#I have an ancient history degree this is embarrassing

[literary-motif]

Expectations

Kayson x Reader

The meeting with your parents doesn't go well. Kayson picks up the pieces.

You were trembling, doing your utmost to blink away the tears and keep walking. The world around you felt very far away, and the pavement beneath your feet seemed less solid with every step. 

You held onto the railing to steady yourself, never stilling your steps because you knew that once you stopped walking, you would fall apart completely. 

The harsh words your parents had spit at you still echoed in your mind. 

They had discredited all the work you did, making a mockery of your struggles. It felt like a knife sheathing itself deeper and deeper into your chest, piercing your heart.

“You don’t ‘work hard,’ so stop complaining,” your mother had said, taking a sip of her tea as her judgemental gaze seemed to analyze and pluck you apart. “If you worked hard, you’d have it all figured out by now. It’s time you start concentrating on the important parts of life and stop wasting your time with frivolous things.”

She had been referring to Kayson, of course, and the thought that they still saw him as an inconvenience — the man who called you ‘perfect,’ the person who always had your back no matter what, who would pluck the pen from your hand when you worked yourself into the ground — had made your blood boil with anger and resentment. 

How dare they look down on the best thing that ever happened to you? While they put weight on your shoulders for years, crushing you slowly under all their expectations and demands, Kayson worked inexhaustibly to free you from that suffocating weight and make you feel as light as air.

You had clenched your jaw, resolved to defend him and tell them just how great of a person he was. They had had it backwards anyway. If it hadn’t been for Kayson offering his support and being your crutch when the world got too overwhelming, you would not have performed half as well as you did. 

“Actually, I am—” you had begun, only to be cut off by your father clearing his throat and setting down the essay you had given him on the kitchen table. 

“It doesn't matter,” he had said, waving a hand in the air dismissively, “everything you do right now is useless anyway.”

The argument you had been trying to make slipped from your mind as your heart dropped. You had looked down at your history essay, willing the burning feeling in your throat to disappear as waves of shame and embarrassment had washed over you. 

Why had you shown it to him in the first place? 

“The essays you write are entirely irrelevant. Your marks on midterm papers, superfluous knowledge on ancient civilizations, all completely useless,” he had said, setting his cup of tea down on the pristine white paper and leaving a stain. 

You had wondered then if the high words of praise from your professor — congratulating you on the excellent research you had done and expressing their pride at the student you had become — had been rendered illegible by your father’s carelessness. 

“Listen here. What matters is only the degree,” he had continued, raising a finger as if to lecture you, “Only the marks at the end of your academic career. That’s what’s relevant for the real world. That’s the only thing you should care about. It’s the only thing that matters in all of this.”

Your mother had agreed, adding a few biting remarks about being stuck in your ivy tower for far too long and having forgotten the importance of putting your knowledge to practical use and making money. 

You had left quickly after that, making up an excuse about having to cover a shift for your coworker. Still, you were proud that you had not allowed them to see the tears falling from your eyes as soon as your back turned and you disappeared behind the entrance door.

With stifled sobs and shaking shoulders, you had begun your way back home, but the biting words and harsh remarks had grown louder and more oppressing in your mind until all you could do was hold onto the railing and allow the tears to fall as you bit your lip and looked into the water of the Thames. 

You wanted to curl into a ball and sob, hide yourself under a sea of blankets until the world disappeared and there was nothing left of you. You wanted Kayson to wrap his arms around you and reassure you that everything would be alright. 

Retrieving the phone from your pocket, you looked at your lock screen, the two of you smiling  happily at the camera. It made the lump in your throat thicken, knowing your happiness was frivolous to your parents. 

There was a bench a few steps away. You shakily walked towards it and dialed Kayson’s number. He picked up on the second ring. “Hey, perfect,” he said cheerily, the pet name making fresh tears gather in your eyes. “What’s up?” 

Your lower lip wobbled. Curling into yourself, you could not suppress a sob. The entire situation had become too much.

“Hey, hey. Are you alright? What’s going on?” Kayson’s concerned voice came from the other end of the line. You wanted to kick yourself for making him worry. 

“Parents,” you croaked, wiping the tears from your eyes. You felt pathetic, crying on a bench in public because your parents had told you some ‘harsh truths,’ as they liked to put it. “I’m fine, I promise,” you said hoarsely.

“Where are you?” Kayson asked, his voice muffled as you heard shuffling and a closing door. “Where are you, Perfect? I’ll pick you up, yeah? I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t bother. I’m fine, really,” you lied, running a hand over your face to disperse the tears that would not stop coming. The gratitude you felt for him was quickly swallowed by guilt. He shouldn’t have to put up with this, not with you and all your fractured parts, nor with your parents and their biting remarks. He did not deserve any of this, and you certainly did not deserve him. “I’ll get home in a bit, just— don’t inconvenience yourself on my account.”

“Where are you?” he insisted, his flat but urgent tone accompanied by his steps on the sidewalk. “Tell me, please. Otherwise, you leave me no choice but to search all of London for you. I can, you know. And I will, if I have to.”

Despite the tears streaming down your face, you smiled. “Fine,” you sighed, wiping your eyes and looking around. “Uh, I’m by the Thames” — Kayson’s footsteps halted suddenly, resuming a moment later — “next to the park we kissed in after going to that restaurant you wanted to try.”

“I know where. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said. “Do you want me to stay on the line?”

You could hear the even thuds of his hurrying steps, and despite the guilt you felt at making him worry, the relief of him coming to get you was enough to put you at ease for now. 

“I—” you began, trailing off. “Would you mind?” Kayson chuckled as if the idea of him minding anything that comforted you was absurd. “It helps when I hear your voice. You make me feel safe and— and loved,” you admitted, looking out across the river and wiping the tears from your eyes. Talking to Kayson never failed to calm you down. 

“That means I’m doing everything right, then,” he said, slightly out of breath. It dawned on you then that he had been running this whole time. 

“Kayson, be mindful of the traffic,” you warned, frowning slightly, “and don’t overexert yourself. I’m fine. There’s no need to sprint to me!”

He laughed, and the warm feeling settling in your chest at hearing his amusement was enough to wipe every thought of your parents’ harsh words from your mind. “You know I’m in shape, don’t worry,” he said, before adding teasingly, “I’d fly to you if I could, like a, hm” — he thought for a moment — “like a phoenix.”

“Out of the ashes, yeah?” you quipped. “The ashes of the cigarettes you used to smoke?”

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned, his steps slowing gradually. “I think I see you. Are you on the bench? I’ll be there in a heartbeat.” The line went dead just as you heard Kayson call out to you. 

Getting up, you smiled instinctively when you saw Kayson. He opened his arms to draw you into a tight hug. “There was no need to run,” you said, words muffled against his shoulder. Still, you were immensely grateful for having him with you now.

“There was every need,” he said, squeezing you tighter. “You sounded distressed. How did the meeting with your—?” his question trailed off as he saw the crinkles you had made in your essay, clutching it in bitter disappointment. 

He sighed, prying the paper from your hands gently and smoothing it out as best as he could. He paused at the stain, and you could feel the rumble of his chest as he scoffed. 

“Hey,” he said, loosening the hug as he hooked a finger under your chin to make you look at him. “They don’t deserve you,” he whispered, the sad look in his eyes at seeing your efforts dismissed so carelessly, nearly hidden by his fond expression.

Leaning forward, you met your lips to his. You tried to convey all of your emotions through it alone as words would forever fall short of expressing just how grateful you were for him. “I love you,” you said simply as you broke apart. “Thank you for coming.”

“I will always be there for you when you need me,” Kayson said, the adoration in his eyes as he looked at you stealing your breath. “Come on,” he said, taking your hand and shooting you a genuine smile. “Let’s get you home, Perfect. I made dessert.”

[kmmultifandomshipper222]

Author Notes: I decided to split this episode up into more than one chapter.

Chapter 3

A Helpful Hand (part 1)

“Naomi!” Elena shouted with a bright smile. We have an emergency Grand Council meeting. The jaquins found buried treasure!” When Naomi turned towards Elena her dad could see that all of her attention was now focused on Elena. Naomi looked fondly towards her, after all they had gone on some pretty wild adventures recently. Like saving the village from the exploding mountain volcano. Flashing back she could recall how she didn’t want to vote against Elena, but was pressured to by Esteban. The thing she remembers the most however was how later she got to work with Elena to fix the disaster.

When they arrived at the site the rest of the grand council had already arrived. “Professor Mendoza is working on the site right now” Esteban stated. As if hearing her name Professor Mendoza leapt out of the pit. “It's an ancient Maruvian chamber, the likes of which I've never seen” she said her voice filled with excitement. “Really? That is so cool.” Naomi’s face lit up

“It is not cool if you're trying to get to the Via Mercado. This is a busy street. I recommend we remove anything valuable and repair the road immediately.” Esteban noted, annoyed. “Do you expect us to stop everything and dig up an old ruin in the middle of the city?”

Professor Mendoza argued with Esteban about history they could discover in this ruin. Naomi finally had enough do their bickering and voiced her opinion. “If we can discover something new about our past, it's worth the traffic jam.”

“Miss Turner, you are hardly qualified to decide such matters.” Esteban turned towards her. “She's on the Grand Council just like you.” Elena’s grandfather stated.

“But she's not just like me, or the rest of us.

You are not a royal.

You know nothing about governing a kingdom.

You have no degrees, no accomplishments….

Until Elena put you on the council, you were merely a girl from the port.” Esteban stated cruelly.

Elena’s face shifted angrily to hurt after hearing Esteban say that to Naomi. Less than a second later she was beside Naomi with her hand on her shoulder in support.

“Esteban! Naomi is perfectly qualified to be on the council. Offended that Esteban attacked her best friend.

In fact, not only are we going to explore the ruin, but I'm putting Naomi in charge of the dig.” Elena said proudly. Wrapping her arm around Naomi’s right shoulder, after pointing at Esteban.

Naomi was shocked, when Elena said that. She had felt embarrassed when Esteban pointed out how different she was from everyone else. Her heart beat soared to new heights, when Elena came to her defense. She smiled smugly at Esteban as she felt Elena’s eyes meet hers. Having Elena’s arm around her shoulder gave her confidence and reminded her that, even if no one else believed; she knew Elena believed in her.

Later in the carriage ride back, Naomi started to doubt herself again. Elena could see this, but she wasn’t sure how to build Naomi’s confidence. She noticed that the girl was more confident with Elena around though. “Don't worry about Esteban. Elena said trying to cheer Naomi up. I'll come to the dig, too, if it'll make you feel better. Elena pit her hand on Naomi knee and tried to look her in the eyes. What is it?” She moved to sit next to Naomi, putting her hand on her right shoulder in support. Naomi noticed recently that she and Elena were usually in close proximity or physically touching in some way. It was probably due to the fact that they almost died quite a few times, since they met.

“All that stuff Esteban said about me not belonging on the Grand Council... what if he's right?” Naomi said insecurely. She didn’t voice it, but she was also think about the fact that everyone else on the council was straight, it wasn’t a bad thing, but it did make her feel more isolated. She had hoped that Elena was gay, but…. One day she saw Gabe flirted with her and Naomi ran away before she could see Elena’s reaction. Even if Elena wasn’t straight, there was NO WAY she would ever have feelings for Naomi. Naomi was just a regular citizen, and Elena was THE crowned princess. Plus, she didn’t even have a crush on Elena. Naomi tried to convince herself. Little did she know, that she would find out soon that her feeling for Elena were far more than platonic.

Author Notes: To be continued….

[trevorendeavors]

December 6, 2022. To all those on A03 who’ve waited patiently for chapter 4, I do apologize for the wait. It’s still in production, but while y’all waiting, have this and a preview of Hexsquad Among Humans: Perils of a Realm Beyond the Boiling Isles | Chapter 4: The Dinner:

—

“Luz showed me her ancient human archive of knowledge, the wiki! I memorized the passage on the creation of apple juice,” Gus bragged, as if it were the words of some ancient scroll he’d recited and not the encyclopedia that every once in a while was tweaked to say the moon was in fact made of cheese. Library databases were more reliable sources of information, but Luz could barely figure out how to navigate those and so she hadn’t introduced him to them yet. She’d promised herself she’d get around to showing him those when she was competent enough not to embarrass herself in front of him. That day never came, and so he was stuck with wikis that were only surface level.

“Yeaaah,” Vee scratched behind her head. “You always gotta double check what you get from there. Anyone can edit that to say whatever they want.”

“…oh.”

“If you want more reliable info, the local library’s a pretty good source.”

“You have those here?” Amity perked up, “That’s right… the human bookworms!” She turned to Luz. “Maybe sometime we can go see them, right?” Hearing her genuinely a little enthusiastic was so sweet. Titan, did Luz wish it was under any other circumstances than the ones they just came from that they ended up in the human realm. Maybe then they could’ve had that mundane slice-of-life date she promised and not have the destruction of the isles on their mind.

<i>Still, a trip to hit the books might be in order. </i>

History books and old spell books were likely the best place to search for leads on getting back to the isles. Even if the information was bound to be vastly inaccurate. All the sources Luz had ever had on magic before - whether from ancient myths, fantasy books, or online forums - had been wrong to a degree. Not even the databases were guaranteed to have reliable information. How could they when all humans had to go off of were leaks from another world and not firsthand experience? Then again, maybe humans <i>had</i> traveled there and back again but to different regions. <i>Or maybe even different titans.</i> It wasn’t impossible, as long as Titan blood leaked into the right puddles of water at the right location. Even then, narratives weren’t guaranteed to be accurate. Philip was - <i>once was</i> - living proof that humans tended to distort the truth of magic intentionally. Finding a way back was going to be like finding a needle in a mountain of unreliably documented haystacks.

“Luz?”

A gentle squeeze of her arm brought her back to reality. It occurred to her she hadn’t replied verbally or via text to her girlfriend’s suggestion. Without thinking she mumbled, “Uh, sure. Yeah.”

Amity frowned.

— END OF PREVIEW

Comment below if you’d like to be on a tag list!

@cozytealeaf93

[p-taryn-dactyl]

Hey, stargate anon from before aha, is it possible to request a daniel jackson x brother reader, maybe the reader gets hurt and tries to keep it a secret but it's then later discovered (maybe some blood starts spreading through the t-shirt and he collapses? Or gets dizzy and stumbles?) But yeah, if not no worries! :)

a/n: okay, first time writing a male!reader so hopefully i do okay!! I love stargate, i should definitely start writing more for it!! i hope i interpreted your request okay, i tried my absolute best

word count: 941

warning(s): injuries - mention of stitches - i struggle

*reader and daniel are fraternal twins bc i am studied psychological effects of twins so now i have to incorporate them in everything*

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission, go through the Gate, take some soil samples, and be on the way out. But, of course, it didn’t go as planned. The locals weren’t too keen on travelers through the gate, understandable considering the parasite overlords claiming to be gods. It was a small skirmish, given the facts that your team had the advantage in weaponry. But the attackers had the high ground when considering the terrain. It was a quick attack, a swift motion of a dagger made from rock that you didn’t even register until the adrenaline of the short fight wore off. After Jack had finished firing off a few warning shots to keep anyone else away, Sam continued with her samples and your brother rambled off to you about the significance of this world. 

“Those people seemed to be from the Stone age yet wore clothing akin to those we would normally see of much earlier cultures. Like thousands of years earlier! But what does that say about their culture? Well-” As Daniel rambled on, and your adrenaline finally wore off, you felt the wound in your stomach make itself noticeable. You leaned against some sort of tall flora, being as subtle as you could without showing your pain. You zipped up your vest, covering up the wound that would surely become visible soon. You nodded along periodically to what your twin was saying, normally invested in his rambles but now all your focus was on not falling over. Part of you felt embarrassed. You were stabbed by a primitive group of people only minutes after walking out of the event horizon. A heavy hand was placed on your shoulder, bringing you back into reality. You realized Daniel had stopped talking, flipping through his journals excitedly to record his finding. Teal’c looked at you with a stoic expression, but his eyes held concern. 

“Are you alright, Dr. Jackson?” Both you and your brother replied positively, making Jack snort before coughing to cover it up. You rolled your eyes simultaneously with Daniel, used to the coincidence. Born fraternal twins, with the same passion for history and ancient cultures, you were used to being referred to with the same title. It didn’t help when someone tried to clarify by saying “Mr. Jackson”, they would be immediately corrected by you, your brother, or Sam. You and Daniel had earned your high level degree and you would be addressed as such. 

You made your way back to the gate, listening to Daniel argue with Jack and sharing amused looks with Sam. You noticed the ground started to blur together but you shook your head. You would make it through the gate without suspicion, then head over to Dr. Fraiser in the guise of getting some ibuprofen.

Why does nothing go according to plan?

The combination of recently being stabbed with the shock of the cold Stargate portal, sent you tumbling through the event horizon. General Hammond sent some soldiers to check on you but you stood back up, raising your hands. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, just tripped-” But with that, a fiery burst of pain shot through you and you crumpled to the ground. You felt multiple sets of hands holding you up, bringing you to Fraiser. 

“Is my brother going to be okay?” you heard Daniel’s panicked voice through your pained haze, noticing you had been placed on an examination table. Janet’s voice sounded like she was underwater but you made out her words. 

“He’ll be alright, just a few stitches and some cleaning. This reaction is because of the sudden trauma his body experienced and the loss of adrenaline. He should’ve said something after the fact. How long were you on the planet?” 

You registered the disappointment in her tone but was too in pain to care. Teal’c was the next one to speak and you noticed Daniel following around the nurse, asking her rapid fire questions as she tried to stay respectful. 

“After the ambush, we remained for about two hours.”

Janet sighed, nodding her head. She sterilized a needle, preparing for stitches. 

“Good, that’s not enough time for an infection to set in but we still have to check because of the state in which the weapon was when he was stabbed.”

Everything happened in a blur and soon enough you were resting in the med bay, stitches done and infection testing done. You were also listening sheepishly as Daniel ranted about your safety while making sure your pillows were fluffed and fever was going down. (You had developed one after an hour of being in the med bay, that’s when they discovered a very small infection). 

“Daniel I’m fine, stop mothering me.”

Your brother let out a faux offended gasp, covering his heart with his hand. 

“Dear brother of mine, I would never.”

It was at that moment that Sam, Jack, and Teal’c burst in the med bay, home baked goods and store bought alike spilling out of their arms. Sam plopped down at the foot of the bed, shoving chips towards you. 

“Guys, it's a little stab wound. It’s not like you thought I was dead.” You glared at Daniel with that statement, making Sam snort. 

“Even so, we will always comfort you when injured, so matter the severity of your wound.” Teal’c’s voice was monotone yet also full of sympathy. You grabbed a bag of chips and started stuffing your face, trying not to smile. You failed. The rest of the night was spent laughing, clutching your stomach in pain because you forgot you were stabbed, and Daniel fussing over every movement you made.

a/n: i really hope you enjoyed this! thank you for reading!!

[maceofpentacles]

i already blocked op because … but as someone with a literal degree in history i have to break this news to someone. there are no RELIABLE SOURCES that line up with this “atomic explosion”. yes it was written about, but all of these clearly biased and in no way historically accurate sources, they just want you to believe whatever they’re trying to convince you.

and the whole starseeds, extraterrestrials, and reptilians thing. get a fucking grip.

op also made a post about how there are 80,000 pyramids in the world and they’re “all perfectly engineered” followed by “hmmm interesting” as if they were trying to insinuate that ancient peoples and cultures were unable to construct them on their own.

this is why we refrain from taking in historically and archaeologically inaccurate information!!! please god use your brain when it comes to things like this. this will save you a lot of time and embarrassment online.

[breitzbachbea]

Day 1: Writer & Artist [TurGre]

The first entry of (hopefully) five for @hwsrarepairweek2022! "My door waited wide open for you. Why were you so late?" (From a translation of "Güz" by Nâzim Hikmet).

Ship: Turkey/Greece (Sadık Adnan/Herakles Karpuzi) Set in a Human AU (Modern Day Germany) Read it here on ao3

The AU this is set in was the product of an ask sent in by the lovely @needcake, which you can read here for more context!

There is no poetry featured in here, because I am far more comfortable with writing prose, but I was inspired by the poetry of Nâzim Hikmet. The title of this One Shot is a reference to his poem "Bor Oteli". You can read an English translation of it and listen to a reading by the author himself here.

Somebody With Green Eyes

The door opened during a round of applause and the subsequent steps into the basement were swallowed by it as well.

A straggler so late in the evening was rare, but every audience member was appreciated.

Actually not a bad idea to come late, then one could miss out on Gilbert’s delusions of grandeur – or any writing skill, was the last thought in Sadık’s head before he turned around.

Messy brown bangs that framed a beautiful, if often quite sleepy looking face. Clad in a long coat and with no attempt to remove it, Herakles sat down in the last row of chairs.

Sadık turned back before they could make eye-contact. Leah, the author who led the workshop and moderation for their public readings, was still talking to the last author. A young woman called Irina, recently joined their workshop, kid of Russian immigrants. Wanted to write children stories. Odd as the genre was for a room full of adults, Sadık had found it quite charming.

Now he couldn’t listen to a word said on stage, their voices fading into a background noise that was occasionally amplified by audience murmur or laughter.

He still had five minutes until he had to be on stage. Enough to excuse himself to one of the other writers and leave the entire event.

There were two problems with this plan – He wasn’t going to give anyone any idea that he wasn’t proud of his hard work and there was only one exit, which meant he had to pass by Herakles in his attempt to avoid him.

He looked down on his printed-out pages of poetry. He would have simply transcribed his messy pages of the writing process into a neater version, but Leah had insisted he have a digital copy of them somewhere.

He didn’t like the impersonal way the computer-generated letters looked, but it wasn’t shame or embarrassment that had made him resist Dilan’s suggestion.

“You should ask the twinsies next door if they know some German studies or whatever student who wants to get practice as editor in. Maybe that way it’ll look on a printed page like you chicken-scrawl it into your notebooks.”

He had felt no embarrassment when he had gotten the pages printed at the copy shop, by an employee who could very well read both languages, and he felt no shame to recite them to an audience who, at times, wouldn’t even appreciate the beauty in the lines of the one they spoke.

But instead of Herakles, his mother might as well had wandered in, to witness how her son was squandering his hard-earnt architecture degree and all of her high hopes that he’d take after her exceptional career-driven life instead of his father’s exceptionally unambitious househusband ways.

He looked back down onto his poems.

His head slowly lifted and he risked another look at Herakles. He knew he liked poetry; perhaps he had studied it as well. These deductions and assumptions he could make from their heated arguments and their quiet night time chats. Working for the Professor of Ancient History at the local university, the poetry Herakles’ was perhaps most familiar with would have been the poetry of epics.

Perhaps Sadık could broaden his horizons a bit.

He uncrossed his legs and got up when Leah had already started with his introduction.

On stage, he took a look around the room.

Most of the people looked at the stage; a few talked with the person next to them. The pattern was repeated with the other workshop members who sat in the first row. Poor Irina had been hogged by Gilbert, who was talking with a cocky and self-confident expression. Sadık snorted.

He thanked Leah after the introduction, before she settled back into her armchair and he behind the table next to her.

One last time, he glimpsed up from his writing and into the room. Herakles had lost his coat but donned a faint smile while he slouched in his chair.

Sadık cleared his throat and began to read.

It was a wild mix, not only of languages. He had written poems of different lengths and inspired by different styles. He even had sat down and familiarized himself with a few basics and variations of German poetry.

He had written about nature, about work and about homesickness. How the birds sang in a dense forest here and how different it felt to the ones of his home in the cold months; about how one walk past a coffee roast house during a warm summer evening would transport him right back to Anatolia.

He had written about being a stranger in a strange land; about feeling isolated and profound bonds with people of all sorts.

He had written about love. During and after each poem he often let his look wander around the room, but when he had written about the longing for another, nebulous person, his look was glued to the page. He didn’t want to risk looking up and locking eyes with Herakles. He didn’t even feel safe when it was Turkish he had used to express his feelings with, technically impenetrable for the other but bearing his soul with no cover to hide behind.

Afterwards, Sadık talked shortly with Leah about it –

“Did you find out yet if that one has been published in German translation yet?”

“No, not yet.”

- and took a few questions from the audience –

“Are the German parts you read translation of the Turkish ones?”

“No. They’re their own verses. The idea behind this was that every part of the poem should stand on its own. So you’ll get a different experience if you only understand the German parts and so will someone who only understands the Turkish parts. And then, of course, having both is yet another experience. But they’re all written to follow the same … overarching vibe or theme, so that there’s still cohesion.”

- before he sat down in the first row once more.

“If I had known that this kitschy shit gets attention, I wouldn’t have bothered and just brought my diary to read from,” Gilbert said.

“That would be a better mystery story than the crap you usually write,” Sadık replied and adjusted his belt. “An easy one, you know, ‘The case of the old virgin’, but still better than your usual shit.” He grinned at Gilbert, whose retort was cut short by Leah:

“Mister Beilschmidt, would you please come up?”

Thus, a peeved glare was Gilbert’s last message, Sadık’s reply a bark of laughter.

While Gilbert hopped onto stage, Irina leant over to him. “I really like your reading voice! Those were beautiful poems, but the way you read them!” The delight in her voice and the sparkle in her eyes behind the glasses spoke for itself and Sadık smiled brightly with some faux-humbleness.

“Thank you,” he replied. Gilbert had already begun to talk to the audience, but Sadık only listened to him with half an ear.

He forgot to return the compliment to Irina as well as he was in thought for the next ten minutes. Only once did curiosity win over and he looked over his shoulder.

While Gilbert was reading a tense hunt for clues in an old countryside hotel, Herakles’ eyelids kept falling shut. Sadık nearly broke into a laughing fit.

After Gilbert had finished his reading and the following short talk, Leah had wrapped the evening up. Once she had thanked everyone who attended, who had made the event possible and advertised future readings and events by herself and others, the crowd began to disperse.

Leah was talking to one of the other organizers, a few of the other writers talked to each other and some had been approached by audience members.

If Herakles hadn’t already left, Sadık could slip into the crowd and hit the trail without him noticing. He’d have to act fast, however, before too many people had left already –

“Hey.” Sadık stopped rearing his head and looked up at the person in front of him.

“… Hey,” he responded once he had caught his tongue.

Herakles had already put his trench coat on, but not buttoned it up. Around his neck he wore a puffy scarf that looked like Natasa had leant it to him.

“I didn’t know you wrote poetry,” Herakles broke their awkward stare-off.

Sadık chuckled. “Well, now you do.” He reached underneath his seat to pull his bag up and his writing away. He looked back up at Herakles with a roguish grin. “You think it’s good?”

Herakles’ head ever so slightly dropped to the left and the right while Sadık got up and grabbed his jacket. With a smile, Herakles said: “I enjoyed it more than the other guy’s crime story at least.”

Sadık gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, you don’t know half of it, Gilbert’s been trying to make it work since forever.” Bag on the chair, he slipped into his jacket and glanced at Herakles. “You got time for a coffee?”

The smile grew a little. “Sure, why not.”

Sadık waved Leah goodbye while they waited for the aisle to clear up. There was a bit of commotion at the staircase and at first, Sadık thought one of the guests had forgotten something downstairs.

Once the man had made it down the stairs, he knew better and laughed. “I wonder why he didn’t wait for Gilbert upstairs, but you’d probably go grey if Gilbert found someone to talk their ass off.” He gently nudged Herakles with his elbow and then pointed at Ludwig, who currently looked left and right to scan the room. “That’s Gilbert’s younger brother.”

“Oh, I know him.”

Sadık looked at him. “You know Ludwig?”

“Yeah. He’s a STEM student, but he often shows up to Professor Tufter’s Ancient History lectures and the Ancient History colloquium.”

“I see,” Sadık answered. “What’s a colloquium?”

The aisle was more or less cleared, which Ludwig used to make it to the front. His eyes landed on Herakles and a second later, he stopped in his tracks.

“Oh, good evening, Mister Karpuzi.”

“Hello Ludwig,” Herakles answered and Sadık noticed Ludwig hold his breath for a second as cogs turned behind his startled eyes.

He was composed again within a moment. “What are you doing here?”

Sadık put an arm around Herakles’ shoulders and answered before he could: “He came here for my reading.”

Herakles glares at him, the relaxed expression now tainted with a noticeable furrow between his brows.

“Oh, interesting,” Ludwig said when a hand came down on his shoulder.

“Lutz, there you are! You’re late!”

Ludwig turned to Gilbert, who leaned onto his shoulder despite being the shorter one of the two. “Yes, sorry, but I was out with friends and it all got late. It was a bit spontaneous –”

“Awww, the boy is finally making friends!” Gilbert gushed with a grin and put an arm around his brother’s shoulder to squeeze him close, completely unaware of the annoyed frown on Ludwig’s forehead.

“You’ve made quite the assumption there,” Herakles told Sadık while the other two were busy with themselves.

Sadık still wore his cocksure grin. “What? Am I wrong?” He patted Herakles’ shoulder before he dropped his arm. “Come on, let’s get some coffee.”

Once they had made it upstairs and outside, the cold air hit them square in the face. Both of them groaned and Sadık pulled up the hood of his jacket. Herakles buried his face in his scarf.

The electric display at the tram stop told them it’d be twenty minutes before the next one came.

“It always takes so long to catch a ride home around here,” Sadık said.

“Especially around this hour,” Herakles agreed.

“How about we walk for a bit to the next stop? It’ll keep us warmer than standing around here and we’ll get home nonetheless.” Sadık frowned. “Did you come here without a hat?"

“Yes.” Herakles’ teeth chattered.

“You’re a dumbass.”

“Shut up.” Herakles hunched his shoulders and began to walk.

They walked in silence for a while, past several story high city blocks from all kind of eras. The few shops that were housed in some of the ground floors were all closed, nary one of them lit.

Herakles’ teeth still chattered. To keep his own from it, Sadık asked: “Where do you want to get coffee?”

“You were the one who suggested it,” Herakles mumbled and Sadık wanted to pull him close, press his head to his chest to ease the cold for the poor soul. “You should be the one to know where to get some.”

“I think there’s a bar somewhere down this street,” Sadık said. “Fancy, though. And pricey.” He wasn’t sure how fancy the place actually was, but definitely catering to another clientele than him. “Probably don’t know how to make a decent coffee.”

“I think the best bet would probably be Am Knoten on the way home,” Herakles answered.

“Yeah, yeah … maybe the bakeries are still open … “

“And there’s this one café …” Herakles sucked in air and Sadık wanted to put his arm around him and ruffle through his hair so badly. Press his gloved hands to the flaming red ears.

“Yeah, that’s probably still open … and I know they make decent coffee.” Sadık stared unabashedly as they made their way down the road towards the square with the next stop. “Or … We go home and I make us some coffee at home. Turkish coffee. The good stuff.”

Herakles, who seemingly tried to disappear into his coat like a turtle, didn’t react for a while. “Yeah,” he whispered at some point. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Sadık kept his thoughts at bay about helping Herakles out of his clothes and wrapping him in a blanket, how his hands would roam all over his body to help him warm up.

He flung his arm around the other’s shoulders and pulled him close. “I think there’s a kebab place around here, perhaps that one’s still open so you don’t have to wait in the cold, you icicle.” He rubbed his shoulder and laughed, but Herakles didn’t say a word. He only leant his head towards Sadık’s body and Sadık swallowed.

He tucked away his thoughts and feelings for a future poem.

[paragonrobits]

New OC I've been musing on, a paladin dinosaur man that is their peoples equivalent to a posthuman hero, preserved in stasis and awakening in the modern day and adjusting quickly to the world they're in!

Specifically, they're sort of a caveman paladin, predating recorded history; they belong to a Neolithic esque culture of frog/salamander monster people, who were physically frail. They discovered the magic of swearing oaths to uphold goodness and gain power from it, and with each oath consuming mystical potions that mutated their bodies to make them stronger, becoming something else and swearing the oaths into their very bodies; they grew thick scales to withstand injury, powerful muscles infused with divine power, huge claws and fangs to rip and tear the tyrants of the world, and became so radically different they were presumed to be a warrior priest caste of a different species. Think of how radically weird 40k space marines get in the augmentation process.

At one point, dino paladin was put in stasis, preparing for a fiend invasion, but something went wrong; they awoke eons later in the modern day; they have adjusted surprisingly well, and while the loss of everything familiar to them is haunting and an important character beat, they have grown to love the artwork, culture and many refinements to be found among the peopke of the world. They may not be the people they knew, but they will defend them all the same.

They probably look a but like a mix of 5E d&d dragonbir and kroq'gar from Warhammer fantasy:

Personality wise they are a mix of o'chul from order of the stick and Silverbolt from beast wars; they tend to be jovial in an understated way, enjoying the cultural practices across the world and all the arts. They prize refinement in all its forms, and have an extremely broad view of refinement, with none of the classist implications one might expect. They can be downright bombastic and showy, and have very little sense of embarrassment; they get hurt all the time and barely react to it even if it's embarrassing, to a comic degree. They can be serious, and tend to drop the theatrics when its important.

Their people live, but the mutagenic mysteries that produced heroes like our dino paladin are long forgotten; they hope to recreate it and instate a new tradition of heroes. (And wear the skulls of tyrants with pride.)

If they were a proper d&d paladin, tgey would probably swear the oath of ancients.

(The gender neutral terminology here is deliberate; I haven't decided on their gender identity yet, it how it relates to their people, whom I've been imagining as monogendered monster girls that used potions to take on the attributes of others if it felt right. They might be nonbinary, or otherwise be interested in the new ideas of gender identity They have picked up lately.

Thinking on names for them too!)

[buoyant-breeze]

modern reader in genshin world

characters ⊱  childe, diluc, zhongli, kaeya

warnings ⊱ completely safe! please enjoy!

rating ⊱ sfw

request ⊱ “hi! so i’ve had this idea in my head for a reader who is form the modern world (that doesn’t have genshin impact as a game) and got transported into genshin. they eventually just adapted to the world and doesn’t have any intention on going back to earth because it’s a world full of visions and cool stuff like that! despite how long they’ve been there, they still use modern slang (such as karen, memes, etc.), and how would childe, diluc, zhongli, and kaeya react to being friends with them?”  ---🐇 anon (she/her)

zhongli

at first meeting with you, chances are he will chalk up your mannerisms to simply him not quite being up to date with the recent fashions and behaviors of the recent generation of liyue, which wouldn’t seem unlikely given his personal track record

as friends, he is very keen on trying to learn how to use the same language as you, with varying degrees of success

he will often ask you questions on what certain phrases mean

but as he gets to know you more, he realizes you’re the only person who uses this type of mannerisms, but man, did it take him a long time to figure this out, and it was only after saying, “i suppose that wasn’t very cash money of the merchant, was it?” which definitely caused a lot of confusion with a potential business partner

it was mildly embarrassing for him. but he moves on pretty quick.

which then leaves him wondering, why do you talk like this, and no one else?

unless you have revealed your past to him, chances are this is now going to be the time when he is going to turn around and try to get some answers for himself

and given that it is hard to truly lie to an ancient archon, you’re not going to really have much room to skirt around the response, if you so chose

but upon learning of your origins, he isn’t too off-put by the answer. after all, he’s been around for centuries, and he has seen far more unusual instances than that of your coming to this world

and since you plan on staying, he is more than happy to help answer your questions about this land, and enrich you with information and experiences of this world’s history, language, and culture

childe

from the moment you introduce yourself, childe has no idea what you’re saying.

any conversations you have together where you’ll reference some pop culture or modern day slang from your world, his brain is going to short-circuit and make the equivalent of overheated laptop noises, all while saying, “haha, yeah, yep!”

and no, he isn’t going to ask what any of it means, because he doesn’t want to make things awkward by suggesting he doesn’t know what’s going on; that’d probably have a negative payoff on his reputation, even if only slightly

and also, it’s a point of pride

but as you grow closer together and he gets used to hearing the same old mumbo jumbo, he’s going to start getting the hang of it. if nothing else, childe is a very perceptive individual, who happens to be pretty good at figuring things out

at this point there’s no way you can stop him from using the same vocabulary as you. it’ll probably be extremely shocking at first when he fluidly calls an irritating woman you were just dealing with together for a mission as a karen

but of course, he isn’t perfect, and he’ll probably make a few mistakes here and there. which you’ll definitely point out, and he’ll lie his way through defending himself, “i don’t know what you’re talking about, where i’m from, this is how we say this,” even though most of your references are pretty much entirely exclusive to your homeworld

if you don’t directly tell childe of your origins, then the chances of him figuring it out himself isn’t all too high

he’s the type of person to ignore certain possibilities based on the idea that it is far-fetched or extremely unlikely

instead of thinking that you’re from a homeworld, his mind is going to make rapid conclusions ranging from you being from a very specific, far off area in teyvat, or that maybe you’re some weird celestial being like an adepti or an archon. and those latter options are not too likely, either, so he’s more willing to believe his first theory

but if your friendship starts bordering on decades of time together, he’ll probably learn of it because of a slip-up on your part, information gathering, or some other resource at his disposal; at that point, it doesn’t take much for the pieces to click together

regardless of whether you tell him or he learns of it himself, the only reaction he will have is mild surprise, especially when you decide to stay in teyvat

after all, he’s rather closely-knit with his own family and his homeland. the idea of leaving both of them behind forever doesn’t appeal to him, so he’ll have a hard time understanding your motivations

but with that aside, he can sort of see the silver lining of that, through your decision, he got to meet you and have someone he can trust at his side

kaeya

to be honest, even if you don’t directly tell kaeya that you’re from another world, he would eventually figure it out and reach that conclusion on his own; after all, you’re not exactly subtle with your modern day references

from the moment you meet, he’s going to have a hunch that something isn’t quite right with your story

he asks where you’re from, and the answer has some awful loopholes—so he starts investigating, mostly just for fun; he doesn’t really see you as much of a threat, at least, for the moment, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, and who knows... maybe it could be useful for something

but it turns out, no one really knows who you are unless you’ve personally helped them or engaged with them

so he starts digging more, asks you decievingly ‘innocent’ questions on your childhood, your family, your homelife—nothing that pries uncomfortably, but enough to try and gauge what is going on in your head, what makes you tick

your slang and references take him off-guard, but he can get the gist of what some of them mean based on his ability to infer in conversations

just when you think you’re going to be the only one laughing at your own joke, to your surprise, you suddenly hear kaeya give a strong, hearty chuckle at your side

he doesn’t know the whole context to the language you use or the things you’re talking about, and there will definitely be some instances where he won’t be able to figure it out due to the cultural difference, but he can still join the bandwagon

due to his own trust issues, his heart will be closed off to you over the course of your friendship, and because he doesn’t really know who you are, your motivations, or even where you’re from, he will have even a slower time of being able to be more emotionally connected with you

but that doesn’t stop him from enjoying your company, just don’t expect heart to heart conversations for a while

of course, eventually you tell him, or eventually he learns of it himself—and if he does learn of it himself, he will confront you to try and get a confirmation, one way or another

his inital reaction is almost pure indifference

is there anything that can be monetarily gained from this information besides the joy of simply knowing it? no, not really

but after some time goes by, and your friendship finally thaws into something real, he’ll be extremely curious to know more about your world and to hear stories from your time

and at some point, he’ll probably get nervous at the idea of you reconsidering staying in teyvat

after all, he has encountered a lot of loss and abandonment in his life, to see you leave again leaves him conflicted between this has how it’s always been, it doesn’t matter, and also please don’t go, it matters more than anything.

but this is just a personal, idle fear or doubt of his, as evidently, you’re pretty certain you want to stay

he probably wouldn’t use the slang or references much himself, since they have no personal weight, but when he seeks to confuse someone just for fun or for a manipulative purpose, they work in a pinch

diluc

he’s going to think this is some type of weird prank.

at first, he dismisses it completely. absolutely ignores it. he has no idea what you’re saying and he figures it’s just a tactic to confuse him, or that it was just a slip of the tongue.

except, this happens. a lot. it’s happened ever since he’s met you, and it only persists.

so, at this point, he’s going to realize this is just how you talk, but he isn’t really too sure how he feels about it.

he might be annoyed at it sometimes, if its poorly timed or causes a strain on his business or even personal affairs, but otherwise, he doesn’t care that much.

and eventually, any annoyance he does have will probably die down on it’s own as he develops a friendship with you.

he’s never going to outwardly investigate or try to figure out why you talk like this. he simply is going to believe that you’ll tell him something about it when you’re ready, and that’s good enough for him. after all, it isn’t a pressing matter, and there’s nothing he gains from trying to discover it on his own.

and until then, he’ll just decide that you probably are from some really distant area of teyvat.

generally, when you’re around other people and you reference something, chances are everyone else is going to turn to look at diluc for answers, and all he will do is shrug his shoulders with the expression of someone who is silently saying, this is just how they are

at some point in your friendship, you’ll likely open up about your origins or talk about your past, to which he will listen attentively, with a neutral, but kind patience

but, ultimately, diluc isn’t going to react too strongly to the reveal. he’ll probably be thoughtful for a moment, and ask about your plans and whether you miss where you’re from, but not really press too much into your business. after all, it is your life, not his.

internally, though, he’ll be a little surprised, since out of all the possibilities he’s considered, being from another time and place isn’t really one of them

you’ll never hear him use the same language as you do, mostly because he thinks its very odd and maybe even embarrassing, so you’d have to pester him to really try and get it out of him, but otherwise, he will live his entire life just snorting idly at any jokes you make that he just happens to understand through time spent with you

[severinwoolf]

Hello! This is an intro post. I very much should have done this about five years ago but at least I’m doing it now.

Personal Stuff: I go by Becca or Marx online. I’m 24 (Taurus Sun, Cancer Rising, Aquarius Moon.) I’m sapphic/bi/generally super queer. I use she/they pronouns. I’m a Jewish leftist. I won’t give you my laundry list of mental disorders but basically I’m neurodivergent and I’ve got some other stuff going on (is anyone neurotypical on this site even????)

I have a graduate degree in Ancient Greek and Latin. Now I’m once again in grad school but this time for an MFA. I’m also an aspiring SFF writer and a poet. I write fanfic but mostly for myself.

Warning: I used to reblog th*nspo and various related ED tumblr bullshit from the age of 18 to 20. So around 2018 to 2019. I’ve been trying to go through and delete all of it (I regret it so very much, I was in a horrible place. I vent about it sometimes. If you want to shoot me an ask or a message, I can explain further if necessary.) I’m in recovery and I will never go back to that place. If you decide to follow, I promise you won’t find any new th*nspo reblogged here <3

DNI: The list of usual suspects. Radfems and TERFs go to hell especially.  Also Reylos, for your own peace of mind, you’re probably going to want to stay away.

What I post: My personal tag is #thevoidspeaks and I occasionally post quotes from what I’m reading. You can find those under #litblr. The #quote tag is just a collection of quotes I’ve found on here.

I reblog aesthetics. Various aesthetic collections are categorized by tag. Some personal favorites of my collection are #darkacademia , #cottagecore , #haunted , and #vampirecore

I have an #art tag and a #sculpture tag where I curate a kind of private museum in cyberspace. I do the same thing with my #artifact tag. I like to imagine that I own a big old mansion and fill it with absolutely ridiculous things.

I trigger tag: gore, blood, food, ED (eating disorders), guns, and cigarettes (I’ve got a nic addiction, I know how hard it is seeing constant pics of cigs. i figured I’d tag it so that if you’re trying to quit you can block the tag.)

Interests: Ohhhh boy, this is going to be a lot. These are some of the constants but my interests are constantly changing. I have ADHD and I tend to have brief but intense hyperfixations. The BPD also doesn’t exactly help matters on this front either...

*Anime: Cowboy Bebop, Sailor Moon, Ouran High School Host Club, Panty and Stocking With Garterbelt

* TV: Doctor Who, Penny Dreadful, BTVS, Wandavision, Veep, The Thick of It, Adventure Time, Fleabag, Law and Order (mainly SVU and OC. Yes I know it’s Copoganda. Trust me there is no context where I think this franchise represents the actual US justice system.) American Horror Story, Peaky Blinders, ATLA, What We Do In The Shadows, Crazy Ex Girlfriend, Seinfeld, Ratched, Downton Abbey, Gentleman Jack, Community, Russian Doll, Steven Universe, Breaking Bad, House of The Dragon, Stranger Things (more of a casual interest than much of this list) Wednesday

*Movies: Crimson Peak, Coraline, Sweeney Todd, Alice in Wonderland (all versions), Carol (2015), The Graduate, Star Wars, Gone Girl, Jennifer’s Body, Labyrinth, Heathers , Ocean’s 8

*Musicals: She Loves Me, Wicked, Legally Blonde, If/Then, Rent, Cabaret, Sweeney Todd, Chicago, A Little Night Music, My Fair Lady, Hadestown, Heathers, Six!

*Celebrities: Sarah Paulson, Idina Menzel, Florence Welch, Rihanna, Cate Blanchett, Helena Bonham Carter, Eva Green, Jessica Chastain, Alex Kingston, Mariska Hargitay, Stephanie March, Suranne Jones, Alex Kingston, Kathryn Hahn, Laura Benanti, and many others

*Music: Florence + The Machine, Mitski, Cocteau Twins, The Clash, Phoebe Bridgers, Amy Winehouse, MUNA, BANKS, Taylor Swift, Tori Amos

*Misc.: Homestuck (God...I know its embarrassing) Virginia Woolf, LOTR, Skyrim, The Secret History, UNHhh, Game of Thrones (mainly the books,). Ancient Greek and Roman History and language, linguistics generally, ED recovery, Witchcraft, Fanfiction, Jewish History and culture, and Leftism . Basically, I contain multitudes

Ahhh I think that’s everything! I’ve probably forgotten things. If I think of anything I’ll edit this

[colorisbyshe]

Hi! I recommended the podcast Maintenance Phase to you a bit ago and it turned out you already watch it! So I'm wondering if you have any other podcasts that are like that, that you like :0. Bc I finished it and you have p good taste

I mean, Michael from MP used to be on another podcast called "You're Wrong About..." but has since left the podcast. I have a love hate thing with it--I love the extremely empathetic note that the podcast uses when correcting historical misinformation but some episodes are truly underresearched to an embarrassing degree and well... there are extreme and prominent limitations to two white (though now the other host has other guests, so maybe that will be less of an issue going forward) offering empathy for some parts of history and culture :S

If you want another podcast about fatness, I haven't listened to all of it but I listened to their episodes on reproductive health and I liked She's All Fat. The podcast has since ended so you can consume it all.

Other than that... idk if most of the podcasts I listen to (and I listen to none regularly, so... idk how much I can verify theri quality without some asterisks) would really appeal to you on the basis of being similar to MP

Like I listen to Triple Click for gaming news/commentary and they're... semi progressive and are light and fun to listen to, evne if I think some of the hosts don't like each other. So tonally it's similar but topic wise, it's completely different

It's probably not aliens is correcting misinformation spread by the tv show ancient aliens but it's a very new podcast and they're still trying to find their grooves so sometimes it's... very awkward to listen to (one host effectively info dumps and the other makes a joke the other doesn't laugh at once evrey ten minutes)

And the rest I dabble in are... extremely different from MP. Citations Needed is about politics and media from a leftist perspective. I sometimes listen to Reading Glasses/The Stacks which are just book podcasts. Scam Goddess is a true crime podcast but the crime is just... scams. Yeah

[chemicallady]

Science and Vision

Part I

A/N: let's start something completely new! Hope you'll like the idea. I dont know how many parts I'll write. Let's see what happens togheter.

Once, Greg said that he has to choice between science or 'something else'. And he chose science. What it someone we is going to bump into is thinking otherwise.

I'm also using the characters of Frank Diners, introduced in episode 13x02! A couple of years before those (terrible) event.

Important: this parts are dreams

Couple: Greg Sanders/Female!Reader

Category: Romantic, Supernatural, Phychic, a little of angst of course.

Content Warning: mention to cases in which is involved a kidnap and a murder. Csi classical stuff.

Summary:  Reader is a powerful psychic, as her grandmother. Unfortunately, this gift doesn't help her in paying the rent, but as his mom always says 'anything happen without a reason'.

Reader starts to believe that when a series of drammatic nightmares start to keep you company during the night. And the subject is always the same, like a video, replied over and over again....

*****

Las Vegas, December 5th 2010

《Sorry Vincent! I'm late!》

You make your entrance at your work place - Frank's Diner- and you notice both officers Akers and Mitchell laught softly at you from their position at the bench.

《Traffic is tremendous tonight》, you try to explain yourself, keeping your apron and put it on. Your boss is in the kitchen, so he doesn't notice your delay. Owen, his brother, grinns from the front desk, like he doesn't mind at all. Picking a pen and your notebook, you look at the two officers with a charming smile. 《What can I serve to you, gentlemen?》

Andy orders the usual coffee with bacon and eggs, even if is like three in the morning. The bell on the door rings again and four people are now coming into. The last one, the guy who is talking with Owen, is the one who always caught your attention. Greg Sanders, CSI, hot material. He is also funny and interesting.

A total match.

But probably too smart to notice a waitress. Little does he know that you have a master degree. You are the new one in here and most of the clients are cops. Cops never ask too much and if the do, well.... it's an interview.

《Ei (y/n)》 , sayis a man, smiling at you with his usual kindness. 《Are you on shift tonight? Isn't this your day off?》

《What can I say, Nicky?》, is your answer, keeping a pitcher full of hot coffee. You fill a cup for him while you are still speaking. 《I need some extra money. I have some problems with my car, actually...》

《Again?》 Sara asks you, keeping the mug you're offering to her. 《Maybe is time to change that tin can.》

Akers captures your attentions with a joke. 《Maybe that's why you're always late!》

You start to pretend to be offended, putting and hand on your chest. Greg laughs and answers for you. 《It's a '69 Chevy Chevelle, Sara. (Y/n) cant just throw that piece of history away.》

《Thanks Sanders, you truly are a man of culture》 , you says, bright smile and a little wink, while Edie grinns next to you. 《That car is a part of me》

《The oldest one, I presume》 , Catherine tosses at you, 《Sorry to bother your discussion about ancient veichles but we are on a case and we need some fuel to work. Can we order now, (y/n)? You are in front 9f a group of hungry forensics. 》

《Of couse you can!》 Vincent appears somewhere next to you. 《Edie will keep your orders guys! (Y/n) has a big mouth ... hasn't she?》

Everyone laugh while you blush a little, biting your tongue to avoid a rude tense. Dahlia comes to the bench, asking for her usual milkshake that you are more than happy to prepare for her. Just to hide how much you are embarrassed. The CSI stay for almost 30 minutes and you cant help yourself but searching for Greg's gaze. He gives you some in return, but the two of you don't speak till it's time to say goodnight.

《Which one?》, Dahlia asks you, while you are still pointing the door with both your eyes, as you are waiting him to come back and ask you out one of those days.

《Don't know what are you talking about》, is you flat answer while the realisation that he is gone again without your number arrives.

《Stokes or Sanders?》, the blonde ask again. Edie smiles, clearly enjoyed by the situation. You know that she is only happy to have a co worker but also too shy to ask first. There is Dahlia for this.

You sigh, 《Am I so obvious?》

《You look so helpless, baby girl》, Dahlia continues, playing with her long amazing hair. 《You didn't answer sweety.》

You have your back on a corner. Once a Marines, always a Marine and Dahlia is proving this theory to you right now. So you decide to let it go. 《The cutest...》

Edie keeps the dirty mugs, smiling even brighter. 《So Sanders》

《We need to arrange a date》, is the last statement from Dahlia, before she goes on Owen to pay. She lefts 5 bucks as a tip, and a malicious smile. 《Because if we have to wait the both of you, guys.... nights in Vegas are long, but not that much!》

◇◇◇◇◇◇

The crowd is melting in front of your eyes. All that is matter right now is him.

His eyes on the road, is smile....

The sound of the music is far away from you and you can enjoy the sweet sound of his voice.

The place is dark and quiet and you feel safe with him.

He is your only hope.

Your courage....

No one have never understood you like he can. You two meant to each other.

So why is he so mad at you?

And then the pain arrives.

Is impossible to handle it.

Your hands are painted in crimson and you are loosing your balance...

....The room is so cold.

The silence is heavier than you think.

And the Emptiness is swallowing you all, piece to piece, slowly....

◇◇◇◇◇

Here we go again. Another shift, beyond the bench with an headache caused by lack of sleep. It's the same old story since.... you can recall.

You've started to have this nightmare almost two weeks ago, when you moved to Vegas. It's funny, you run away from ghosts just to bump into new ones.

But this time is different. Is more...

Powerful and you are helpless because you can't just go to the doctor and tell him 'hi, I'm a psychic and my visions are too strong while I try to sleep. Can you prescribe me Valium? A family storage please.'

Everyone will change their behavior towards you if they only know...

Same old story, again.

And you are so tired to move away every time you feel uncomfortable.

Is a lonely condition because you have to keep this secret for yourself.

You are the mad one, in the end. The crazy girl who can see the 'emotions' of dead people. Their last moments. And you grow tired of being the freak.

You want to be normal.

You want to be less lonely.

《Ei (y/n). You look so pale, what's going on?》

Your eyes meet Greg's ones when you hear him speak. A tiny smile appears on your lips, while you rise your hand to keep a mug full of coffee for the agent. 《 Have you ever sperimented how awful is being tired but incapable of fell asleep?》

《Please don't tell me》, is his answer, while he is smiling at you. You can't help yourself but think that is so cute. 《Thank you for the coffee.》

《Do you want to eat something?》

《No, I'm fine (y/n). I just want to review this case. I hope I won't bother you if I stay here at the bench for a bit.》

So charming.

He would never bother you.

Another smile and then you come back to work, serving coffee and keeping orders to the abitudinary clients. Greg stays much longer than 'a bit', by the way. An hour passed and he is still there. Is almost the dawn and you are going to end your shift. You are so tired...

You will probably walk home; you are too messy to drive.

You come back to Greg and you lean against the bar, yawning in your fist. 《May I ask you about this case?》

He sighs. 《An answer for and answer.》

《Then ask, Sanders.》

He looks at you with a small grinn. 《Why you can't sleep? Did you partied all night at the Mediterranean?》

A small laught abandon you month. 《 I wish. I just had a nightmare....》 He looks sorry for you, but it's fine. 《So? The case?》

He goes through his file before he shows you a picture. You barely hear what he says next. 《A girl disappeared a couple of weeks ago. Her name is Nina Foster, a university student. She was the head cheerleader of the college's football team and she went missed since the last.... (y/n), are you ok?》

You are barely breathing now. 《Oh my God.》

《What?》 , he asks without understand what's wrong. 《Do you know her?》

《I didn't. 》 you reply. 《.... I have dreamt about her. My nightmares....》 your hand traces slowly the line of the jaw in the pic, before speak again. 《I saw her being stabbed in the belly..... I think she is dead.》

....That probably wasn't a good idea.

~ continue ~

[wallwriterstuff]

Dating Demetri Would Include... (Part 2)

A part 2 to an ask I received and answered ——-> HERE <——— because I have no self control and @raindancer2004 is too sweet and encourages me too much. Fair warning, this one is LONG. 

Demetri loves taking you on extravagant dates so expect to have to get dressed up at least twice a month

I’m sorry did you say you don’t own anything formal enough for a black tie event? SHOPPING 

SO. MUCH. SHOPPING. 

“What are we doing here Metri? This stuff looks really expensive…”          “Well you have that stunning ball gown and the laws of fashion dictate you need the diamonds to match.” 

You on the other hand prefer quiet nights in and have slowly converted Demetri to loving them almost as much as his dates. Going out is the new staying in and he has invested in a ton of blankets made of only the finest materials for your movie nights, storytime dates and snuggle sessions

By the way? He is the snuggle master

Will cuddle you absolutely anywhere. Are you brushing your teeth? Boom, he’s behind you. Taking in the view from the window in your room? He’s got you tucked into his chest with his chin on your head while you do it. Reading on the sofa? Expect his head in your lap

Loves loves LOVES having his hair played with but always gets yours tangled around his fingers

Romantic, shared baths are a thing. Scented candles, those dissolvable rose petals…the whole nine yards. Demetri has been obsessed with face masks ever since you introduced him to them and especially loves the ones where you get other faces printed on them. 

           + “I cannot believe you are sharing this bathtub with me with a tiger on your face.”               “I cannot believe you aren’t sharing this bath with me using the lion one I got for you.” 

These baths will usually also include stories of ancient history, and all the historical figures he has met. You are left fascinated each and every time

Demetri is very book smart, he has numerous degrees that he’s gained over the centuries ranging from geography to psychology, so if you want to study some more he is incredibly supportive

By that I mean he buys you so much stationary you could make your own shop out of it 

Cue sweet little study dates where your both sneaking glances at each other while you work away on opposite sides of the room 

INSISTS that the first time you graduate as his mate, you do it in person and get to go to the ceremony. He doesn’t care if you’ve graduated once before you met him, he WILL be at this ceremony and he WILL be the embarrassing partner that stands up to clap obnoxiously loud and whistle until you’ve left the stage. He is very proud of you and all that you do and the world WILL know it

He is terrible with technology so expect to be butt dialled when he’s on a mission

You regret introducing him to snapchat

He has gotten better at taking selfies and no longer looks like a confused grandad focusing too hard on the screen, but he sends you pictures of himself with ridiculous filters on at the most inopportune times..            + He was away in Russia and you were on cleanup duty after feeding time. You were not expecting to open your phone to a little video of Demetri vomiting rainbows and stopped so abruptly Santiago bumped into you, dropping the box of valuables you’d stripped from the corpses. Jane was very upset when the ring she wanted bounced down the drain

He absolutely loves video calling you when he’s away, his face just lights up when you pick up the phone and he gets to not just hear you but see you like you’re right there with him

Expect the biggest smooches when he returns to you after even the smallest length of time apart

Demetri is absolutely addicted to the way you taste and is a certified kiss thief - this is his best and most effective tactic at stealing your attention when he’s feeling needy (which is always) 

You try not to think about how much practice he’s had but he’s a really good kisser 

Slow, teasing, chaste, deep, rough, he has mastered any and all styles and leaves you wanting more everytime

His favourite by far are the slow, lingering kisses you give him after sex

Yours on the other hand are his more passionate ones, the kind where his tongue is teaching yours to salsa and his hands are everywhere all at once 

If you are still human goodnight kisses are peppered all over your face before sleep so he can make you smile one last time for the day, but if your a vampire you still get goodnight kisses, usually after you’ve dressed down for the night and settled into your favourite chair 

Demetri’s attention and affection ensure you’re never sad very often, but on the ocassion you do find yourself feeling down he’ll wrap you in all of your fancy blankets simply to hold and kiss you till you feel better. His lips land on your cheek, your temple, your shoulder, anywhere they can reach

Demetri is always on the lookout for things that will make you want to kiss him to, so you can expect lots of little random, surprise gestures that brighten your day 

There are so many more scenarios to imagine him in but as far as generic headcanons for dating him go I feel like I have finally exhausted them….maybe….possibly….we’ll see! 

[when-picnic-remember-snacks]

Chapter 1

This is my newest fic, an AU of The Old Guard with everyone’s favorite immortal husbands! It is so far untitled. In this AU, Joe and Nicky are new teachers at an ///unrealistically/// liberal private boarding school. They live in adjacent apartments in a dorm. Joe teaches history, Nicky teaches Latin and Italian. Over the course of the year, the two grow close and a relationship begins to blossom.

DISCLAIMER: I am not Muslim, but I am doing my absolute best to write Joe as a multi-dimensional, imperfect, complex Muslim character. It is frustrating to me to see Joe’s relationship with his faith cast aside in other fics, and I want to portray him as someone with a real, complex relationship to his religion (without assigning my own narratives to it). Despite my best efforts, there may be times when I fall short, and I am not afraid to edit and revise my work (even after publishing it!). Please bear with me!

The new apartment was small. Really small. Nicky wasn't sure what he expected of an apartment that was nestled in a dorm for high schoolers, but he at least expected it to be clean. There were stains on the walls and carpets, and before he could settle in, he resigned himself to a day of literally scrubbing the remnants of previous occupants from his new home. Starting in the kitchen, he donned yellow rubber gloves to his elbows, grabbed a few rags, a sponge, and a bottle of spray cleaner, and got to work.

After an hour, he was satisfied with the results. The appliances gleamed, and there were no more food stains on the walls. The grout between the tiles was a more respectable grey color, and the whole room smelled of bleach. He leaned against the counter and wiped his sweaty forehead with his elbow, looking down to see that his grey shirt was visibly soaked in sweat. The early-August heat did not pair well with an apartment lacking central air conditioning.

As he moved into the living room, there was a knock on the door leading to the hallway. Cazzo, Nicky thought, hissing through his teeth. He crossed the room and opened the door, realizing one second too late that he was wearing a sweaty, bleach-stained grey t-shirt with old basketball shorts that had a giant rip near the hem. Sexy. He became extra aware of his bizarre, decidedly unattractive outfit when he found himself looking into the soft brown eyes of a very handsome man. He opened his mouth, completely lost for words.

"Hello," said the man in his doorway. His voice was soft and musical, and he had a gentle accent. "I'm Joe, I live right next door and I figured I should come to say hi before you think I'm a bad neighbor." He laughed, and Nicky realized how rude he must seem, staring at this man from his doorway.

"Hi, I'm Nicky," and he extended his hand to shake. Joe glanced down at it, one eyebrow cocked. Nicky sucked air in through his teeth, cursing himself, then pulled off the yellow rubber gloves. Thankfully, Joe just laughed again and shook Nicky's hand with both of his own. There was an awkward moment where they stood, still holding each other's hands, before Nicky said: "I would invite you in, but it's a mess in here right now and it smells like a swimming pool–"

"Oh, no, I don't want to intrude, please," Joe reassured him. He shoved his hands in his pockets, then, seeming unhappy with that, tucked them behind his back. "I just wanted to introduce myself." He backed up a step, rocking on his heels.

"I'll tell you what, though," said Nicky quickly. "I should be cleaned up by tonight, you should come over for a drink." He bit the inside of his lip, worried that he was coming off too friendly, but Joe smiled. It made Nicky's heart race a little.

"That sounds very nice, I would love to," he said. "I will bring a bottle of wine?"

"Yes, that sounds perfect," said Nicky. "7:00?"

"See you then," Joe waved awkwardly, then turned and walked the few feet to his door. "Bye," he said with a nervous laugh.

"Bye," said Nicky. He pulled the door closed and leaned against it, tilting his head back and blowing air at the ceiling. He looked at the apartment, suddenly panicking. He glanced at his watch. 10:26. Which gave him… seven and a half hours to clean and move into his apartment. "Fuck," he said quietly, then sprang into action.

 6:30 rolled around, and after hours of diligent work, his apartment was presentable. The walls were clean, the carpets de-stained and vacuumed, and he had moved his furniture into place. There still wasn't anything hung on the walls, but he had installed all of his books on his bookshelves. Well, the books that would live in the living room. There were three whole boxes and another set of shelves in his bedroom.

He was still drenched in sweat and he smelled like bleach, so he stripped off his dirty, sweaty clothes and showered. He took a long time shaving his stubble and making sure that his eyebrows were tamed. Then he glanced at his watch, swore, and rushed into his bedroom to put on clothes. It was almost 7:00, and he was running behind schedule. He hurried to the kitchen. He was pulling out wine glasses when he heard a soft knock on the door. He crossed the living room, running his hands through his hair, and opened the door.

Joe was standing there, holding a bottle of red wine. Nicky admired how well his shirt fit, then remembered the situation at hand. "Come in, come in!" he said, stepping aside to let Joe in. He reached to take the bottle of wine from Joe, who handed it over and looked around.

"It's very nice in here," he said generously. His eyes widened when he saw the bookshelf. "May I?" he asked, gesturing towards it.

"Oh, of course, please," said Nicky, setting the wine on the counter. "Do you want anything to eat? I don't have much right now but if you like cheese I have some meat and fruit to go with it."

Joe paused, weighing his next words. "I try my best to keep my food halal, even if I do have a drink from time to time. So the meat… I can't eat it, I don't think." The corner of his mouth twitched, a little embarrassed.

Nicky kicked himself. "That's no problem at all, I have some shrimp in the freezer, maybe shrimp cocktail instead?"

Joe turned to him, smiling. "That sounds lovely. You Italians and your insistence on feeding everyone." At Nicky's questioning look, he laughed a little. "You have a very subtle accent. Only confirmed by the books." He gestured at Nicky’s extensive collection of Italian novels.

Nicky smiled. "You got me. I lived there until I was ten. Most people don't notice," he said, not including how he had tried his best to suppress it when he was a teenager and therefore lost most of it.

"I have an ear for them. Accents, I mean," Joe said simply, turning back to the books. "How many languages do you speak? I saw Italian, Latin, English, what else?"

Nicky felt himself blush a little. "Those are the main three. I know a little Greek, and if you know Italian it's not too hard to pick up Spanish, so I can get by." He paused. "I'm teaching Latin and Italian this year," he said. "I just finished my master's in Italian literature."

"Oh, congratulations to you!" said Joe, tearing himself away from the bookshelves and joining Nicky in the kitchen. "How can I help you?"

"Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. Have a glass of wine," he said, gesturing to the glasses and the corkscrew on the counter.

"You will have one, too," said Joe, deftly opening the bottle and pouring two glasses of wine.

"I can't say no to that," said Nicky, taking the glass.

Joe raised his glass slightly, his eyes trained on Nicky's, and said "To your master's degree! And to our new jobs." Nicky tapped his glass against Joe's, and they drank.

The wine was delicious, tart and full. It was much nicer than anything Nicky would have bought himself. Joe held eye contact with him as he took another sip. Nicky felt his heart squeeze and forced himself to speak. "So, what are you teaching?" He turned to the freezer and pulled out the shrimp, trying to conceal the furious blush creeping up his neck.

"History," said Joe, leaning back against the counter as Nicky grabbed a bowl, dumped shrimp into it, and filled it with water. "They have me down for intro to ancient world and a study of Islam elective." He took another sip of wine.

"Are you coaching anything?" Nicky felt like he couldn't control himself, he just kept spouting off questions. He was terrified of what might happen if he let himself sit in silence with Joe.

"Not much of a sports man," said Joe. "Not playing, anyways. I'm going to proctor after-school art this fall."

"Are you an artist?" Nicky raised his eyebrows and smiled. It made sense to him, that Joe would be an artist. He couldn't put a finger on why, but Joe had a certain warmth to him that made him seem like a painter. Or maybe a potter. "I would love to see your work."

"An amateur," said Joe, blushing a little. "I don't have a lot here, most of it is at my sister's house. Just a couple sketchbooks and a painting or two here." He paused, and Nicky could tell he was a little uncomfortable. So he searched for a way to change the subject.

 His cat, Bruno, made a very opportune entrance. He had spent most of the day curled up on the cat tree in Nicky’s room. Joe's face lit up at the sight.

"Oh my goodness, what a handsome man that is!" he cried, setting down his glass and kneeling. He reached out his hand, and Bruno chirped as he rubbed up against it. Joe scratched under his chin. "What's his name?"

"Bruno," said Nicky, smiling. Bruno was a good judge of character, and Nicky always felt better about someone if they liked cats. Joe had plopped himself down on the tiles with his back against the cabinets, thoroughly entertained by Bruno, who had laid down against Joe's leg and was purring loudly. "He's a great cat."

"I can see," said Joe, grinning up at Nicky. He leaned down and kissed Bruno's forehead, then stood back up. He took another sip of wine. "What a wonderful little cat," he said, watching Bruno trot off towards Nicky's bedroom.

Nicky checked the shrimp, then pulled the cocktail sauce from the fridge. "These are ready, do you want to sit in the living room and eat?" He drained the water from the shrimp and picked up the bowl.

"Yes, please. Could I wash my hands first?" He pointed to the sink.

"Oh, of course," said Nicky.

Joe carefully washed his hands and dried them, then picked up Nicky's wine glass and carried it to the couch.

"Thanks," said Nicky, sitting down a couple of feet from Joe. Joe propped one ankle on his knee and relaxed.

"Where did you go to college?" Joe asked. He kept his eyes carefully trained on Nicky's face as he picked up a shrimp, dipped it in sauce, and popped it into his mouth.

"I did Northeastern for undergrad, and Middlebury for grad school," said Nicky. "You?"

"University of Chicago," said Joe. "I'm going to do some work this year towards my master's at Harvard." He blushed a little, embarrassed, then took another sip of wine.

"That's great!" said Nicky, taking the last sip of his wine. He set the glass down on the coffee table. "Where are you from?"

"Originally?" Joe said, raising his eyebrows. Nicky started to panic.

"Oh, no, jeez, I didn't mean–"

"I'm messing with you," Joe laughed. Nicky relaxed a little. "One immigrant to another? I'm from Morocco. We emigrated to New York when I was thirteen." He took a sip of wine. "And based on your accent, I'm guessing you moved from Italy to… Boston?"

Nicky laughed. "Can't slip anything past you, huh? Yeah, we moved around a little but we were always around Boston. You know, lots of Italian families there. And my family is pretty Catholic, so they liked being around other Catholics."

"Ah," Joe nodded. "Do you see a lot of them? Your family?"

"Not really," said Nicky, looking down. Joe seemed content to leave it alone.

 They sat in silence for a few moments as Joe finished his glass of wine, then stood. "I will go grab the bottle," he said, crossing to the kitchen. Nicky watched his back as he went, watched how he tread softly and how his broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist. He shook his head a little to clear it. He stared at his hands, clasped in his lap, and tried to calm his breathing. This is not happening right now, he told himself. You just got here. But he had a twisting, hot feeling in the pit of his stomach that was growing every second he spent with Joe. It hadn't even been an hour, and it was threatening to outgrow the limits of his chest and spill out into the world. He felt his cheeks burn with a familiar shame.

When he looked up, Joe had his soft brown eyes fixed on his face. He was a few feet away, holding the bottle of wine. There was a small crease between his eyebrows. "Is everything alright?" Joe said, sitting down and tilting his head to the side. "I hope I did not upset you, asking about your family. I know things can be… Well, things can be complicated." He smiled, and Nicky's stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.

"No, no, it wasn't you," Nicky sighed, then rubbed a hand over his eyebrows. "I mean, yes, my family is... But I think I'm just tired. Long day," he finished lamely. His heart sank. He barely knew Joe, who was gentle and kind and seemed genuinely interested in being friends, and he was already shutting Joe out. Withdrawing deep into the dark space within him, where he kept all of his most secret feelings tucked away.

"I understand," said Joe, setting the bottle of wine on the coffee table. "Would you like to call it a night? I would not be offended." Nicky looked up and took a deep breath.

A quiet, insecure voice in Nicky's head screamed out for Joe to stay. To stay and look at Nicky with his incredible brown eyes and his gentle concern. To smile and listen to Nicky talk about his family, his life, his intense love for Italian literature. To stay and stay and stay so Nicky didn't feel so terribly cold and alone. But that voice was drowned out by the others, which called for him to shut the door tightly behind Joe and never let him back in. To force the warm feeling growing inside him back down until it died.

"I'm really sorry," said Nicky. "It's just been a long couple of days. I feel so rude inviting you over and then kicking you out after one drink–"

"No, please," said Joe, reaching out and clasping Nicky's shoulder. He smiled gently. "Remember, I just finished moving in myself. I completely understand." He stood, and Nicky looked helplessly up at him. "Nicky, really, don't worry. Actually, here. Come over tomorrow for coffee, at 3:00," he said.

Nicky stood up and tried to hand the bottle of wine back to Joe, but Joe waved him off. "No, no, you keep it. Maybe we can finish it another night," he said, smiling.

"Coffee sounds great," Nicky said, forcing a smile. "Again, I'm really sorry." Guilt was washing over him in waves; guilt about being a bad host, guilt about kicking Joe out, guilt about the rising tide of warmth in his chest that swelled every time Joe spoke. Or looked at him. Or pushed his dark, curly hair back off his forehead.

"Nicky," said Joe. "You don't need to apologize. You were very kind to invite me over tonight. And I will see you tomorrow, for coffee." He crossed to the door. "Goodnight, Nicky." He gave Nicky one last, warm smile.

"Goodnight," Nicky said, and watched Joe walk out the door.

 As soon as the door closed, Nicky collapsed back onto the couch and put his head in his hands.

[muertawrites]

Aphrodite Kallipygos (Zuko x Plus Size Reader) [Modern AU]

Summary: Zuko takes up an art class as part of his therapy and ends up falling in love with a woman who’s a work of art in her own right.

Word Count: 3,500

Disclaimer: There’s a scene in this fic where a couple of thin girls engage in some rude behavior and are criticized in a few none-too-kind words. I want to make it very clear that this scene does not reflect my views of thin people or body positivity - these characters are meant to be a metaphor for greater culture and its strict, unrealistic views of what women should look like. 

Author’s Note: I hate rom coms but after writing this fic it dawned on me that I would be excellent at writing them. Also, this one goes out to all my art hoes out there. I geek out pretty hard about art history in this one. 

Speaking of which, I reference real-world cultures within the structure of the Avatar universe in this one as well. Something I like to do when I zone out is think about which actual countries would belong to which bending nations; my heritage is primarily from the British Isles, and what with liths like Stonehenge and the hella castles hanging around out there, I think we’d be earth benders - same with cultures like the ancient Egyptians and the Pueblos. I also love the idea of Pacific Islanders who can bend both water and lava, and Incan air benders, and I really wish the idea of global cultures as benders were explored more in the Avatar universe. 

Have I mentioned that I’m a massive fucking nerd?

~ Muerta

Zuko never considered himself much of a creative. When he thought about it, he realized that that part of his life had never really been explored; his father always pushed him to focus solely on his bending and combat skills, never allowing even the consideration of other practices or hobbies. As much as Zuko was passionate about the martial arts he'd mastered, he also came to learn that he never had a choice in being passionate about anything else. 

“I think you should take an art class,” his therapist suggested. “It would be a good outlet for you, and one that isn't directly influenced by your family.” 

“I don't think I've ever drawn anything, though,” Zuko admitted. “I wouldn't be any good.” 

“It's not about being good,” his therapist explained, “it's about exploring things that weren't available to you in your youth, freedom of expression. Consider it - there's a shop in this neighborhood that offers classes.” 

She handed him a business card adorned with an array of different art styles, from delicate watercolors to bright, bold cartoons; it read, “classes for everything” in a cheerful, clearface font.

Zuko shrugged and pocketed the card. A week later, he was enrolled in a basic studio art course. 

He arrived for his first class embarrassingly early, passing under the bell of the shop’s front door twenty minutes before it was scheduled to begin. 

The building that housed the shop looked to be older than the rest of the neighborhood around it; the storefront was tiny, with crowded shelves lining each wall and tables and racks wound throughout the center of the space, creating a maze that led to the checkout counter. The room’s ceilings were high, supported by beams in a dark stained wood that matched the floor below. Paper mache sculptures and handmade lanterns hung from the rafters, and the simple, antique plaster walls were decorated with paintings and sketches, likely given by the shop’s clientele. From somewhere in the back, a radio sang folk music, accompanied by the hum of an electric fan. 

Zuko wandered through the labyrinthine merchandise displays until he reached the register, where he was met with the single most beautiful sight he may have ever laid eyes on. 

You stood behind the counter, leaned over a textbook with a pencil in hand, tapping it back and forth over the pages; you bit your lip in concentration, a few strands of your hair falling loose from the messy knot atop your head and over your cheeks, though you were too focused on your reading to care. An apron bearing the shop’s logo was tied around your waist, emphasizing your body's dramatic curves. 

To Zuko, you were gorgeous. He couldn't place what exactly about you allured him; all he knew was that his pulse had quickened to a near dangerous pace. 

You looked up at him when you noticed you were no longer alone, flashing him a kind, somewhat distracted smile. He nodded curtly, too nervous to do anything but stare. 

“Can I help you?” you greeted him politely. 

He cleared his throat, his voice coming out a pitch higher than normal as he spoke. 

“I'm here for the art class,” he told you. 

You smirked a little, peering down to check the time on your phone. 

“It's a little early,” you said. “I was just about to start setting up. You could help me if you want? So you're not so bored while you wait?” 

“Yeah,” Zuko mumbled, “yeah, sure.” 

You grinned, waving him behind the counter and through a door to the back room. To his surprise, what he expected to be a minuscule stockroom turned out to be a space larger than the actual shop, lined on one wall with massive warehouse windows that poured late afternoon sunlight into the room. Metal shelves and boxes lay haphazardly about, mixed in with a scattering of easels, pottery spinners, canvases, and other art supplies. You directed your guest to a stack of chairs in the corner, instructing him to line them in a half circle in an empty portion of the room while you placed the easels. 

“So, do you have a name?” you asked, attempting to make conversation that could drown out the repetitive radio drone. 

“Zuko,” he introduced himself. 

You stopped what you were doing, fixing him with an awed, slightly amused gape. 

“Firelord Zuko?” you wondered. 

He blushed, nodding. 

“Oh spirits, I'm sorry I didn't bow!” you exclaimed, dropping into a low curtsy. The gesture was mixed with equal parts mirth and genuine respect; Zuko was unsure how to respond, his heart flickering as he watched you. 

“I heard you were living somewhere in the city,” you continued after making your own introduction, setting an easel in front of each chair he positioned. “Not into the whole royalty thing?” 

Zuko shrugged. He focused on his work, too nervous to look you in the eye. 

“Just weird going back there,” he told you. “I don't really want taxpayer money going to making sure I live above my means.” 

You leaned against the last chair he set down, smiling warmly at him. 

“That's very respectable,” you responded. “Thank you. Y’know, as someone who pays taxes.” 

Zuko chuckled softly as you handed him a bin of art supplies, instructing him to set one of each item at every station. He did as he was told, stealing glances at you whenever he was sure you weren’t looking. 

“So, uh… do you own this place?” he asked, fumbling over his words. 

“Oh, no, this is my professor’s shop,” you replied. “I just work here part time.” 

“You’re a student?” 

You shook your head. 

“Nope. Graduated last year. I work days at the history museum downtown. I also give art history classes here, and help out with the ones Professor Cong teaches.” 

“Oh.” 

Zuko paused, unsure of what else to say. 

“... They teach a different type of history just for art?” he asked after a moment. 

You laughed, covering your mouth to muffle the sound and apologizing, giving him a little nod as you collected yourself. 

“Yes. Some people even get whole degrees in it,” you giggled. “Not that it’s a useful field to learn anything about.” 

Zuko shrugged, trying to shake off the embarrassment of sounding stupid in front of such a cute girl; little did he know, you found the question beyond endearing. 

“It sounds important,” he contested. “I’ve been meeting historians from all over the world to correct all the propaganda from the past hundred years. It never occurred to me that I would need different historians for art.” 

You smiled at him, meeting him where he stood and handing him one of the sketch pads from your bin. His cheeks pinkened, his eyes darting away from yours as he took it and mumbled a “thank you”. 

“I like you, Firelord Zuko,” you decided aloud. “My classes are on Wednesdays. You can come if you want - free of charge.” 

Zuko nodded, swallowing heavily as he met your gaze once again. 

“Thank you,” he replied. “I appreciate it.” 

You laughed a little bit, taking his now empty bin and returning both to their place on a nearby shelf. The shop’s bell rang from beyond the threshold and you went back to the front counter, telling Zuko to take a spot wherever he liked. He sat in the front row; wherever he thought he could be closest to you. 

For the next five weeks, Zuko attended not only his studio art class, but your art history class, showing up early to each lesson so he could spend time alone with you. Despite the fact that you invited him to sit in, he paid the fee for the second course, not wanting you to go without the extra pay for your work - he found a doodle of a turtle duck on his seat the next time he showed up, the fuzzy little penciled duckling telling him he was a terrible listener, but thanking him anyway (with a heart scribbled in beside the words). 

With your guidance, Zuko learned that there was much more to art than just vibrant colors and pretty decoration. Everything in art, it turned out, had significance, each piece and work holding insight into the people and cultures who created it; you spoke passionately about the art of the Egyptians, who used specific shapes and colors in their imagery to tell stories beyond the written word, about the mysteries of prehistoric structures that revealed how early humanity was much more sophisticated and interconnected than considered at a glance, about the symbols that translated and influenced across centuries to shape how each nation, each culture, portrayed themselves into the modern world. He found himself hanging on every word, falling even more deeply enamored with you with each moment he spent with you. 

It didn’t take you long - what with the easy, pleasant conversations you shared before classes - to discover that Zuko lived relatively close to you, only two stops away on the local metro. Knowing this, you often saw each other on the days you weren't at the shop, meeting at the station between each of your respective neighborhoods and having coffee or dinner in one of its many cafes, talking about anything and everything and managing to pass several hours together in what seemed like the blink of an eye. You loved being with Zuko, finding the more you did it, the less you wanted your rendezvous to end; you thought about him all the time, getting all kinds of giddy whenever he crossed your mind. 

On one of your extracurricular excursions, you and Zuko wandered around the local high street, marveling at the different streetside vendors and dreamily window shopping behind the glass of the upscale boutiques, doing little more than enjoying each other’s company. It was a hot day, and along your way, Zuko stopped at a coffee stand to get you each something cold to drink. 

A pretty young woman in line in front of you eyed you up and down, her gaze flicking from between you and Zuko with disgust. She jabbed her slim, graceful elbow into her equally as flawless friend’s side, whispering something in the other woman’s ear as they both glared at you, sniggering cruelly behind flat stomachs and angular, willowy frames. 

You sneered at them, making a point of hooking your arm within Zuko’s and pressing your much wider hip against his, the poison of the encounter sinking into your skin and infecting your thoughts. Zuko noticed your change in demeanor immediately, steering you away from the scene as soon as your drinks were served. 

“You okay?” he asked, still holding tight to your arm. 

“Fine,” you quipped, biting back tears. “Just a couple of pretty bitches proving how fucking hideous they are on the inside.” 

“Wait, seriously?” 

Zuko halted, pulling you to the side of the street and out of the way of traffic. He lay a hand on your shoulder, the firm, able grasp of his palm somehow making you feel even worse. 

“Someone would really make fun of you?” he wondered, outraged and incredulous. “Why?” 

You shook your head, smiling defeatedly as your lower lip quivered. 

“People have made fun of me since I was a kid, Zu,” you told him, speaking as if he should’ve just assumed it. “I’m fat. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” 

“So?” Zuko replied. You were so shocked, you physically leaned away from him, raising your eyebrows. “Yeah, you’re fat. That doesn’t mean you’re not pretty. I… I think you’re really pretty. Gorgeous, even. You’re beautiful.” 

You blinked at him, taken aback. He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his eyes never once leaving yours. 

“... Did I break you?” he tried after a moment, sounding concerned that it was a genuine possibility. 

You laughed, shaking your head in feverish disbelief, attempting to clear the confusion that fogged your battered brain. 

“No, I just… Nobody’s ever called me pretty and fat before.” 

Zuko shrugged. 

“Both are true,” he told you. “I like your body. You look like one of those Greek sculptures. Of the goddesses.” 

You stared at him, searching his eyes for any sign of dishonesty or patronization; all you found looking back at you was the clumsily genuine man you were quickly falling in love with. 

“... Have I ever told you about Aphrodite Kallipygos?” you asked. 

Zuko shook his head, as confused as you had been a few seconds ago. 

“She’s a statue of Venus,” you explained. “She’s got her dress raised up over her backside, and when they found her originally, she didn’t have her head; the guy who restored her sculpted it so that she was looking back at herself, admiring her body. There’s even a whole folktale about a pair of brothers who fell in love with two women because they had, like, beautifully fat asses and the town built a temple dedicated to Venus and her butt. The name literally translates to ‘Aphrodite of the Beautiful Buttocks’.” 

Zuko chuckled, raising the hand at your shoulder to cup your cheek. 

“See?” he said. “Men have worshiped thick, juicy butts since the dawn of time!” 

You laughed, your cheeks turning bright red as you buried your face in your hands, leaning forward to rest your forehead on his chest and further hide yourself. 

“Zuko, oh my god,” you breathed. “Promise me you’ll never say that out loud in a public setting ever again, please. You’re the fucking Firelord for Tui’s sake.” 

Zuko chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and hugging you tightly. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, still grinning. “Made you feel better, though.” 

You pulled away from him, affectionately punching him in the shoulder. He laughed, gasping at you in mock reproach before pressing a finger into your side, shocking you with a burst of static electricity; you cackled as you jumped away, sticking your tongue out at him. 

Zuko felt a rush of lightheadedness as he watched you, savoring the sound of your laugh and the radiance of your smile. It was then he realized he was in love with you. 

The next studio art class focused on model drawing - more specifically, a nude model. Zuko, having been raised in what was arguably the most reserved family in the world, was nervous about the idea of having to sit in front of a stranger for an hour, not only staring at their naked body, but immortalizing it in graphite on a page. 

He was mortified when he arrived at the class and found you sitting in the corner, wrapped in nothing but a silk dressing gown. 

As you climbed the platform you were meant to model on, your limbs rattled. You began to question your sanity, wondering what you thought you were doing offering to pose for the class, what kind of statement you thought it would make. You faced enough judgement from others about your weight with your clothes on - what the hell did you think they would do when you stood before them completely naked, every bump and crevice on full display for them to gawk at and criticize?

You glanced to the side at Professor Cong, seeking some sort of assurance or comfort from him; he, being the seasoned professional in his mid-sixties that he was, sat reclined in a chair in his Hawaiian shirt and flip flops, scrolling totally undisturbed through Pinterest on his phone. Honestly, you expected no less - his obtuse reactions in the face of the awkward and uncomfortable were basically a superpower. 

Taking a deep breath, you untied the knot holding your dressing gown together and let it fall, slipping gracefully from your shoulders and to the floor. You assumed a comfortable, classic pose, purposely facing yourself away from the man whose eyes you could feel searing into your back. 

Zuko’s breath hitched as he watched you undress. Though he only saw the full of your body for a moment, he was captivated. The swell of your breasts and curve of your stomach sent him into a dizzy spell, his mouth going dry and his skin heating with a noticeable flush. The rolls of your back, the ripples and divots along your thighs and rump, the stripes etched into your skin like the veins through a granite block, he drank in every part of you, moulding every detail with a focused hand as he sketched. He made note every scar and beauty mark. Once or twice, his mind drifted towards the salacious, imagining how your body would feel beneath his, soft and supple, releasing exalted breaths and enraptured moans, your nails dragging down his back as he drove you closer and closer to infinity… 

He inhaled sharply, snapping himself back to his work. You were Venus, Minerva, Diana - a goddess among men. He would gladly spend the rest of his life worshiping you. 

The moment the class ended, you gathered your dressing gown and made a beeline for the employee bathroom, getting back into your clothes as quickly as you could physically manage. The experience of nude modeling wasn’t nearly as harrowing as you expected it to be; you actually found it kind of freeing, being able to show yourself to a room full of other people and come out of it unscathed, in fact feeling quite beautiful - what had you nervous was the fact that you’d have to face Zuko immediately after the fact, seeing as you took the train home together after classes. His was the only opinion you cared about, and you wanted nothing more than to convince yourself that he hadn’t judged you as harshly as the self-hatred brainwashed into you made you believe. 

When you emerged from the bathroom, Professor Cong stood in front of one of the empty easels in the back, smirking at the drawing the student had left there. 

“Your boyfriend left you his piece,” he teased. 

You blushed, glaring at him as you approached and snatched the sketch from his hands. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you tried in vain to defend yourself. 

Professor Cong just chuckled. 

“I’ll believe that when I see evidence to the contrary,” he replied. 

You looked down at the paper in your hand and felt the breath drain from your lungs, your heart and stomach soaring into your throat. 

Zuko had drawn you in the image of Venus, your body draped in gossamer fabric and your head turned over your shoulder, eyes cast downward and lips slightly parted in a blissful, ethereal expression. In the corner of the page, he’d written “Aphrodite Kallipygos” in his sweeping handsome script, beneath which was his signature and the date. You’d never once seen yourself look so beautiful, let alone in the eyes of someone you loved so fiercely. 

You swallowed hard, rolling the drawing and securing it with a hair tie from your bag before exiting the shop through the back, knowing Zuko would be in the alley waiting for you. 

“Hey,” he greeted you when you appeared through the storeroom door. “Are you okay? You looked really ner-” 

You interrupted him by throwing your arms around his neck, slamming your lips into his in a desirous kiss. It took him less than a second to recover himself from the shock of the action and curl his arms around your waist, pressing his body against yours and lifting you every so slightly off the ground, kissing you just as hard as you kissed him. When you parted, you were breathless, your cheeks fiery red and your lips swollen the color of vermilion. Zuko smiled at you, one side of his mouth curling up slightly higher than the other. 

“So you liked it?” he asked. 

You laughed, nodding. 

“Zuko, I loved it,” you gasped. “I love you. I think I loved you as soon as I met you but that sort of thing is really cliche and stupid to admit.” 

Zuko chuckled, raising his hand to your cheek and kissing you again, his lips soft and tender this time around. You sighed happily into his mouth, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the feeling of his body sharing the same space as yours. 

“I think I loved you the moment I met you, too,” Zuko confessed, his nose grazing against yours as he pulled away. “But you’re right. That sort of thing is really stupid and cliche.” 

You giggled, tugging gently on the collar of his jacket. 

“Come on,” you prompted him. “Let’s go back to my apartment. You’ve already seen me naked; we need to make it even.” 

Zuko laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you out of the alley, his side pressed firmly against yours. 

“Fair,” he agreed. “But if you want me to pose for any art, you’ll have to sign some paperwork. I’m still Firelord, you know.” 

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[itsarttome]

Armenian Women in Visual Arts

I took a class on Armenian culture and history in university that exposed me to this beautiful country and people and opened my eyes to the undeniable tragedy of the Armenian Genocide of 1915.

 I’m not Armenian, but I’m Greek on my dad’s side which I found out is very similar. We both love our dolma’s and hate the Turks. But in all seriousness, we share a lot of similarities with Armenian culture, including its political history, which has helped me to further empathize with the current struggles they are facing as a country. It's heartbreaking to see that, just five years after the 100 year anniversary of the Armenian Genocide, Armenians appear to be facing a second genocide. Armenia’s neighboring country Azerbaijan has been ensuing deadly attacks against them for some time now with the aid of Turkey  and the issue continues to be mostly ignored by the international community. Protests have been raging on both in the nation and diaspora. In no way do I consider myself to be an expert on this subject, but I feel responsible at least to educate myself and do my part as a citizen of the world. 

There is no civilization in the world that, given it possess the resources and will, doesn’t have artists, doctors, lawyers, chefs, musicians, poets, farmers, accountants, etc... The meaning of this to me is that it is proof we are all valuable people, no matter where we come from or what we look like. Just think about how sand is made from millions of tiny parts but looks like one uniform blanket on the beach. If you were to put a handful of sand into a jar, and another handful into another jar, you’d find that each jar is made up of entirely different rocks. But somehow, both have all the elements needed to still look like a handful of sand. That’s how I view culture. Every culture is a handful of sand; they all have necessarily found their own way to explain the universe (religion), their own way to communicate (language), their own way to nourish themselves (diet), and so on... and each way is original and different. But somehow, all of the elements add up to create a civilization, a culture, and a people with a shared identity. The only thing that makes us different is that we’re arbitrarily placed into one jar and not another, but when you look at the big picture, we’re all the same. 

As embarrassing as it is to admit, I think by human nature it’s much easier to care about someone else’s journey in life when they have something in common with you. What I love about art is that when you meet another artist, no matter who, you feel a sort of magical connection to that person and are bonded over your mutual appreciation of it. I am a woman and I am an artist, and because of that, I feel lucky and unworthy in saying I have something in common with these incredibly talented Armenian women that I’m about to share with you. 

I. Zabelle Boyajian (1872-1957)  

Zabelle C. Boyajian was a poet, painter and playwright of the Ottoman Empire, born in 1872 in Diyarbakir, one of the ancient Armenian capitals, ‘Tigranakert’. After the murder of her father during the Hamidian Massacres of 1895, she, her mother and her brother immigrated to London. She travelled extensively throughout her lifetime and learned to speak eight languages fluently, including Armenian, English, German, Italian, Greek, Turkish and Russian. Being skilled in so many languages, apart from the arts, she was a great contributor to the translation of many great Armenian works. For example, in 1948, she translated Avetik Isahakian’s epic poem “Abu Lala Mahari” and published it for the world to read. In 1938, thanks to her wide travels, she published several illustrations from her visit to Greece, entitled “In Greece with Pen and Palette”. Exhibitions of her art were held in London, Egypt, France, Italy, Belgium and Germany. She was close friends with Anna Raffi, the wife of the well-known Armenian novelist, Raffi. One of the leading female trailblazers of art, literature and translation, she published her first novel in 1901, entitled “Esther”. She is well known today for her gorgeous storybook illustrations. 

II. Miriam Aslamazian (1907-2006) 

Miriam Aslamazian, sometimes called the Armenian Frida Kahlo, was born on October 20th, 1907 in Alexandropol in the village of Bash-shirak. She was was a Soviet painter of Armenian descent recognized for her exquisite ceramic plates. In 1929, she graduated from the Yerevan Art-Industrial Technicum and later in 1933, from the Leningrad Academy of Art. In 1946, she became a member of the CPSU (the Communist Party of the Soviet Union). Her work is often described as decorative, flat still-life pieces as well as possessing dramatic, colorful themes. Many pieces of her artwork can be found today in the Aslamazian Sisters’ Museum in Gyumri. She was honored as People’s Artist of the Armenian SSR 1965 and People’s Artist of the Soviet Union in 1990. 

III. Gayane Khachaturian (1942-2009) 

Gayane Khachaturian, born May 9th, 1942 in Tbilisi, Georgia, was a Georgian-Armenian graphic artist and painter. She studied at the Nikoladze Art School and the Secondary School of Working Youth, where she graduated in 1960. Sergei Parajanov, who she was close friends with, was a major inspiration for her. Some of her works are permanently displayed and can be seen at the National Gallery of Armenia, the Yerevan Museum of Modern Art as well as the Sergei Parajanov Museum in Yerevan. Her works have also been purchased and are included in several private art collections. Her first informal solo exhibition was at Skvoznyachok Café in Yerevan in 1967.

IV. Sonia Balassanian 

Sonia Balassanian is a mixed media artist, art curator, founder and Artistic Director of the Armenian Center for Contemporary Experimental Art in Yerevan, Armenia. Born in Iran of Armenian descent on April 8th of 1942, Balassanian uses her artwork to advocate for human rights and women's emancipation issues. In 1970, she obtained a BFA from the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts and the following year worked on an independent study program at the Whitney Museum of American Art. In 1978, she completed her MFA from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York. The following year, however, the 1979 events in Iran caused her to turn to “political art” as self expression. She is also a skilled writer, publishing several works, including, “There Might Have Been An Insane Heart” (1982), composed of selected poems written in the Armenian language, “Portraits” published in New York in 1983 and “Two Books” (2006), a publication of two books of poems in one combined. 

V. Nora Chavashian

Nora Chavashian is an award-winning production designer, art director and set decorator, recognized for her sculptural stage sets, born in Philadelphia, PA on October 25th, 1953. OMG we have the same birthday, no wonder I like her! There, she studied sculpture at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. In 1974, Chayashian graduated from the San Francisco Art Institute (SFAI). In 1984, she married Joe Morton, an American actor, director, writer, singer and songwriter, with whom she has three children, Hopi, Seta and Ara, and one grandson, Moses. In 1988, she and her family relocated to the East Coast. Her sculptures often have organic shapes and are reminiscent of nature. 

VI. Anush Yeghiazaryan

Anush Yeghiazaryan is a painter, weaver and professor born on June 15th, 1965 in Yerevan, Armenia, known for her stunning tapestry creations. Hailing from the family of Karapet Yeghizaryan, patriarch of the Armenian school of art weaving, she has held up the traditional weaving techniques of her ancestors. From 1984 to 1990, she studied graphic design at the Yerevan State Fine Arts Academy. From 1991 to 1994, she worked on obtaining her PhD from the State Armenian Pedagogical University. In 1996, she became a member of the Armenian Union of Artists. In 2010, Yeghiazaryan joined the Pan-Armenian Painting Association. She has had her work presented in exhibitions around the world, from Yerevan to Paris, Moscow, Sankt Petersburg, Bouve, Plovdil, Tehran, Italy and Praha. Quoted for saying, “I have not chosen art, it’s in my blood. It’s my lifestyle and I love it up to sublimation degree”. Some of her pieces displaying masterful weaving techniques include,“If you live, create” (1998), “Once Upon a Time in Paris” (2003), and “Urbanization” (2006). 

VII. Taleen Berberian

Taleen Berberian is a modern Armenian visual artist, specializing in mixed mediums, crafted fabric, clay sculptures, drawing and the use of the traditional Armenian sewing, embroidery and crochet techniques in unconventional ways. She is especially recognized for her famous sculptures of shoes. Berberian has been on the forefront of women’s issues, a theme that can be seen through her artwork. She is an active participant in both Los Angeles and New York’s art communities. In 1995, she obtained a BFA in Sculpture from the California College of the Arts in Oakland, California and in 1998 she continued on to achieve a MFA in Studio Art and Art Education from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York. In 2009, she received her Initial Teachers’ Certification in Visual Art for grades K-12 and currently serves as a quilting and ceramics instructor.

VIII. Joanne Julian 

Found out artist Joanne Julian and I are both CSUN alum and native Angelenos!  Julian, who is of Armenian ancestry, says she has been highly influenced by her travels to Asia and thus became skilled in certain Asian techniques, such as mono printing and the “flung ink” or “Haboku” style. Her pieces possess a “Zen quality” to them, as portrayed in her “Zen Circle” series, illuminating the Yin and Yang of Taoist painting. She received her Bachelor’s of Arts and her Masters in sculpture and printmaking from California State University, Northridge. She later received her MFA from the Otis Art Institute of Parsons School of Design. She has participated in over sixty group exhibitions and twenty solo exhibitions nation-wide. Since 1973, Julian has served as the Chair of the Fine Arts Department and Gallery Director at the College of Canyons in Valencia, California. In 2008, from January 25th to February 23rd, she held an exhibition at CSUN’s Art Gallery entitled, “Counterpoints”. 

All of the female artists I mentioned have given people a better look into what it means to be Armenian and how the community and its diaspora are trying to solidify the Armenian identity to enable its rich heritage and traditions to live on. And they are just a few of the proud Armenians who have helped raise awareness of the issues Armenians face, as well as give Armenians their due respect in the realm of International Art. And to go one step further, my deepest hope is that one day, art will overcome the war. 

[behrooz-musigns]

+ Innovative, warm, witty, kind, protective, geeky +/- Intellectual, observant, horny - impatient, unreliable, outspoken, easily distracted

++ BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Behrooz Hakim Najm PRONUNCIATION: Beh-roes MEANING: Lucky ZODIAC: Pisces ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Bi SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Poly CURRENT LOCATION: Epineios OCCUPATION: Student, IT

++ BIOGRAPHY

Behrooz personally invented the saying ‘I guess luck is just on my side’, or so they would have everyone in their school believe when they got another high score in one of the games they played in the back of the school. They would do guessing games, with people asking them a number which they had written down, and Behrooz would always guess right. 

Sadly luck rarely followed them home. They were raised by their grandmother, who forbade them to hang out after school, and certainly ensured they would never be seen hanging out with girls on their own. She would remind them time and time again of their father, a gambler who had made it big winning game after game, then one day showed up with a baby, only to drink himself to death a year later. She would remind them that they were the family’s burden, and they would have to behave in order to not bring another burden upon them. 

And as they grew older, luck left them more and more often. Being a practicing Muslim was already a hard sell, but with the world growing more extreme around them, they found the community stifle their ambitions daily. It confused Behrooz that while their religion gave them anxiety, praying chased the demons away. It was almost as if they couldn’t have the one without the other. 

Life was a constant . Bad people walking in and out of their life, bullies, racist teachers, judgemental neighbors, judgemental extended family members. Behrooz tended to lock themselves up in their room every day, listening to music or playing games of chance. A knot seemed to live inside their stomach all the time, a fear of being plucked off of the street and never arriving home. 

When that actually happened, it wasn’t like they had imagined. 

Being mostly interested in digits, numbers, code, etc. Behrooz hadn’t paid much attention to history class when Ancient Greek and Ancient Rome were being discussed, and as they saw a creepy creature with goat legs walk up to them, they really wished they had. There was a whole speech about being in mortal danger, gods, strange creatures on the loose, yada yada. Behrooz had a headache by the time the goat legged creature told them to follow him. Very close to sparking some lie about soccer practice or prayers, their head snapped back to attention when the creature suggested they had a mother who was a God. 

The only thing driving them forward was the possibility of learning who their mother was, something in their brain sending out constant messages of: gotta meet mom, gotta meet mom, gotta meet mom. Rather than forming coherent sentences. They disappeared into some cleared out old train tunnel, and emerged on the other side of the bleedin’ ocean. All Behrooz knew to say was: “thought your accent sounded funny.” Before being swarmed by the strangest assortment of kids, some younger than their fourteen years, others older, everyone excited. Was this the right time to say they were Muslim and watch everyone slowly disappear like they had done back in school? 

Nobody really seemed to care however, over the years - in which they discovered their godly parent, never got to meet her, discovered she was probably the most difficult goddess to find, got a large portion of the camp to join them during Ramadan - Behrooz stayed at the Camp the whole year round. They didn’t wish to return to the UK, and followed online lessons to keep up with their education. Of course they were bleedin’ lucky, and with time they learned how to use that luck to their advantage, and to that of those around them. Yet, Behrooz started to appreciate the balance of it all, the bad and the good. 

To them, code was good. Watching others struggle with programs and computers, just made them more interested in it. Algorithms fascinated them, they could spend hours looking at code trying to figure out how it worked. When the time came for them to move out of the warm nest of Camp Half Blood, Behrooz had already set their sights on studying Programming at the University of New York. 

++ HEADCANONS

++ Horny as hell, and often very lucky in love, although they can never seem to hold on to anyone for long. 

++ A skilled programmer with a love for code and numbers and digits. They can stay up nights on end trying to figure out some new program or write an algorithm of their own.

++ Despite their interests in the digital, Bez spends most of their time outside if they can help it. They love forests, trees, the fresh air. They take walks a lot, driving the metro to the park and helping themselves to a huge thermos of coffee. 

++ Religion is an important part of their life, without it they would be nowhere. Whenever they feel lost or anxious, they tend to be eager for it to be time to pray, something they do five times a day. 

++ They’ve read the Quran, although their grandmother never taught them Arabic beforehand, so they’re currently reading it in English in between classes, thesis writing, and walks. 

++ Bez is a very kind individual, who will help others whenever they can - mostly with IT stuff. As a job, or a way to get money mostly, they help teachers or partake in arranging anything that needs a programmer. They’re a regular Upwork user. 

++ In fights Bez uses their ability to generate luck to get other Demigods out of trouble and make the damage less. 

++ They love bunk beds.

++ Wears very loose-fitting clothing. 

++ Drinks way too much coffee and black tea. 

++ Doesn’t like it when people constantly nag.

++ Extremely messy, will end up finding coffee mugs everywhere. 

++ Is always running from one place to the next because he has too much planned on a daily basis. 

++ SKILLS & ABILITIES

PHYSICAL STRENGTH: Above average  OFFENSE: Lacking  DEFENSE: Main attribute  SPEED: Above average  INTELLIGENCE: High ACCURACY: Descent AGILITY: Good STAMINA: Fine  TEAMWORK: Speciality  TALENTS: Luck manipulation SHORTCOMINGS: Easily distracted, no overview LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: English  DRIVE?: yes  JUMP-STAR A CAR?: not really  CHANGE A FLAT TIRE?: absolutely not  RIDE A BICYCLE?: absolutely  SWIM?: decently PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: piano and guitar  PLAY CHESS?: no  BRAID HAIR?: one day maybe  TIE A TIE?: yes  PICK A LOCK?: yes

++ PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS

FACE CLAIM: Viveik Kalra  EYE COLOR: brown  HAIR COLOR: brown  HAIR TYPE/STYLE: semi-long, wavy, thick GLASSES/CONTACTS?: no  DOMINANT HAND: right  HEIGHT: 1.75m WEIGHT: 65kg  BUILD: lean  EXERCISE HABITS: jogging in the morning, some sparring during the weekend  SKIN TONE: brown  TATTOOS: none  PIERCINGS: none  MARKS/SCARS: none  NOTABLE FEATURES: three-day beard on account of forgetting to shave  USUAL EXPRESSION: concentrated or dreamlike  CLOTHING STYLE: loose clothing, soft fabric.  JEWELRY: two rings on their right hand  ALLERGIES: incense

++ PSYCHOLOGY

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral ELEMENT: earth MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: Dyslexia, slight ADHD  SOCIABILITY: normal  EMOTIONAL STABILITY: average, let’s not talk about it.  OBSESSION(S): code  COMPULSION(S): gambling, drinking coffee and forgetting coffee, hyper-focus PHOBIA(S): fear of people being Islamphobic  ADDICTION(S): caffeine DRUG USE: none  ALCOHOL USE: none PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: no

++ MANNERISMS

SPEECH STYLE: quick, active, excited  ACCENT: London British  QUIRKS: licks teeth, uses swear words HOBBIES: coding, walking, jogging, drinking coffee, is Starbucks a hobby?  HABITS: forgetting to sleep, running from place to place  NERVOUS TICKS: tapping feet, sighing a lot DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS: meeting their mom, finishing their education  FEARS:  fear of being neglected or ignored SENSE OF HUMOR: yes, mostly dark British humor. DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: a lot, though they use ‘bleedin’’ and several other more British less terrible words.  CATCHPHRASE(S): “must be my lucky day” “I was born lucky”

++ FAVORITES

ACTIVITY: walking/hiking in the forest ANIMAL: raven BEVERAGE: coffee  BOOK: Thief Lord by Cassandra Clarke CELEBRITY: Tom Hanks  COLOR: Green DESIGNER: ??  FOOD: Sharma FLOWER: Lotus  GEM: Emerald  HOLIDAY: Eid al-Fitr  MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: Bike  MOVIE: The Internship  MUSICAL ARTIST: Sigur Ros QUOTE/SAYING: “No person knows what he will earn tomorrow”  SCENERY: forests  SCENT: freshly grinded coffee  SPORT: soccer SPORTS TEAM: Manchester united  TELEVISION SHOW: I, Robot  WEATHER: overcast and drizzly VACATION DESTINATION: -

++ ATTITUDES

GREATEST DREAM: to create their own algorithm that can help people choose what they want the most  GREATEST FEAR: being targeted or discriminated based on their religion  MOST AT EASE WHEN: at home, in their bed, with coffee, coding, or hiking in the forest, or at a mosque praying  LEAST AT EASE WHEN: in a crowded place, discussing religion  WORST POSSIBLE THING THAT COULD HAPPEN: being killed before finishing their degree  BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT: getting a scholarship on luck alone  BIGGEST REGRET: never having known their father MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT: grabbing a girl by her boobs in a hug from behind by accident  BIGGEST SECRET: sometimes wishes they weren’t born a Demi-god.   TOP PRIORITIES: finishing their thesis