breast cancer, heart disease, medical drug overdoses, etc. It’s sad that we lost anyone. I live in Brooklyn, New York so I’m not removed from the collective loss we’re experiencing. Let’s also take a moment to step back and take a deep breath. This was never a reason to make us anxious, depressed and fearful of each other. This is how they separate and then conquer us.  And it’s certainly not a reason to change our way of living and give away more personal freedoms (that were fought and paid for).

I’m calling on citizens of the world. Stand-up! We are many in numbers- they are few. Don’t let them violate you or anyone else in a way that is not humane.

One last interesting fact to research- the United States Supreme Court or Congress (depending on which article you come across) that vaccines are ‘unavoidably unsafe’. And the kicker? If you or a loved one are damaged from a vaccine you can’t sue the vaccine manufacturers. How’s that for democracy?! Look it up for yourselves, but not on Google.

 Stay up!

Alkali Yogi

[transracialqueer]

WHAT WE LOST: UNDOING THE FAIRY TALE NARRATIVE OF ADOPTION

by Liz Latty

January 3 is my Special Day. It is the anniversary of the day I was adopted. The day my parents bundled me up and brought me home to live in our red brick ranch house on West Chicago St. in a sprawling suburb just outside Detroit. As I grew up, I would hear the tale of this auspicious day time and time again. Sometimes even now, in my thirties, my parents like to retell it. Their eyes still shine with something expectant, something new.

We drove through the snow that morning to pick you up at the adoption agency. We were so excited. We’d been waiting so long for you; had prayed so hard. We held you in our arms. Your new brother made silly faces at you and you smiled and laughed at him. We took you home with us and our family was finally complete.

Although the Michigan court proceedings that legalized my adoption wouldn’t happen for another year and a half, my parents decided the January day they brought me home would be the symbolic day we celebrated our family making itself again each year.

I was told versions of the tale of my homecoming so many times over the years, it became somewhat like a myth. Perhaps the same way one’s birth story might feel mythical. And since this was the closest to a birth story anyone had to give me, it became part of the fabric of our family culture, like the storybook romance of my parents’ courtship that began with a canceled blind date in south St. Louis in 1963 and unfolded into their long prayed-for children arriving safely in their arms.

My brother had his own Special Day, having been adopted three years before me from a different family of origin. Our Special Day celebrations always included the retelling of the sweet tale of our arrivals, a small gift, and a special meal or dessert in our honor. I remember lovingly wrapped presents of longed-for books and shiny lip glosses, new CDs and all-you-can-eat dinners at the local Olive Garden. I liked feeling as though I had something akin to a second birthday. It made me feel different in a good way—like I got more than other kids to make up for the feeling that I somehow had less, or was missing something everyone else just naturally had.

At the same time, I felt acutely aware of how happy my mom and dad were on my Special Day, and how sometimes my feelings didn’t quite match up. Sometimes I would feel disconnected from the party, as if some other ghost girl were being celebrated as I watched. A girl who had one family that loved her, one family she belonged to, one name, one home, one story that began on that cozy January day and stretched on into happiness forever after. I would watch this girl celebrate with her family, watch them celebrate together, and I would feel hollow, empty in comparison. Eventually, as I grew into my teen years and my identity began shaping itself in part around this absence, I would come to an understanding that for my parents, my Special Day holds within its memory unbridled joy and relief—finally. But that for me, it holds something far more complicated.

*

Most mornings I sift through news stories from around the globe in search of content for an adoption news website I curate. As a result, I can safely tell you the majority of adoption-related news that doesn’t have to do with a celebrity adoption rarely makes it past small, local, or adoption-specific media platforms, or into the average person’s newsfeed on a regular basis. Yet this summer, when a five-year-old girl named Danielle had her adoption finalized in a Michigan courtroom, nine Disney princesses showed up to celebrate her, and a video of the joyous occasion went viral. Media outlets the likes of BuzzFeed, NBC, Refinery29, and Today.com ran the piece with headlines such as, “This Little Girl’s Adoption Hearing is a Real-Life Fairy Tale,” “Girl, 5, Gets Happily Ever After When Disney Princesses Surprise Her at Adoption Court Hearing,” and “Fairy-tale Ending as Disney Princesses Show Up for Adoption Hearing.”

I hesitated to watch the video. The all-too-familiar storyline linking adoption and fairy tales registered in my body as a flash of anxiety and exhaustion: Here we go again, I thought. But I clicked on it anyway and watched as a representative from the foster agency told us of Danielle’s obsession with Cinderella and everything Disney princess. My heart melted a little as I learned about the foster care workers who had arranged the elaborate surprise in an effort to make Danielle’s adoption day special. At the front of the courtroom next to Danielle sat her elated foster family of two years, for whom everything had lead up to this day in which they officially adopted Danielle, and another foster child, one-year-old Neveah, into their family. The anticipation in the room was electric as the judge offered Danielle the job of banging the gavel, symbolically sealing her own adoption, and the entire courtroom called out in unison, “It is so ordered!”

As the gavel crashed into its sounding block and a smiling, sweet-faced Danielle wobbled almost imperceptibly with the weight and force of it, I realized I’d been crying. The overwhelming sense of joy in the video, the love, the celebration of a family making itself, was beautiful. And, at the same time, I felt a familiar dull ache that often arrives as I watch adoptees at the center of someone else’s narrative.

I think what Danielle’s foster care workers and family did to make her day extra special was an incredibly loving gesture. And even though I can’t help but wonder what Danielle’s story is, what else she might have been feeling that day, or how she will come to think of that day in the future, what’s really troubling to me is why this video went viral when most adoption news goes quietly or not at all. What’s troubling to me is the particular brand of magic that Danielle’s story conjures for the rest of us.

There is no denying this video tugs at the heartstrings, but I believe it went viral for a very specific reason. With its fairy tale imagery and language, this video, and other sentimental representations of adoption, offer us the opportunity to further cement a narrative that we, in American society, have constructed over the last century and seem to need to believe in our individual and collective conscience: Adoption is a happy ending. Adoption is a win-win. Adoption is happily ever after. Unfortunately, this heartwarming narrative is a dangerous tale to tell and has far-reaching consequences.

The singular, unavoidable truth about adoption is that it requires the undoing of one family so that another one can come into being. And because of this, it is a practice, an institution, and a mode of family-making that is born of and begets trauma, loss, and grief. The fairy tale narrative of adoption denies adoptees the acknowledgement and support necessary to process their experiences across a lifetime. It delegitimizes the trauma of adoption loss and directly and indirectly influences the overwhelming statistics that show us adoptees are far more likely than the general population to struggle with trauma-related mental illness, suicide, and addiction.

By ignoring the complex reality of adoption, we are also corroborating a sentimental narrative that drives a billion-dollar, for-profit adoption industry whose sole purpose has been successfully shifted in modern American history from finding homes for children who legitimately need them, to supplying hopeful prospective parents with kids to call their own. The fairy tale narrative of adoption uncomplicates these truths and it lets us off the hook. It makes us feel good about each other and ourselves without having to face difficult complexities and integrate them into our understanding of not only what it means to be adopted, but also what it means to be human.

Inside the fairy tale, we don’t have to think about the darkness, the underbelly, or the unspeakable grief lying just below the surface of a child who has been severed from their home and family of origin. We don’t have to think about the countless pregnant people in the United States and across the globe who have been tricked, bribed, forced, and coerced into relinquishing their children or whose children are kidnapped and sold to agencies or intermediaries who stand to profit from their adoptions. Inside the fairy tale, we don’t have to think about all the first mothers and first families who would choose to keep their children or whose children might not have been unnecessarily or unjustly taken from them if they had access to the right kinds of support. The kinds of support that could be provided countless times over, both in the US and abroad, with the money currently invested in keeping the for-profit adoption industry and the child welfare industry in business.

So why do we love the adoption fairy tale so much? Most of us agree that modern day fairy tales have set us up for failure when it comes to beauty standards and romantic relationship expectations, but what about family-making?

*

I have the date of my Special Day tattooed on my left forearm along with the initials of the three first names I have been given—my birth name from my mother, a variation on her own mother’s name; my foster name from the people who cared for me in the interim; and my adoptive name from my parents, after the first American saint. Because people change children’s names, for a better fit, for a different life.

In my experience, most people that don’t know me well assume I inked my Special Day on my arm as a tribute to my adoption. A tribute to my forever family. To my happily ever after. Oh, how wonderful!, they exclaim smiling wide, knowing smiles. Except this is not at all why I wear the date on my arm. I wear it as a tribute to and an insistence on complexity. The complexity of a day that marks a beginning and an end, all at once. The beginning of my life with my adoptive family and the end of any possibility of returning to my family of origin. A family whose absence I felt as though my small body housed a haunting.

As a child, I never let on that I didn’t feel as excited as my parents did to celebrate my Special Day. This is a complicated hallmark of an adopted childhood. Adoptees often take on the emotional labor of holding our difficult feelings in places where no one can see them because we want to protect those around us from feeling hurt. There also often exists a very real and primal fear of further rejection. We understand we are loved and we understand love is tenuous, so we hide our feelings away because what if we didn’t? How will you feel? Will you be mad at me? Will you be hurt? Will you love me less? Will you send me back? I don’t want you to feel sad or think that I don’t love you, so I hold this hard truth. I hold it for you. I celebrate this day, in this way, for you.

In pictures of the day my parents brought me home from the adoption agency, I look like a baby. Utterly remarkable and yet not at all. In some pictures I look solemn, expressionless. In some I look happy, rosy-cheeked and smiling. There is no and every inference to be drawn as I sift through them, turn them over to see my mom’s handwriting, hold them up to the light. I can insert my adult feelings about this day into these pictures or not. I can choose how to narrate this story. I can tell a true story about a loving family that came to be. How long my parents had waited, had prayed. How they held me, finally. How I laughed at my brother because he made silly faces at me. How we went home together, forever. A family.

Twenty years later, although my parents (and consequently I) were told differently through agency records, I would find out that my eighteen-year-old mother had not wanted to give me up for adoption, but, like most original mothers, did not have the means to support me on her own and lived in a country unwilling to invest in helping single people, poor and working class people, people of color, queer people, immigrants, and young people keep their families sustainably intact. Though they were in love, my mother was not married to my seventeen-year-old father, and her family was Catholic. The answer was clear.

I was told her father made the decision that I would go away. A decision the family held against him for years afterward. A decision I believe I could see behind his eyes when he would try to look at me across a room or expanse of yard two decades later, after I found them.

I kept your newborn picture in my wallet for ten years or more, my mother’s younger sister tells me in a hotel bar. We always thought of you as The One That Got Away.

There is no record of the first five days of my life. I do not know if I was taken from my mother immediately or if we spent those last days together in the hospital. She was never able to speak of it during the time I knew her as an adult, before our reunion unraveled. Her sisters indicated to me they believed she no longer had access to these memories. That they had been too painful and she’d found somewhere to put them. I imagine a shoebox buried in the backyard of her parents’ home, the banks of the Detroit River eventually eroding, giving way, washing the memory of our time together into the tributaries and lakes that were the landscape of my childhood carrying on mere miles away.

The adoption agency placed me in a foster home on the fifth day, but my mother, not wanting to let me go, would come visit me. She asked her parents to take her there and they obliged. Once, she came alone. For two months, I lived in a stranger’s home without the person I’d come to know as intimately as one can. Except that sometimes she would come back for me. And then she would leave. And then she would come back. And then she would leave. As my body began to learn: this is what love is. Right up until that snowy January morning when I was taken to the adoption agency to meet my new parents and my new brother who made silly faces at me and I smiled. I laughed.

*

The late adoption scholar and activist, Reverend Keith C. Griffith, once said, “Adoption Loss is the only trauma in the world where the victims are expected by the whole of society to be grateful.” I come across this quote time and time again, more than any other, in the online adoptee and first mother communities. It is so often quoted I think, because it succinctly points to the glaring misconception, misrepresentation, and misalignment that exist between society’s narrative of adoption and our actual lived experiences as adopted people and first families. There is such a gulf, such a divide, and one that is valiantly defended by society’s deep need to believe a singular, uncomplicated truth about adoption, that those of us who have experienced the interior of an adopted life often feel completely erased and utterly silenced.

Society’s narrative of adoption tells adoptees, in no uncertain terms, if we were given to a loving home, we shouldn’t feel this pain, this chasm, this rip, this tear. We were saved, after all. We’re so much better off. We’re the lucky ones. Our parents must be such wonderful people. We must feel so grateful. How lucky. How special. We were meant to be together. Everything worked out just the way it was supposed to in the end.

It is here—in everyday encounters, in saccharine and reductive media representations, and even in our adoptive families—where adoptees are expected to embody the fairy tale narrative of adoption. A hopeful, well-intentioned narrative, but one that is historically steeped in white saviorhood and colonialism. One in which people with more financial resources, social capital, and most often racial privilege, feel entitled to the children of those with less privilege, opportunity, and support. And we have accepted this not only as an unquestionable good, but also as the best possible outcome.

But what exactly is being measured when weighing this out? Are we certain a child will be “better off” living with the irreparable wound of parental separation and more financial resources than with a low-income or working class parent in their family of origin? Certainly socioeconomic status is often a clear indicator of one’s opportunities in life, but what’s the trade off? I have often wondered what our lives would have looked like had my mother and father made the decision to strike out on their own and raise me. And I wonder too how much of our future might have been determined by the biases that are alive in these very same assumptions. Am I better off? Am I lucky? The truth is, we will never know. And this, too, is a loss.

*

I found my original family in my early twenties and for the last fifteen years, I have experienced wild anxiety, deep joy, profound grief, complex gratitude, rage, fear, alienation, belonging, contentment. I have made primal noises and shapes alone on the floor of a studio apartment when my mother stopped answering my letters after two and a half years of knowing her. I have gotten to watch new siblings grow into stunningly kind, caring, creative, bold, and generous young adults. And I recently reconnected again with my original father for the first time in nearly ten years. Perhaps it will be different this time. Perhaps it will stick. I hope so.

Three years ago I met my original grandmother and three aunts on my father’s side for the first time. I stood barefoot on a cold, tiled kitchen floor during a sweltering Southeastern Michigan heat wave, surrounded by four brazen women who looked and laughed and cursed just like me. I stood there in that kitchen as my grandmother tearfully handed me a jewelry box containing a pair of delicate earrings, tiny gold hoops with sparkling lavender gems—a family heirloom. I stood there as they apologized for not knowing about me. Apologized that I’d been a secret. Apologized for whom?

We didn’t know, they said to me. If we’d known, we would have kept you. We would have raised you ourselves.

In that moment, I felt wanted, I felt important, I felt loved beyond measure, and at the exact same time, another ghost girl was born. A girl who was raised by four strong, independent, take-no-shit, hilarious, hardworking women in a working-class town. She had one family and one name and one home and she knew where she belonged. I watched the ghost girl’s whole life unfold in that moment. I fell in love with her. And then I began the task of grieving her. I’m still grieving her. I’m not sure how to let her go.

*

Adoption loss is an ambiguous loss. While it changes shape over time, it is often life-long. It is without end. I have lost my entire family and yet, there are no bodies to bury, no socially acceptable ritual or process meant for me to understand this loss and how to live with it. My mother went on living, became someone else’s mother, while I lived my young life with only the presence of her absence and the fracturing unknown. Maybe she’s alive; maybe she’s dead. Maybe she loves me; maybe she has forgotten me. Maybe anything.

Even after reunion, if it is possible or desired, there are new losses, new lives, and new selves to grieve. Loss of this magnitude and with this kind of ambiguity most often does not simply resolve itself. Adoptees must learn how to live with it over time, yet we must do so in the face of society insisting we exude joy, gratitude, and luck. An insistence that often means the kind of support we need to manage our grief is either nonexistent or unavailable to us. Imagine for a moment, if we treated other losses this way. Imagine losing a loved one—tragically, unexpectedly—and then being expected to behave as though it was the best thing that ever happened to you.

We need a new adoption narrative. We need to ask ourselves why we have historically needed to perpetuate the sentimental fairy tale narrative of adoption that only serves to hurt those at the center of it and to support an industry in dire need of reconstruction. We need a narrative that can celebrate love and family-making, but which does not insist that adoption is always the best option. That in fact, it is often unnecessary and the most generous, altruistic thing we can possibly do is to help prevent another child and first family from having to live with a lifetime of loss and grief. We need a narrative that centers the voices of adopted people and can hold the complexity of our multiple and fractured truths. That can hold all of it. Because I think this is the reality of being adopted—holding these seemingly contradictory, disparate, complicated truths, in the same body, always. Holding deep grief and profound joy in the same breath. Holding love for one mother that does not negate the love for another mother. Belonging partly to one family or country or culture, partly to another, but maybe never feeling as though we belong to either. Feeling both wanted and unwanted, both chosen and abandoned. Wanting to belong here and wanting to go back there.

What if we, as a society, chose to hold all these truths at the same time, at the same pitch, without the need to push one out in favor of the other? How might our questions or actions or beliefs about adoption change? How might our ideas about loss change? About healing? About family?

*

Though we live on opposite sides of the country now, sometimes my parents and I are in the same place on January 3 and we celebrate my Special Day together. We still eat, we talk, we laugh, we remember. And at some point, later that day or the next, I mark it in my own way, privately, for me. I meditate, I cry, I go to nature—the ocean especially. The ocean rebalances me, stirs a kind of biological rhythm in my body, a point of origin. And the ocean is always bigger and stronger than whatever you bring to its shore. There is comfort in the humbling, in one’s own smallness.

This past January, after thirty-six Januaries, I finally told my parents that my Special Day means something very different for me than it does for them. Fear and shame and guilt licked at my heart as I opened my mouth to say the words. I still wanted to protect them. I wanted to protect them from me. But because the impulse to protect others from their own feelings about my adoption ignites resentment in me, a desire to be the one protected instead, I was cold and forceful in my telling. It’s the day I lost my family. Why would I want to celebrate that? This wasn’t the plan. I didn’t mean to, but this is what happened. I wasn’t prepared for the force with which a truth, held inside a body for thirty-six years, would emerge. I can still see the sadness in their eyes as they listened carefully and nodded, Yes, ok, we hear you.

I left their house later that day, the day before my Special Day, without saying much. I went to a friend’s place a few hours away, in a town I used to call home and didn’t return for a week. I felt guilty about how I handled it and I wasn’t ready yet to try again. The truth is, my parents and I haven’t always had an easy relationship. My unresolved childhood grief made for an angry, rebellious adolescence that left my parents at the end of their rope. When I came out of the closet at eighteen, it proved irreconcilable with their devout Catholicism and there were years of deep distance before we were able to find common ground again. When I found my original family, my parents acted threatened and scared and were unable to figure out a way to support me around it for many years. This is not a laundry list of anyone’s failings. This is complexity. This is a family.

*

Watching Danielle’s adoption hearing reminded me of how much I adore adoptees. How fierce, independent, resourceful, hard-loving, loyal, brilliant, and creative we are. Not in spite of, but alongside this grief we carry. How the first time I was ever in a room full of adoptees, I felt an atmospheric shift. I mean this in the planetary sense. I was never the same again. I had been given permission to be myself for the first time without having to navigate someone else’s need for my story to reflect a fairy tale ending.

This was when I began to dream in earnest about what it would be like for adoptees to exist in a world that understands the paradoxical experiences that we live. A world that does not insist on reducing us to cheerful assumptions and sentimental media representations. A world that accepts adoption not as an unquestionable, benevolent good, not as a fairy tale ending, but as an event that forever changes and complicates the lives of everyone involved. That when the gavel crashes into the sounding block, literally or symbolically, it is both a fracturing and a coming together, a severing and a multiplication, a derailment and a hope for the uncertain path ahead.

(source in the notes)

[chasholidays]

OKAY. I drove past a roadside fruit stand at the beach labeled "Bellamy Farms" last month and immediately thought of you. Would love a beach romance with hot farmer Bellamy and hippie artist Clarke (could be holiday themed, or not!) 5-10,000 words, obviously with a meet cute & falling in love over veg. Perhaps with some Kabby and Linctavia on the side if it pleases you. TY for this gift!

oops there’s not really a meet cute here sometimes that is how the cookie crumbles etc

When Clarke Griffin is nineteen, her father dies and she drops out of college to move to the beach and become an artist.

It’s not, admittedly, the best reaction, but it’s not as if most people have a good reaction to parental death. Clarke has always done everything right, had been so sure that if she was a good kid who followed rules her life would be good. And then her dad died anyway and college is just moreschool, except that she can’t fit art classes in with her premed course load, which she doesn’t even want, and her father is dead and her mother was somehow involved in his death.

So she packs all her stuff into her car and drives down the east coast with the windows rolled down and music blaring and squats in her dad’s empty beach house for a couple of weeks, drinking cheap booze and generally feeling sorry for herself.

And then, finally, she looks around.

The beach house had been a staple of childhood summers, but it’s late fall now, the off-season, and that’s a new experience for her. It has the feel of being in a mall after closing time, or at a big event doing set up. It’s a secret place, a dress rehearsal, and being a part of that sends a thrill through her.

This is where she wants to be. This is where she belongs.

Abby is frantic when she picks up the phone. “Clarke? Where are you? Where have you been?”

“I’m in South Carolina,” she says. “And I’m going to stay here.”

“What do you mean?”

Clarke leans back. “I want the beach house, and I want however much money Dad left me, and then I won’t tell anyone what I think you had to do with him dying.”

There’s a long pause. “Clarke, you don’t have to blackmail me. And it’s not what you think. What happened to your father was–”

“A tragic accident,” she supplies. Abby said it enough. “I know. I don’t care. I’m not going back to school, I’m not coming back home. I just want the beach house and my inheritance and I’ll be set.”

“Set at what?”

It’s a good question. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

It’s not true, exactly; Clarke can’t imagine casually checking in with her mother for a long time. But Abby will probably call her back, and Clarke won’t lie to her if she’s got a plan.

All she needs is to get a plan.

The town of Arcadia, South Carolina is cute, like something out of a picture book. It’s not the actual beach town, but instead the closest inland town that people come to for non-beach reasons, and therefore the place Clarke might be able to find a job that doesn’t involve working at a restaurant, hotel, or tourist trap.

Granted, it mostly adds antique store, clothing boutique, and art gallery to her options, but all of those seem more in line with her skill set. She likes antiques and art, and she wears clothes.

She ends up getting hired at an upscale shop that sells a variety of goods made by local artists, from pottery to clothing to salvaged beach sculptures. It’s the kind of place that makes people think “this doesn’t look that hard” when they see the prices, and Clarke is no exception. She can’t sew and she doesn’t have access to clay, but she lives on the beach. She could definitely make weird seashell art.

But to her surprise, not only can she make weird seashell art, she likes it and is good at it. Commercial pieces are easy: charms to string on jewelry, small mosaics of sea creatures, just little things to remind tourists of their trips. But there are so many more things she can do, driftwood and sea glass twisting together into broad, conceptual pieces, the kind of stuff galleries might actually want someday.

It’s not a fast process, of course, but the years bleed by easily. The art community around Arcadia isn’t exactly thriving like it would be in a city, but it’s active and passionate, and Clarke slots in like she’s always been there. She dates Lincoln, the sculptor who looks like a bodybuilder, for about half a second before they decide to be friends, then Finn, an artist with a metalworker girlfriend who didn’t know he was seeing someone else, and then Lexa, who has dreams of moving to the city and making it big.

“Which city?” Clarke asks, amused.

“Does it matter? As long as I get out of here.”

The two of them stay together for a while after that, but that’s the moment Clarke knows they’re ultimately doomed. She’s twenty-four, years removes from the complete meltdown that had brought her to South Carolina in the first place, but she’s never had any desire to return to the life her mother had wanted for her. It’s a privilege, she knows, that she can afford to be out here, living in a beach-house year round, working as an artist who doesn’t actually make quite enough to support herself, but she has that privilege. She can afford to have the life she wants, and this is it.

She and Lexa make it another year, and then Lexa goes to Raleigh and Clarke makes a driftwood statue called “September Departure” in her honor.

After that, she can’t help feeling like maybe romance isn’t in the cards, like she might be out of options.

Both Lincoln and Raven tell her she’s being ridiculous.

“That’s the breakup talking,” Raven says. “It always feels like love is dead or some dramatic shit, but that doesn’t last forever.”

“I just feel like I’ve exhausted the local options,” Clarke says, with a sigh. “I’m running out of people to date.”

“And new people do move in,” Lincoln points out. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but the population here isn’t static. Good things could be coming.”

It feels like a prophesy, and Clarke is all primed and ready for it to come true, for Lincoln to have set her up for a meet cute with some new residents some unknown good thing.

Which means, of course, that she completely misses the good thing when she nearly walks right into it.

It’s the first farmer’s market of the summer season and Clarke is setting up. She and Lincoln have a booth together, selling their various works of art, and this is always the most stressful week. It’s the week Clarke is convinced that somehow the tourists won’t come, or won’t like beach trinkets anymore, that something will go wrong and she’ll have to admit this isn’t a real life and go back to her mother. It’s not rational that she puts so much emphasis on the opening week, especially since tourist migrations tend to vary from year-to-year, but if it was rational, it wouldn’t be a superstition.

The Blake Farm booth catches her eye because, despite what Lincoln said, new booths really aren’t that common, and a new farm is noteworthy. Especially the name, Blake Farm, which nags at her brain hard enough she actually walks into Bellamy in her distraction.

“Jesus, princess, can’t you watch where you’re going?” he grumbles. He’s carrying a large basket full of produce, so she can’t really blame him for being annoyed, but she and Bellamy also snipe at each other basically every time they come into contact, so she doubts he’d be any less short if he was empty-handed.

Her brain snaps the pieces together a second after she sees him: Bellamy Blake. Blake Farm.

“Holy shit, did you finally get your own place?”

He ducks his head, not enough to hide the pleased smile on his face. Clarke doesn’t actually hate Bellamy, not really, but it feels as if they’re perpetually on the wrong foot, as if they’re always about to get into a fight whether they want to or not. Getting into fights is just how the two of them communicate.

“Did you not hear about that?”

“I was wondering why you dropped off the face of the earth, but I thought maybe wishes really did come true.”

He snorts. “Dream on, you’re never getting rid of me.”

“Seriously, when did this happen? What happened?”

“Come to the booth if you want me to talk to you, I need to set up.”

Clarke follows him, taking in the produce already on display with a more curious eye, now that she knows it’s Bellamy’s. He’s been a regular face at the farmer’s market for as long as Clarke’s been here, but always selling for Pike’s Produce, the farm where he’s worked for since it was legal for him to work. Clarke knew he wanted a place of his own, but he also knew that it was, in his words, a stupid dream. He was better off not owning, so long as Charles paid him a good wage.

“You remember Miller?”

“Your ex Miller?” she asks, frowning. Bellamy is a couple years older than she is, but still roughly in her demographic, and while he runs with a different crowd than she does, there are only so many places to hang out. When she goes out on Saturday night, she goes to the bar where his little sister works, and he’s usually there too. He’s unavoidable.

“Yeah. He moved to Charleston to start a restaurant with his internet boyfriend.”

“I did hear about that.”

Bellamy hefts a basket up onto the table and Clarke tries not to notice the flex of his muscles. He’s in good shape. That’s just an objective fact. “I was always worried that if I started my own place, I wouldn’t have enough of a customer base to stay open. Most of the local places already have their suppliers, and I didn’t know if I could do enough business on my own. But farm-to-table is really big right now, so Miller and I went in together. He tells me what he needs, I grow it. Charles is doing his meat and dairy too, so he’s not even mad at me for leaving. He always wanted me to be able to make it on my own.”

“That’s amazing,” says Clarke, meaning it. “So you’re selling what Miller doesn’t need?”

“Yeah. It could still blow up in our faces,” he adds, shrugging. “Maybe we’ve got enough dudes selling over-priced produce here, but I figure I might as well try. If I crash and burn, I’m pretty sure Charles will take me back.”

She has to smile. “You can be a little excited. It’s exciting. Don’t jump straight to what could go wrong.”

“Thats rich, coming from you. You’re convinced if you don’t sell enough dolphin moasiacs by noon your entire business is in jeopardy.”

He’s not wrong. “So I’m speaking from experience. Don’t be like me, Bellamy.”

“Trying not to be.”

She smiles; the retort is automatic, and it’s kind of cute. Just a little. “So, any recommendations?”

“For what, exactly?”

“Something I can buy from you that will taste good that doesn’t require cooking.”

“The cherry tomatoes are pretty good. Sweet. I just eat them like candy.”

Clarke examines the cartons, arranged in neat lines on the table and overflowing with bright red fruit. Bellamy picks up a tomato and offers it to her, and when she pops it into her mouth and bites down, it feels like sunshine exploding into her mouth.

“That’s amazing.”

He looks smug, but she can see the pride lurking behind his eyes. “I know.”

“I’ll take two cartons.”

“My first customer,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Definitely not your last.”

She takes the tomatoes back to her own table and finds a piece of paper, writes Try a Blake Farm tomato!! on it and tapes it to the front of the tablecloth, next to the display of rings.

Lincoln does a double take when he sees it, then shakes his head. “So, that’s still happening.”

“They’re good tomatoes.”

“I’m sure they are.”

*

“So, you like wood, right?”

Clarke blinks at Bellamy, who’s come to lean against the bar next to her. His sister, who’s behind the bar working on Clarke’s drink, doesn’t look any more impressed with the statement than Clarke is.

“Your pickup lines need some serious work, Bell.”

“It’s not a pickup line, O,” he shoots back, and then returns his attention to Clarke. “Do you know where the farm is?”

“Not really.” It’s been about a month since she found out Bellamy’s farm existed and she’s gotten almost no new information about it since then. “I tried googling you, but your web presence needs work.”

“I know, Miller’s boyfriend is working on it. It’s not like there’s much to see yet.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I got the old Sinclair place, and they had some trees I needed to clear out. I know it’s not driftwood, but I thought you might want to take a look and see if you could use anything.”

The offer is both completely logical and totally unexpected, one of those things that’s good for both of them but still, well, Bellamy helping her out. That’s not how it’s supposed to work.

“I could definitely come look,” she says. “Lincoln might want some too.”

“Yeah, you can bring him,” Bellamy says, with a shrug. “Maybe when O is around.”

To Clarke’s surprise, Octavia goes beet red, the most embarrassed Clarke has ever seen her. She’s probably a bit young for Lincoln, in an absolute sense, but she’s twenty-three and more than capable of making her own choices, and the two of them might actually be good together. Lincoln’s been single for a while.

“Shut up, Bell.”

“Are you helping out on the farm, Octavia?” Clarke asks, mostly in the hopes that ignoring the Lincoln thing will put Octavia at ease and let her get more information about it later, when her guard is down. Or from Bellamy.

“I’m living there since Bell sold our old place, and he says I can either help out or pay rent, so I’m helping out.”

“Which is a way better deal for you than it is for me.”

“You say that now, but someday I’m going to move out and you’re going to be so sad you have to actually hire people.”

“I’m definitely going to be sad when I have to deal with staff, yeah. You don’t have to come look at the wood,” he adds, to Clarke. “I can just get rid of it. But I figured I’d check in with you first.”

“No, that would be great. I like doing beach stuff but I’ve been thinking of branching out, and this might be a good way to start.”

“No pun intended?” he teases, and at her blank look, elaborates, “Branching out? Because it’s a tree.”

Octavia groans. “Jesus, Bell.”

“Definitely no pun intended,” she says, trying and failing to not be endeared. Bellamy is not only really attractive, but he’s also got this aura of coolness, so it took Clarke to realize that, under all that, he’s a hopeless dork.

She likes him a lot better now that she knows that.

Bellamy rubs the back of his neck, which doesn’t help her situation. “Well, uh, do you have my number? Since our web presence sucks.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Give me your phone and I’ll put it in for you.”

“If this was you picking her up it would be pretty smooth,” Octavia observes, probably vengeance for the Lincoln comment. Clarke can never decide if stuff like that makes her happy or sad to be an only child, but it definitely makes her aware of being an only child.

Of course, as soon as she tells Lincoln about this, he’s definitely going to start dropping hints that it Means Something, so maybe this isn’t an experience she’s totally missed out on. Friends can be nosy assholes too.

Still, it’s a good offer, and one she’s interested in, so she hands over her phone and lets Bellamy give her his number, texts him back so he has hers too.

After almost six years of knowing each other, they can finally get in touch if the need to. There’s a milestone.

“Bellamy has some lumber he thinks we might want,” she tells Lincoln, when she gets back to their table.

“Huh,” says Raven, “I thought he was just hitting on you.”

“Nope, definitely not.” It’s safe to say that now, when he can’t hear. “He just wanted to give us first dibs on supplies.”

“Which is lumber?”

“Yeah, whatever he cut down on the farm to make room for–whatever else he wants on the farm. I said we’d go out there some afternoon soon to check it out.”

“Sorry, you’re going to Bellamy’s farm to check out his wood?” Raven asks. “Just to summarize.”

“With Lincoln.”

“You act like that helps, but Lincoln’s bi too. You’re both into Bellamy’s wood.”

“We’re not sure we’re into Bellamy’s wood,” Lincoln corrects. “That’s why we’re going to the farm. To examine the wood and see if we want it.”

“I can’t wait until he starts growing carrots and cucumbers, this will never get old,” Clarke remarks, dry, but Raven actually looks at her hard.

“Seriously, how come you’ve never gone for Bellamy?”

“I didn’t want hooking up with guys you’ve already slept with to be a thing of mine.” It’s only half a joke. “Come on, half of our conversations end in fights, how would we date?”

“You seem to be getting along pretty well these days,” Lincoln says.

“That’s because he’s been busy with the farm he didn’t even tell me he bought.”

“He didn’t tell me either,” says Raven. “I just knew because Mr. Sinclair mentioned it last time I saw him. I didn’t know you guys didn’t know, I figured it was common knowledge.”

“Octavia told me, but she swore me to secrecy,” Lincoln puts in. “I think he was trying to keep it quiet in case something went wrong. Luna said the sign wasn’t even up until after he went to the farmer’s market.”

It makes Clarke feel a little better, which in turn makes her feel worse, because she doesn’t want to have any feelings about Bellamy, or his farm, or his life in general. She has no interest in justifying why she’s never dated him because the whole premise is flawed. She couldn’t date Bellamy even if she did want to. It’s not a thing.

“I just don’t think he’s my type,” she finally says. “Obviously he’s hot, don’t get me wrong. But that’s not enough. I dated Lincoln because he was hot and look how that turned out.”

“We broke up amicably and now we’re best friends,” Lincoln says, dry. “How awful.”

She has to smile. “You know what I mean.”

Neither of them agrees, but they shut up about it. She’ll take it.

*

Lincoln texts an hour before they’re supposed to go out to the farm to say something came up, so he’ll just go out on his own later. Clarke wants to call it out as the bullshit it so clearly is, but that’s not actually a productive use of her time. She still has to go see Bellamy, unless she cancels too, and then it’s a whole thing.

She can just go check out Bellamy’s wood on her own. No big deal.

Before this, Clarke had known that Mr. Sinclair had died and left the farm to his son–also Mr. Sinclair–who taught physics and autoshop at the high school, which was why he was friends with Raven, who was definitely the star pupil in both classes. Mr. Sinclair the younger had a house of his own and no desire to keep up a property the size of the family farm, even if it hadn’t been a working farm for many years. It’s not the largest property in the area, but it’s well located and well maintained, probably perfect for a young farmer just starting out.

It’s also not on any of Clarke’s regular routes, so she hasn’t seen it in a while. If anyone had asked her, she would have said it was still on the market, but it’s not like she was paying much attention. And even though she came here at nineteen, she’s aware of not being a native. She doesn’t have the complicated network of contacts most people do, especially since the beach house is kind of isolated, away from where most of the actual residents live. She’s alone a lot, and she doesn’t mind, but driving past the new Blake Farm, this place she didn’t even know about, she can’t help regretting it.

She doesn’t know what she would have done if she knew about this sooner, but she wishes she’d had the option to try doing it.

There’s no one in sight when she parks, so she just gets to wander around, looking at the barn, the house, the rows of crops. She wouldn’t have been able to describe what it looked like before, but she knows it looks better now, the fields full and green, the house repainted, everything bright and clean and new.

“Hey,” says Bellamy, jolting her attention from the rows of tomatoes. “Sorry, I heard you come in but I was in the barn.”

She turns and it actually takes her a second to recover from just seeing him. Bellamy is always attractive, obviously and easily, a fact of life. Bellamy looks good; that’s how it is. But he’s usually a kind of buttoned-up guy, especially for someone who ostensibly lives on the beach. He rocks this kind of nerdy professor look, and it’s jarring to see him in jeans and a tank top, a bandanna pushing his hair off his forehead. The only thing missing is his glasses, which would definitely complete the look for her, but she assumes they’re not practical.

And, honestly, she probably couldn’t deal with all of that. It’s just as well he doesn’t have the glasses on top of his huge arms and broad chest and freckles popping off of his skin.

She shakes herself out of it. “No problem. I was just looking around. Lincoln had to cancel,” she adds. “He got a lead on some material he wanted up in North Carolina. So it’s just me.”

“Cool. You want the tour?”

“Sure.”

He shrugs on a light flannel shirt, which pretty much confirms that he’s not going to get less hot during this visit. His shoulders are covered, but he looks like the cover of a romance novel with the unbuttoned flannel and glistening skin. “Okay, so–the barn. I don’t actually need the barn.”

“No?”

“No animals yet.”

“Right, you said Pike was doing the animal produce.”

He nods, holding the barn door open for her. “This is my office for now, until I figure out if I can afford to keep livestock. I just want to grab keys and my glasses, and then I’ll take you around the fields and to the lumber.”

Clarke doesn’t jump him when he finds the glasses, but it’s a close thing. She wouldn’t have said she was avoiding Bellamy, but she’s seen more of him in the last couple weeks since he got the farm than she probably has in the last year before this, and the high concentration of interaction is a lot. Especially since they’ve been getting along.

She should pick a fight, just to remind herself why a literal roll in the hay isn’t an option.

Instead, she just lets him drive her around the farm, explaining what he’s doing now and what he’s still planning to do, pointing out crops that are coming in, doing well, doing poorly, rattling off names of weird hipster vegetables Clarke’s never even heard of.

“You really love this, huh,” she observes.

He glances over at her. “And?”

“It’s just nice. I know a lot of people feel kind of stuck here, like Lexa did. I’m glad this is where you want to be.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind if I left town.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“You too.” He clears his throat. “I honestly never thought you’d stick around. I remember when you showed up and it just felt like–”

“Rich girl burnout?”

“No offense.”

“None taken. If I wasn’t a spoiled rich girl, I probably wouldn’t be here. I couldn’t have afforded to throw everything away. But–” She huffs. “This is going to make me sound like an asshole.”

“I already think you’re an asshole, so go ahead.”

His voice is warm, and she smiles. “I think I needed to be away from pressure. School was just–I was the top of my class, always, because if I wasn’t then I thought I was losing. And I think I would have burned myself out and made myself miserable. It was already starting to happen in college, when I wasn’t the biggest fish in the pond anymore. If I wasn’t the best, I didn’t know what to be.”

“So you’re the biggest fish out here?” He doesn’t sound offended.

“No, I got out of the pond. I’m a total failure judged by any of the standards I used to have, but I’m happy.”

He laughs. “Okay, yeah. I can see how that would make you sound like an asshole. But it’s nice having you here. And it’s not as if you’re not successful. Your art actually sells. I’m pretty sure Lexa’s going to be back with her tail between her legs in a couple years, but if you wanted to leave–”

“I don’t think I could make stuff like this if I left,” she admits. “I think I need to be out here.”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen anyone capture the ocean like you do, it’s amazing.” Before Clarke quite has time to process that–Bellamy has seen her art, Bellamy has opinions on her art, Bellamy thinks her art is amazing–he coughs, this awkward clearing of his throat like he realizes it’s kind of a lot too. “This place is clearly good for you.”

He’s not the first person to say it, or something like it. But it means something else, coming from him.

“Yeah,” she says. “I like to think so.”

*

Clarke doesn’t set out to make the branches she took from Bellamy into any kind of gesture or statement. She picked the pieces she liked, these gnarled branches she thinks she can work with, leaves she could preserve in some way, maybe. Bellamy hauled them into his truck, drove her back to her car, and helped her load them, and Clarke left feeling only a little at loose ends.

But as soon as she’s home and really looking at the pieces, all she can see is him. These aren’t old, dried out logs, carried to her by the sea from god knows where. These are Bellamy’s trees from Bellamy’s farm, and when she looks at them, she can’t imagine turning them into anything but what they already are: Blake Farm and Bellamy, his dream finally come true.

So she runs with it. It’s not as abstract as some of her pieces, but Clarke’s past the point in her life where she thinks inscrutability is artistically superior in and of itself. She makes the pieces she wants to make, and it’s easy to just fall into making this one. Clarke goes into a kind of trance when she’s inspired, really inspired; she can make a big, impressive piece more quickly than a bunch of her tourist souvenirs, for all they’re easier, just because she wants the real piece so much more.

She finishes off the Blake Farm piece the morning of the farmer’s market, which is kind of a mixed blessing. Because it is for Bellamy, wholly and undeniably. She couldn’t give it to the boutique to sell or try to get it put on display anywhere, but it feels just as impossible to go up to him and tell him she made him a gift. He’d given her the wood without any expectation of getting it back, and she doesn’t know how to tell him he inspired her without it being a big deal. Because it is a big deal, at least to her.

She’s definitely kind of in love with him. It’s probably been a long time coming.

Lincoln texts her to ask where she is while she’s loading the thing into her car, and she says she’s on her way, but he can take as much of the table as he wants. It’s probably going to be a couple minutes, one way or another.

Clarke usually visits Bellamy’s stall before the market has opened. She picks up some berries or tomatoes to put on her table, since free stuff gets people’s attention, and then she doesn’t see him again until the end of the market. It’s easier than leaving her stuff unattended and fighting her way through crowds, and it feels more causal too. She’s not going out of her way.

Which means this is her first time actually seeing him in action, Octavia at his side, one of her own mosaics on display on the corner of his table with a sign directing fans to her table.

Apparently they’ve got a weird thing going, and she didn’t even realize.

“I didn’t know you were doing advertising for me,” she tells Bellamy. He’s looking at his phone, so he missed her coming in, the ideal scenario. She should be able to get out what she wanted to say.

He startles but recovers, smiling a little. “You’re advertising for me, I figured I should return the favor.” He clears his throat. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it. Thought you might be sick.”

“I don’t think I’m selling. But I could use your help with something, if your sister can watch your booth for a minute.”

“Yeah, of course. O, I’ll be back.”

He probably won’t think it’s weird. They’re his branches, it only makes sense that his farm would inspire her. He might try to pay her. He might not even like it. But I made a mosaic of your farm with your branches as a frame isn’t really an unambiguous gesture, and if she plays it cool, he might not even realize it’s a thing. This is what artists do, right? Totally normal.

“I figured you’d want to see what I did with the stuff I got from you.”

He blinks, clearly taken aback. “You already used it?”

“I was inspired.” She opens up the back of the car, not letting herself ask him to close his eyes or making it a big presentation, but she doesn’t have to. Bellamy stops dead, staring, and Clarke tries to see it through his eyes, the sea glass and shells, the leaves coated to keep them fresh, the branches surrounding a scene of blues and greens and golds.

His farm, rendered in whatever made her think of him.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted it, I thought I should give you first dibs, but–”

He kisses her, this quick shock of contact that just lasts a second before he seems to realize what he’s done and he pulls back, eyes wide behind his glasses. He really is, well–Bellamy. A constant background presence in her life that she wants to make much more prominent.

Someone she’s, somehow, very fond of.

“Sorry,” he says, searching her face like he’s trying to figure out if he should be saying that. “It seemed like the right response.”

Clarke winds her arms around his neck. “It was,” she says, and kisses him again.

They don’t make it back to their stalls for a long time.

*

When Clarke Griffin is twenty-six, her boyfriend proposes and she leaves her beach house to move to his farm instead. They convert the barn into a studio and she spends her mornings helping on the farms, her afternoons working on her art, and her nights with Bellamy, always with Bellamy.

It’s not the life she imagined, when she was young, or even when she came to Arcadia for the first time. But somehow, it’s exactly what she wanted.