#Mel writes a dissertation

[mel-hath-no-fury]

My PhD advisor was pleasantly surprised by how much I’ve written on the diss recently, and said she thought the direction I was taking my current chapter was both original and rich for analysis and she enthusiastically supported my suggestion to submit what I’ve done so far as an abstract for an upcoming conference. If you need me I’ll be sobbing face down in a river somewhere.

[jaijeijayjei]

MY QUEEN CLAPS BACK AT HER HATERS!!? AHH

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP!!! THE PAIN IN HER VOICE??

[thepencilnerd]

Feels Like Trouble

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: You and Robby have been secretly dating for a while now. Most of the ER is clueless—except the five people who could probably write dissertations on your dynamic. Enter a frat boy med student with too much confidence and not enough self-awareness. Robby? Jealous. You? Oblivious. Everyone else? Watching the drama unfold like it's peak primetime television. warnings: cringe flirting, depiction of boundary-pushing behavior, mutual pining, protective!Robby genre: fluff, slow burn, banter, crack vibes, emotional constipation, robbie's love language is acts of service, strong!reader energy because women run the world word count: 6.3k a/n: robby in his protective, simmering, quietly feral era + men anticipating my needs without me having to ask is my roman empire. p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | And Through It All) if you're interested <3

It started at the nurses’ station.

You were finishing up notes from a back-to-back shift, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, running purely on caffeine and spite. You barely registered the med student who leaned in a little too close—Jackson, of course. Jackson, who everyone knew had barely scraped through med school with a transcript that looked like a cry for help and a reputation for quoting his frat days like gospel. Jackson, who thought calling women 'Doc' in a tone meant to charm was somehow endearing. So, yeah. Not a great dude, to say the absolute least.

"Hey, Dr. L/N," Jackson said with that ever-present grin, leaning just a little too close. "You, uh... ever take pity on exhausted interns and grab a drink after shift?"

You gave a polite smile. "I’m not really a spirits person, but thanks."

Jackson blinked. "Huh?"

"You said drink, right? I’m more of a coffee or tea girl. Caffeine over cocktails."

He opened his mouth like he was going to try again, but you were already turning back to your chart.

"Good luck today!" you said cheerfully, not noticing the groan from your colleagues. Just around the corner, Mateo muttered to Javadi, "That’s the fourth time this week. It’s painful, man."

Javadi sipped her carton of apple juice with focused precision, attention directed solely on your ability to brush off such obvious advances without it getting in the way of your work. "Seventh, actually. If you count the half-made attempt on Monday. She's bulletproof."

"Try Jackson-proof," Mateo scoffed.

Two beds down, King leaned over to Langdon with her gloved hands clasped and asked, "Why does Jackson keep hovering around Dr. L/N like a... rabid mosquito?"

Langdon just smiled knowingly, looking over to the nurses' station where the man of the hour sat. "Don’t worry. Robby'll take care of it. Eventually."

Unbeknownst to you, Robby had been watching the entire interaction—and every interaction before that. If any med student so much as breathed near you with less-than-pure intentions, he was up in arms, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

There was that time Whitaker nearly took your eye out when a patient came in with a nail embedded in his femur; the force of pulling it out snapped Whitaker’s elbow backward—only for Robby's hand to catch it mid-swing before it could clock you in the face. Or when Santos nearly sliced your finger open as you gently guided her through her first incision—Robby had materialized behind her in the span of a gasp, steadying her hands with a calm correction that masked sheer panic. Or when Javadi passed out for the second time during a gnarly pelvic realignment and collapsed straight into you, nearly giving you a concussion from her deadweight—Robby had been there then, too, catching you both with lightning reflexes and barely concealed fury.

At this point, the only person in the hospital who hadn’t triggered Robby’s internal security system was Mel. And that was only because she kept a respectful three-foot radius and shared snacks with you during breaks. The two of you had a quiet little tradition—inviting her out to try the new cat café when it opened downtown, or attending weekend adoption events together like it was a team-building exercise. Langdon once joked that she was the third wheel in the most wholesome slow-burn romcom he'd ever seen. Mel's only response was two blinks and a single nod of acknowledgement.

Everyone in the ER noticed your dynamic—the way you and Robby worked together like a well-oiled machine, never needing to speak aloud to know what the other needed. It was intuitive. Rhythmic. Like watching a dance you’d been rehearsing for years.

Still, only a handful of people actually knew about your relationship. Abbot, Collins, McKay, Dana, Langdon, and Mel.

Abbot had been Robby’s sounding board from the very beginning. Back when Robby was still pacing around the break room, torn between professionalism and the undeniable, slow-burning pull he felt toward you, it was Abbot who told him to get over himself and ask you out. Life was too short for regrets.

Collins, McKay, and Dana didn’t know officially—but they knew. The meaningful glances, the subtle handoffs of coffee, the shared silences that were too loaded to be casual. They never said a word because they lived for the soap-opera-worthy drama of it all.

Langdon and Mel were on the same wavelength. They hadn’t caught you red-handed, but their spidey senses were borderline clairvoyant. They never probed, never asked. Just watched it unfold like a plotline they already knew the ending to.

Besides them, the rest of the department remained blissfully unaware—except for the way Robby’s entire demeanor shifted over a year ago. A quiet warmth started to replace his usual stoicism. People credited it to the anonymous private donation made to the ER around the same time.

But the truth was, it had nothing to do with money.

It was you. 

You, of course, were oblivious to whatever other people thought or said—unless it had something to do with your patients. Robby sometimes joked that you were pathologically unbothered, something he made a mental note to ask you about, and he wasn’t wrong. The rumors from the nurses, the looks from the interns, the knowing smirks from Dana or Langdon? All of it flew over your head like air traffic.

Maybe you just didn’t see it. Didn’t see how Robby’s entire world seemed to tilt when you entered a room. How effortlessly the two of you moved in sync like second nature—side by side in trauma bays, tossing instruments, treatment plans, and glances back and forth like muscle memory. Everyone else could see it.

You were always focused on the next decision, the next step, the next person who needed your help. You didn’t think about what you needed until the shift was over—if ever. Your well-being came last, always.

But not to Robby. Never to Robby.

He noticed everything.

The slump in your shoulders. The faint crease in your forehead when a headache was starting to set in. He knew when you were on the verge of running on empty, when your patience was thinning, when you hadn’t eaten since sunrise. He never made a show of it. He just acted.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He didn’t expect you to remember to need anything.

Because he already knew. He just... knew.

Your coffee, brewed and sweetened exactly how you liked it, would be waiting for you at the nurses’ station first thing in the morning. A second cup at lunch—always packed, always hot, even if you never had time to drink it. He’d drop it off like it was routine, like it was no big deal, because he knew the odds of you being pulled into another case mid-sip were astronomical.

Your favorite sandwich from the cafeteria, left quietly on your desk with a sticky note that said, “Eat this or I’m calling your mother.” You'd sooner pass out from hunger than remember to eat. He knew that. So he took the thinking out of it for you.

And after the longest days—those days where you'd made a thousand decisions, answered a hundred questions, led back-to-back codes—he’d cook dinner at his place. Quietly, without fanfare, and pieced together with the same kind of intention you gave your patients. He’d hand you a glass of water—because that was one other thing that you along with 80% of the population deprived yourself of—and steer you to the couch while he handled the rest. Just so you could turn your brain off.

You never asked, never had to, yet he always knew.

You’d just been snapped back to the present by the sound of an unwelcome familiar voice—again.

"Dr. L/N," he said, sidling up to you again with that same confident grin—clearly not deterred by every failed attempt before. "I’ve got a list of mocktails that might just change your mind. Pretty creative, right? I googled it during lunch. There’s this one with lychee and—"

You blinked at him slowly, like you were buffering.

"Jackson," you said, voice firmer this time, "I don’t even have time to finish a protein bar most days, let alone entertain another pitch for drinks. You’re taking time away from my patients, my patients. I sincerely hope you don’t treat them the same way—ignoring their boundaries and refusing to take no for an answer."

You didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Clearly and finite. Like a diagnosis that needed no follow-up.

Across the room, Robby pulled down his glasses as his lip quirked up into a slow, private smirk. Pride bloomed across his face so fast he had to duck his head behind a chart to hide it. He knew better than to coddle you. The mutual discomfort and stifled reactions from the staff were one thing. Watching you handle yourself like that? That was something else entirely.

From across the nurses’ station, the staff collectively cringed like someone had just dropped a post-op surgical tray. Santos and Mateo physically turned away to hide their budding laughter. Javadi buried her face in her sleeve, secondhand embarrassment blooming. Mohan took off at a brisk pace to see a patient. Whitaker closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer to the ceiling. Meanwhile, Dana, McKay, and Collins couldn’t look away if they tried, pressing down their grins and wishing they'd brought popcorn. Langdon sipped his coffee like it was a box-office premiere. King, ever diligent, kept her focus on irrigating her patient’s wound—Langdon would fill her in later with full commentary. Before you could continue—

"Dr. L/N," your savior called, tone light but cutting through the air like a scalpel—just loud enough to interrupt whatever nonsense Jackson was about to say next.

You turned and there he was.

Dr. Robby—your chaos compass, your caffeinated partner in crime, loyal boyfriend, favorite soon-to-be roommate, and at the moment, your very composed but unmistakably irritated attending—his expression perfectly calm to the untrained eye, but you could read the tension in every line of his face.

"Got a case," he said flatly. "Now. Come on."

You blinked, confused but relieved. "Okay."

You didn’t miss the way Jackson shrank a little at Robby’s tone, nor the way Langdon grinned over his coffee like he'd just won a bet. You caught up to him by the supply closet, where he all but dragged you inside and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" you asked, eyebrow raised.

He stared at you, a little too intently, like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. "Are you seriously asking me that after that guy just tried to chat you up in the middle of the ER like this is Grey’s Anatomy?"

You blinked, tilting your head. "Wait… was that flirting?"

Robby blinked back. "You’re joking."

You were. "I thought he just wanted to split an energy drink or something."

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hands came up to ruffle his hair. "Jesus."

You poked his chest lightly. "You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered, you know that?"

His ears went red immediately. "I’m not flustered. I’m... professionally annoyed."

You blinked. "You’re jealous?"

"I’m not jealous," he said tightly. "I’m—concerned."

You grinned, stepping close. "Concerned is hot."

"He was twelve."

"He's definitely at least twenty-six."

Robby exhaled through his nose. "I’ve been very chill about this whole 'let’s not tell the hospital we’re dating' thing. But if I see him so much as come within two feet of you again, I’m submitting a formal notice that you are very much taken and a complaint with HR about his behavior. And if that doesn’t work—" he leaned in closer, voice dropping—"I’m dealing with him myself."

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. "What’s that going to look like—are you gonna slam your clipboard down and tag team him with Abbot? Because honestly, I wouldn’t hate that."

Your voice was teasing, but your cheeks were warm. Watching Robby get territorial from a respectful distance? Unexpectedly hot. And now, you couldn’t help but push his buttons to see how much more riled up he’d get.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in slowly, deliberately, raising both of his arms to cage you in—palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The move sent heat straight to your cheeks, blinking up at him as he leaned closer, so close his breath brushed your lips.

Then he kissed you—hard and fast and possessive, his hands sliding up into your hair, threading through it with the kind of reverence that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly into his mouth, one hand instinctively rising to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the edge of his beard before curling into the softness of it. He leaned into your touch, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Your other hand slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the nape of his neck, and you felt it—the way his pulse thrummed just beneath your fingertips, the way he shivered just slightly at your touch.

His thumbs caressed the line of your jaw, then drifted down to the curve of your neck, holding you like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

It was fire and softness, urgency wrapped in warmth. And you never wanted to stop.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Is that allowed in a supply closet?" you smirked. 

"If they didn’t want people kissing in here, they wouldn’t make it this conveniently located."

You smacked his arm, giggling.

"I’m serious," he added, voice softening but maintaining a firm undertone. "I don't share."

You looped your arms around his neck. "Good. I wasn’t offering."

He grinned, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That thing you said back there—about boundaries, about respect." He paused, eyes scanning yours. "That was... incredible. Seriously. You handled it perfectly."

Your brows furrowed for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

"It was... commanding," he added a moment later, voice lower, more playful now. "Alluringly so."

You snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer to pepper your face with kisses. "Ridiculously in love with a woman who knows exactly how to shut down frat boys without breaking stride, resuscitate half the ER, deliver excellent patient care, and still make rounds on time."

His hand slid down your back, warm and steady. "You’re the whole damn package, you know that? It’s genuinely unfair."

You chuckled, burying your face briefly in his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, Dana's voice rang echoed through the PA, summoning you for the consult. Robby groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"This is not over," he muttered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, a smirk following soon after where your lips lingered. "Got any dinner plans?"

Robby raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Actually, yeah. I’ve got a date—with my incredibly beautiful, breathtaking, beyond intelligent, and painfully witty girlfriend."

You blinked at him, then laughed, delighted. "Wow. Sounds like a catch."

He leaned in and bumped his nose against yours, grinning. "She really is. And I think she’s about to say yes."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, so full of affection it made your cheeks ache. Then you nodded, brushing your thumb gently along his cheekbone.

"Yeah," you whispered, "she definitely is."

[melmedarda]

@meljaymicrofics ⸻ tension ⸻ wc: 600 ⸻ rated G

It's a slow night in the lab when Jayce Talis kisses Dr. Medarda in the dark hallway. Only, he doesn't know it's her at first (how could he not have known?), and when he pulls back, he's so shocked that he can only manage clear his throat awkwardly. He drops his hands from her shoulders. One step back, and then another, for good measure.

He’s stupid. He’s dumb and stupid and block headed, and how how how could he not have known. Because Dr. Mel Medarda is all gold and bronze and glow. Fucking resplendent really. Fearsome in her sheer perfection.

Jayce stalls, running his hand through his already disheveled hair. Short-circuits, his brain tripping over itself. Looks anywhere besides her face, her eyes. The late nights have finally caught up with him. Perhaps he’ll run away, disappear into the night. A brilliant idea if not for the fact that she is not a one-night stand. He’ll see her tomorrow, the day after that, and possibly every week for the remainder of his natural born life if this dissertation isn’t completed.

He opens his mouth to apologize, grimacing and he remembers how stiff she’d been. Corpse like and far too cold for a woman that embodied the entire fucking sun. The effect of his actions chills him to the very bone.

Her hand rises, golden rings a dull glint in the near dark. A palm to his left cheek. It smarts and Jayce bites his tongue at the impact, but he does not complain.

“Now, that’s been dealt with,” she says, her voice rich. Decadent. Jayce feels himself swaying towards her. Under siren song. “Do not do such a thing again.”

A shake of his head as he scrambles to gather his words. Anything really, in his defense. “I-I’m sorry, Dr. I thought you were someone el-”

“I do not care who you thought I was. This institution is not meant for dating, Mr. Talis, and your deportment was unsavory as a student of this prestigious university. If you are not serious about your education, there are thousands of others in Piltover and Zaun, and still others across Valoran who would do anything to take your place.”

Jayce clears his throat, shame flushing hot under his skin. Lowers his head as the tension rips through him. Pulse skittering like a prey animal in his chest. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I won’t write you up for sexual harassment but be aware you will be on clean up after magical and techmurgy integration labs.” The hardest labs to clean up, with volatile components. Just his luck. “Am I clear?”

Again. “Yes, ma’am.” And with that, Jayce is alone, only the fading sounds of her heels and the scent of night jasmine coloring the air. Jayce sighs deeply, shoulders sagging as he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and sees stars.

Two things weigh heavily on his mind as he leaves the department, the night wind doing nothing to cool the fire beneath his skin. First, he’d have to clean MTI labs and risk getting his head blown off every Tuesday and Thursday. Second, he’ll have to sit through Dr. Medarda’s lectures on magical equilibrium on Mondays, Wednesday’s, and Friday’s, saddled with the memory of her plump lips against his own.

The remainder of the semester will be hell.

That night, he dreams of her. When he wakes up, the world looks the same. But not him. He's really and truly fucked.

[lyledebeast]

A hostile invading force threatens a farmer's family, and he has to choose the best course of action to keep them safe. This is somehow the plot of the three otherwise very different films I've seen this year in which Mel Gibson plays the protagonist, which is two more than I've seen in about fifteen years. I've been struggling since Halloween to formulate a post that encompasses Braveheart (1995), The Patriot (2000), and Signs (2002), but because I don't want to write a dissertation chapter, I'm going to instead to write two posts: one on character development and showing vs telling in Braveheart and The Patriot and the other on pathos in The Patriot and Signs. And probably one or two more posts that I haven't planned because isn't that always the way?

[dustedmagazine]

Christian Carey's year in review

2023 was pretty much an awful year for our world —climate disaster moves ever more quickly, violence abounds and US politics are a disaster. I would not write a thank you card to the universe for many of my own experiences during the year either. However, I am grateful for the extraordinary music I participated in, heard and wrote about: it was a great solace. A few highlights are below:

I composed three new pieces: Solemn Tollings, for microtonal trumpet and trombone, Just Like You for singing violist, and Cracking Linear Elamite for solo guitar. The latter premiered in December at Loft 393 in Tribeca, played by Dan Lippel.

In addition to editing Sequenza 21 and contributing to Dusted, I authored several reviews and a research article for the British journal Tempo. The article was on my research in narratology as a feature of Elliott Carter’s music, which I have been exploring and publishing on since writing my Ph.D. dissertation. It was great for this particular research, of character-types and interactions in the Fifth String Quartet, to finally see the light of day.

After a half-century of banged up and often unreliable used pianos, my wife Kay got me a new Baldwin grand piano for my 50th birthday. Since it has arrived, I have practically lived in it.

Post-pandemic and post-cancer, I began to dip my toe into attending live events. I went to the Tanglewood Festival of Contemporary Music, which was a mixed bag. As compensation, the Boston Symphony performances that weekend were excellent. I attended a great concert at the New York Philharmonic in November and another in December. For many years, Kay and I have made a holiday tradition of seeing the Tallis Scholars at St. Mary the Virgin Church in midtown. It was wonderful to return there. The Tallis Scholars’ performance was splendid, featuring a mass by Clemens non Papa.

After the Tallis concert, Kay was in Nashville, where her parents live, for two weeks, spending time with her brother Tom and sister-in-law Aymara, who were visiting from Qatar (Tom teaches at the Carnegie Mellon University campus there and Aymara is a yoga instructor), and celebrating Christmas with her parents. Here in New Jersey, it was just me and the felines, who were (mostly) well-behaved. To keep the holiday blues at bay, I went all out, decorating a natural tree and the house. I played every carol in the hymnal, and enjoyed old holiday standbys: Oscar Peterson, Dave Brubeck, and Mel Torme’s Christmas albums.

There was much excellent recorded music released this year, and I will not attempt to document it all. Here are twelve records, in no particular order, that I expect will stay with me and be played often in coming years.

2023 Favorite Recordings

Yo La Tengo —  This Stupid World (Matador)

Hilary Hahn —  Eugène Ysaÿe’s Six Sonatas for Violin Solo, op. 27 (DG)

Morton Feldman —  Violin and String Quartet (Another Timbre)

Natural Information Society —  Since Time is Gravity (Eremite)

Leah Bertucci —  Of Shadow and Substance (Self— released)

Juliet Fraser —  What of Words and What of Song (Neos)

Laura Strickling and Daniel Schlosberg —  40@40 (Bright Shiny Things)

Emily Hindricks, WDR Sinfonieorchester Köln, and Cristian Macelaru perform Liza Lim —  Annunciation Triptych (Kairos)

Bozzini Quartet and Konus Quartett play Jürg Frey​ —  Continuit​é, fragilit​é​, r​é​sonance (elsewhere)

Matana Roberts —  Coin Coin Chapter Five (Constellation)

Chris Forsyth — Solar Motel (self— released)

John Luther Adams —  Darkness and Scattered Light (Cold Blue)

Christian Carey

[readinglikemakkari]

Mel… tis but only 4:46 in the morning here… and I’m going to be honest… having my heart curb stomped this early was not on my 2024 bingo card… 😭

I will now give me thoughts… *inhales deeply and proceeds to scream at the top my lungs*

No but for real, please see my full dissertation below on this beautifully crafted heartbreaking one shot that you so graciously gave us 🫶🏽

"Y/n?" Your body stiffens when a voice calls your name, flinching slightly at the way the thunder that follows rattles the glass shelter. The shiver that makes its way down your spine is no longer from the chilly air. This can't be happening— not after two years. Not when you had finally moved on from him.

Ooh!!!! It’s about to get good!!!!! Here we go boys!!!!

He calls your name again, his presence cementing itself into reality. You don't want to face him, but there's that small part of you-the part that will forever be his-that begs you to look.

Me realizing, despite the many angst warnings, that the angst is going to angst more that I thought it was going to originally angst

But what stranger would ever utter your name with such heart-aching familiarity?

Love this line!!!!! 😊😊😊😭😭😭

The exchange went by quickly between half-truths and hesitations. Then it crept up again-the silence. Gnawing at you both and mocking you for not being able to have a simple conversation. When words between you used to flow as freely as the rain that traps you here-really the lack of vocabulary now is laughable. Your past selves would have never been able to wrap their heads around how hard talking to one another would be. Your past selves would also never understand why you broke up. Your current self still doesn't entirely understand.

Okay, this one hurt. My heart is starting hurt.

However, the biggest secret of them all pertains to those days when the ache, the longing, and the loneliness become a cacophony too loud to ignore, that you find yourself rummaging through your closet. Searching for the shoe box that's tucked away amongst miscellaneous items. One that holds the pieces of your heart that shattered the day Bucky broke up with you. A faded movie ticket from the Lord of the Rings marathon you took him to, gum wrappers folded into hearts that Bucky had a habit of doing every time you needed a new bookmark, photobooth pictures that always ended with you two kissing, a letter he wrote you on your one year anniversary where he told you he loved you for the first time, and other items you cherished with every part of you. Holding onto these things might seem to others like a mistake when your goal is to move on, but these were things you couldn't find the strength to get rid of. And if that made you weak, clinging onto bits of what was the greatest love of your life, then so be it. You were weak-and quite frankly you didn't give a damn.

Mel!!!! Wtf!!!!! I- movie tic- the gum wrap- the pictures- THE LETTER!!!!!! I just know in my heart of hearts that Bucky could write up one hell of a love letter!!!!! 💌 I’m hurting for our girl rn!!!!! Be strong boo!!!!

Two years ago, Bucky had sat you down on his living room couch and told you he wasn't ready for a relationship. That was it-that was his reason for ending things with you after almost two years of being together. He claimed he wasn't ready for a long-term commitment, not after everything he had gone through. And seeing him now, seeing how much better he looked was enough proof for you. No amount of your love, your support, or your companionship would have been enough to keep him in your life.

Bucky had been right all along, and you hated how utterly bitter that made you.

How could you accept that what tore you to pieces mended Bucky back together?

Aaaahhhhhhhh! Straight to the heart!!!!!!!!!!! This line physically made my heart stop for a second 😭😭😭😭

Bucky shifts his weight on his feet as he pretends to watch the rain. Focusing on a water droplet sliding down the glass wall as it races the other droplets to the ground. He's tempted to use his super soldier hearing to listen in on your conversation, but he knows he doesn't have the right to. There are only bits and pieces that slip through-like the fact that you're talking to a man-and it has one soul-crushing thought come to his mind.

You have someone. Bucky comes to the conclusion that you have moved on.

This it the first thing that came to mind 😂😂😂 also why does did this make me flinch. My boy no!!! Please!!!!

As soon as you end the call the words slip out of Bucky's mouth before he can stop them.

"Was that your boyfriend?" The word boyfriend tastes bitter on his tongue and he can't help the prickly edge to his voice. You catch the way his jaw tenses and he averts your gaze-ripping the wounds of heartbreak right open. He has no right to feel any sort of way about you moving on. He knows it, you know it, and yet there he is troubled at the thought of you with someone else.

Screw not saying something you'll regret later.

"Yeah. That was him," you lie with the utmost confidence that even you believe it. A tiny voice in the back of your head scolds you for lying, but it's hard to hear it when the resentment fights its way up to the surface and wins.

Oh shit!!!!! My literal reaction!!!! I know that I really shouldn’t be cheering for any one particular party but okay girl pop off. *I would soon come to regret these words*

Bucky had fallen from a train, been brainwashed, tortured, beaten left and right in battles, gone to war, blipped out of existence, stabbed and shot more times than he can count and yet no physical blow could ever amount to the sheer devastating pain he was feeling right now knowing you had found someone else. Knowing there was someone else who got to see your sleepy smiles in the mornings, who got to cuddle you close to his chest on movie nights, who got to steal kisses from you while cooking dinner together, and who got to hear your laughter whenever he wanted—a sound that never failed to make Bucky all warm and fuzzy inside.

There was someone else who now had the privilege and the honor to be loved by you, and to love you.

Bucky would never be able to recover from that.

"I'm... happy for you. I'm happy you were able to move on," Bucky lies through his teeth as he says those words that feel like acid on his tongue.

"It's not like I had a choice in the matter," you retort coldly, causing Bucky to flinch as if you had struck him.

And I oop!!!!! Girl!!!!!! This make me go wide eyed and look around my room for a second!!!!! Her response is sending me!!!!! I feel so bad for our boy!!! 😢😢😢😢

"No. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear how you weren't ready for a relationship. How ending it was for the best. Breaking every single promise you made to me like it meant nothing to you. You don't tell someone you love them, that you want to move in together-you don't talk about the future and then turn around and break up with them because you're not ready for something long-term. Not unless...not unless it was all a lie from the start," your voice cracks by the end and it takes everything within you to swallow the lump in your throat before it suffocates you.

The woman was too stunned to speak. I mean she really laid it all out there. And not gonna lie, I was full on crying by this point

You can be the bigger person tomorrow-tonight you won't be.

This!!!!!! This 100%!!!!!! I’m going to start incorporating this into my everyday life.

You don't look at Bucky as he closes the door, but you steal one last glance at him as you tell the driver your address. The sight squeezes your chest so tightly it might stop beating— Bucky is crying. He's hiding it well with the rain and with the way he stands, but you know him better than that. At one point he was your other half and you can tell by the way his jaw trembles, his eyes narrow, and his expression molds to one of pain that he's crying.

You hide your face from him as the dam breaks and everything you had been holding back comes flooding out.

Brother no!!!!!!!!! Please!!!! My heart!!!!!!!!!!! I can’t take it!!!!!! I don’t know what to do with my emotions!!!!!!! My heart for real dropped!!!!!

Bucky is not doing good. He has to throw himself into work and missions every waking moment because if he doesn't his thoughts will run straight to you. Every night he has to hold his pillow close to his chest because he got so used to sleeping with you cuddled against him, that he feels like a part of him is missing and it steals his sleep. He tosses and turns for hours and stares at the ceiling as if there he'll find the answers on how to make the heartache go away. In the silence, he longs to hear your voice, so the radio and the tv stay on so he doesn't have to sit with the uncomfortable. The food he eats lacks flavor and the world around him seems devoid of color.

His existence feels soulless without you.

There it is…. I should’ve know… oh Bucky…. 😭😭😭

Your reputation as a surgeon was on the line because of him.

That's when Bucky knew he had to call it off. He had to be the one to end it and fix his own problems before his darkness ruined you. You had sacrificed so much and worked endlessly to prove yourself in your field, that there was no way he would let you risk all of that for him. He knew he couldn't be honest with you over the real reasons-you would never accept them.

So he made sure to find a reason that would lead you to hate him.

Bucky knew he had to be the villain of the story. He was used to it, he'd be okay with it. As long as you were safe from the shadows that followed him, he would gladly be the bad guy. For some people that was all he'd ever be, at least in this case he could control the narrative and in the end it would benefit you.

Oh….

When I tell you there aren’t enough words today describe the ache in my chest when I read this. This whole thing was *chefs kiss*

And the face that he still sees himself as the villain… I can’t.

Bucky couldn't give you forever, no, but in letting you go he made sure you kept your dream-and that was enough for him. That meant everything to him.

He had to suffer the greatest loss of his life so that the love of his life could be free. A hard truth that he would forever carry the weight of and that you would never know was done as an ultimate act of love-the selfless act of knowing when to say goodbye.

The fact that she thinks it was all a lie and that she’ll never get closure. She’ll never know that he did it solely for her!!!! Also the fact that he thinks she’s moved on…. I can’t!!!!! I know we asked for angst but this is big boy angst!!!!!!! So much so that I had to snap my best friend about it and let all of my emotions out to her too.

I’m sorry if I quoted too much or added too many memes and gifs, this is how I communicate and express my emotions 😢there was so much to be said. I still feel like I haven’t got it all out yet.

Mel!!! You have truly outdone yourself again!!!! The way you write is absolutely phenomenal!!!! I’m telling you right now that you and your writing is gift to this world!!!! 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽

Crossroads

Pairing: Ex!Bucky Barnes x Neurosurgeon!Reader

Summary: On a rainy night on your way home, fate decides to cross your path with someone who used to hold the dearest place in your heart.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warning(s): ANGST / heartbreak / failed relationship / very tiny mention of a surgical procedure, not in great detail / I know I mentioned angst already, but this is all angst with maybe like a tiny sprinkle of fluff / medical career mentions (I did my research, but just in case I got anything wrong) / mentions of Bucky's trauma and hardships from his past

Prompt/Theme: chai latte (caught in the cold rain) + melancholy (write a tragic tale)

a/n: This is my submission for @the-slumberparty ‘s Winds of Autumn Challenge. Did I choose melancholy because of my name? Perhaps 🫢 In all honesty, it has been too long since I wrote a pure angst piece, so I knew I had to write something to get the heartbreak going. As a piece of advice, not everything is as it seems, so wait till the end for the whole story to come together. I would say happy reading, but instead, I'll wait here with tissues and a hug for those who need it after reading this. ( ´･･)ﾉ(._.`) Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist ♡ // main masterlist ♡

Lightning crackles across the sky as you scurry across the puddle-ridden streets of New York desperately searching for a cab. The wind had rendered your umbrella useless, so the rain fell in harsh sheets against your body—soaking you from head to toe. 

You had been performing an emergency surgery on one of your patients in a different hospital from the one you resided in. Your patient had suffered from an aneurysm brought on by a complication from a previous surgery. She couldn’t be transported across the city as immediate medical attention was needed, so you were transported to said hospital via the hospital helicopter. 

Which you obviously couldn’t use to fly back home.

The surgery took longer than anticipated—eight hours to be exact. When you were close to being done there was unexpected bleeding coming from the surgical sight and you had to go back in and reexamine everything to stop the bleeding. Thankfully, there were no more complications after that and you could focus on stabilizing your patient so she could go and recover in the intensive care unit.

The downpour had started towards the end of your surgery. You were far from home and the already unfamiliar streets had blurred together amongst the harsh streaks of water obscuring your vision. It was still the early hours of the night and you were exhausted—longing to collapse against your bedsheets and wrap yourself in their warmth. Tiredness had seeped its way into your bones faster than the rain had seeped into your coat. 

As you cross another street you spot a bus shelter nearby and make a run for it. Knowing it might be a while before you can catch a cab and at least those glass walls would be enough to protect you from the icy wind that threatened to freeze you. Once inside you try your best to warm up your hands, observing the way your breath materializes in the air. You consider ordering a rideshare, but you know the numbness in your fingertips has to go away before you can take your phone out and order it. 

Fate, however, had other plans for you. 

“Y/n?”

Your body stiffens when a voice calls your name, flinching slightly at the way the thunder that follows rattles the glass shelter. The shiver that makes its way down your spine is no longer from the chilly air. 

This can’t be happening—not after two years. Not when you had finally moved on from him. 

He calls your name again, his presence cementing itself into reality. You don’t want to face him, but there’s that small part of you—the part that will forever be his—that begs you to look. That needs to know if it's him. 

Your head turns slowly, holding your breath as you keep your emotions in check as best as you can. Hoping the universe was playing a cruel joke on you and presenting you with someone who sounded exactly like him. 

But what stranger would ever utter your name with such heart-aching familiarity?

Deep down you knew there was no mistaking it. It was him. It was Bucky. You would know the sound of his voice even in the loudest of crowds—like a language only your heart spoke. Even now when it was on the cusp of becoming a forgotten one.

Your eyes meet his as a flash of lightning illuminates you both. Your heart squeezes in your chest at the way his eyes seem stormier than the sky. Filled with as many conflicting emotions as you know are reflected in yours. 

“Bucky. Hi…”

When you find your voice it sounds foreign to you—quiet and tight. The years of rebuilding every part of yourself are on the edge of crumbling down in a simple greeting. Bucky gives you a small smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks between you and the bus shelter. He frowns for a moment as if having a silent debate with himself.

“Is it okay if I um…?” He nods towards the inside of the bus shelter as he trails off. This is when you finally notice the way the rain whips against his skin, soaking him where he stands, and it dawns on you what he’s asking. 

He wants to know if it’s okay for him to seek shelter from the rain with you. The man who used to insist on holding your hand wherever you went because he loved the feeling of your hand in his, the man who would hug you from behind and hide in the crook of your neck as he showered it with kisses when he missed you on the days you came home late, the man who cuddled you close every night and whispered how much he loved you between kisses that seemed to want to reach your very soul—that man was now asking for your permission to be in the same space as you. 

Oh, how cruel fate could be…

“Yes, of course. It's fine,” your response is polite—too polite, and your movements are virtually robotic as you take a few steps to your right to keep a stranger’s distance between you. He mumbles a small thanks before he steps inside, his hands firmly in his jacket pockets. Keeping to his personal space as much as possible.

Silence stretches between you—heavy with unspoken sentiments—interrupted only by the booming of thunder and the drumming of rain as it hits whatever is in its way. You try to distract yourself by counting the seconds between the stoplight changing from green to yellow to red and then green again, but it's no use when he’s but a few steps away from you. The man who you used to know like the back of your hand is now a stranger and it's causing you more distress than you’d like to admit. The inside of your cheek feels the brunt of that torment as you bite it incessantly. You have to do something about this silence before it consumes you. 

“How have you—”

“How’s it been—”

You both speak up at the same time, holding each other’s gaze for a fraction of a second before falling into an awkward laugh. He clears his throat before encouraging you to speak first. You look away, the civility of his tone crawling under your skin and unstitching mended wounds—some of which still had not fully healed yet. 

“Okay, well how have you been, Bucky?”

“Good. I’ve been good. You?”

“Oh. I’ve been good too.”

The exchange went by quickly between half-truths and hesitations. Then it crept up again—the silence. Gnawing at you both and mocking you for not being able to have a simple conversation. When words between you used to flow as freely as the rain that traps you here—really the lack of vocabulary now is laughable. Your past selves would have never been able to wrap their heads around how hard talking to one another would be. 

Your past selves would also never understand why you broke up.

Your current self still doesn’t entirely understand. 

Bucky shifts on his feet, lips in a tight line as he speaks up, “I read about your recent award. Congratulations, you deserved it,” the sincerity in his voice causes your head to snap in his direction. When you see his genuine smile, one that makes the corner of his eyes slightly crinkle, it tugs at your heartstrings in a way that threatens to pull you back to him. 

You won that award for your research achievements in neuroscience a few months ago. Which could only mean that at least until a few months ago, Bucky had been keeping up with you. A piece of information that left you speechless and with a million thoughts running through your mind.

Had he always kept up with you?

Or did he only just recently revisit a part of his past?

Were you on his mind all this time like he had been in yours?

There was so much you wanted to ask—to say—but instead, your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water until you were able to mutter a soft, “Thank you.” The sound so quiet it was almost swallowed by the rain. Bucky caught it, however, his body less rigid hearing the familiar cadence. He smiles a little wider, the kind of smile that chips away at the walls you built up these last two years and insists you spill a string of secrets you have locked away in the deepest depths of your heart. 

All secrets that revolve around him.

How you also kept up with him, never scrolling past a social media or news post highlighting anything that had to do with the Avengers in hopes of getting a glimpse of him. Visiting the coffee shop where you two met on occasions telling yourself it's because no other coffee tastes better, but really it's because of the memories of you two that lie in every corner of that building. The loss of him follows you even when you order takeout because you would rather deal with the lie of ordering for two rather than with the truth of ordering for one.

However, the biggest secret of them all pertains to those days when the ache, the longing, and the loneliness become a cacophony too loud to ignore, that you find yourself rummaging through your closet. Searching for the shoe box that’s tucked away amongst miscellaneous items. One that holds the pieces of your heart that shattered the day Bucky broke up with you.

A faded movie ticket from the Lord of the Rings marathon you took him to, gum wrappers folded into hearts that Bucky had a habit of doing every time you needed a new bookmark, photobooth pictures that always ended with you two kissing, a letter he wrote you on your one year anniversary where he told you he loved you for the first time, and other items you cherished with every part of you. 

Holding onto these things might seem to others like a mistake when your goal is to move on, but these were things you couldn’t find the strength to get rid of. And if that made you weak, clinging onto bits of what was the greatest love of your life, then so be it. 

You were weak—and quite frankly you didn’t give a damn.

The one thing holding you back from pouring your heart out to Bucky was how things had ended. The vagueness, the fight, the resentment and confusion. All of it took hold of you and screamed at you to be more cautious—to keep your guard up. 

Thunder snaps you out of your thoughts, grounding you in the present once more. You need answers, but you know you have to be careful about how you retrieve them. 

You cross your arms, pressing your coat tighter against your body in an attempt to comfort yourself—turning to face him only to have your heart skip a beat when you realize he is already looking at you. His gaze softens with a vulnerability that makes the words get stuck in your throat. 

You let out a shaky exhale, “I uh—I saw Sam became the new Captain America. I also saw you on the news fighting alongside him. Are you two friends now?” The question comes out innocent enough, making Bucky’s demeanor brighten as he takes it as a sign that you’re open to talking to him. Your hidden intention behind that question is a need for confirmation of something that eats away at you anytime you think about his reason for breaking up with you. 

Bucky runs a hand through his damp hair, “Yeah, sort of—it's a long story. We went on a mission together and I realized he wasn’t that annoying, so we became mission partners and I guess you could consider us friends now,” he explains to you with a fond expression, one that leaves a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Through the occasional flashes of lightning you’re able to get a better look at him and the sinking feeling is on the verge of drowning you. 

Bucky no longer had harsh dark circles under his eyes, his scruff was nicely shaven, and his posture was lighter as if the world was no longer falling heavily on his shoulders. His hair is shorter than when you last saw him, he had lost a bit of weight, and he had found a friend in Sam. Something you had encouraged him to do while you two were still together, but he refused on account of saying he only needed you. All of this verified to you the one thing you feared the most. 

Bucky had been right all along. He had been right in breaking up with you. 

Two years ago, Bucky had sat you down on his living room couch and told you he wasn’t ready for a relationship. That was it—that was his reason for ending things with you after almost two years of being together. He claimed he wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment, not after everything he had gone through. And seeing him now, seeing how much better he looked was enough proof for you. No amount of your love, your support, or your companionship would have been enough to keep him in your life. 

Bucky had been right all along, and you hated how utterly bitter that made you. 

How could you accept that what tore you to pieces mended Bucky back together?

The air between you shifts, it’s thick and acrid, and your heart races in your chest with fury as loud as the thunder that rumbles in the clouds. Leaving you wondering if Bucky can differentiate which one is more turbulent. He can sense the change in you and it causes the heaviness in his shoulders to return and his body to go rigid—his own heart threatening to leap out of his chest.

Your phone rings and you use it as an excuse to turn away from Bucky. You pull it out of your bag and check the caller ID—it's Nate. Your neighbor from down the hall of your apartment complex who moved in a couple of months ago, and was now a casual hookup of yours. You weren’t one for hookups, but after years of no connection you longed to feel something—anything with anyone. 

You were only human after all. 

You answer the call, needing to put your attention elsewhere before you say anything to Bucky you might regret later. You keep your responses short, knowing Nate could only be calling you at this hour for one reason and one reason only. Bucky didn’t need to know that reason, so you decide to keep the conversation as brief as possible. 

Bucky shifts his weight on his feet as he pretends to watch the rain. Focusing on a water droplet sliding down the glass wall as it races the other droplets to the ground. He’s tempted to use his super soldier hearing to listen in on your conversation, but he knows he doesn’t have the right to. There are only bits and pieces that slip through—like the fact that you’re talking to a man—and it has one soul-crushing thought come to his mind.

You have someone. Bucky comes to the conclusion that you have moved on. 

As soon as you end the call the words slip out of Bucky’s mouth before he can stop them. 

“Was that your boyfriend?” The word boyfriend tastes bitter on his tongue and he can’t help the prickly edge to his voice. You catch the way his jaw tenses and he averts your gaze—ripping the wounds of heartbreak right open. He has no right to feel any sort of way about you moving on. He knows it, you know it, and yet there he is troubled at the thought of you with someone else. 

Screw not saying something you’ll regret later. 

“Yeah. That was him,” you lie with the utmost confidence that even you believe it. A tiny voice in the back of your head scolds you for lying, but it's hard to hear it when the resentment fights its way up to the surface and wins. 

Bucky had fallen from a train, been brainwashed, tortured, beaten left and right in battles, gone to war, blipped out of existence, stabbed and shot more times than he can count and yet no physical blow could ever amount to the sheer devastating pain he was feeling right now knowing you had found someone else. Knowing there was someone else who got to see your sleepy smiles in the mornings, who got to cuddle you close to his chest on movie nights, who got to steal kisses from you while cooking dinner together, and who got to hear your laughter whenever he wanted—a sound that never failed to make Bucky all warm and fuzzy inside. 

There was someone else who now had the privilege and the honor to be loved by you, and to love you.

Bucky would never be able to recover from that.

“I’m…happy for you. I’m happy you were able to move on,” Bucky lies through his teeth as he says those words that feel like acid on his tongue. 

“It’s not like I had a choice in the matter,” you retort coldly, causing Bucky to flinch as if you had struck him. 

“Y/n I—”

“No. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how you weren’t ready for a relationship. How ending it was for the best. Breaking every single promise you made to me like it meant nothing to you. You don’t tell someone you love them, that you want to move in together—you don’t talk about the future and then turn around and break up with them because you’re not ready for something long-term. Not unless…not unless it was all a lie from the start,” your voice cracks by the end and it takes everything within you to swallow the lump in your throat before it suffocates you. 

The thunder roars so loudly it shakes the glass walls around you and for a second you think they might break—but ultimately they don’t. Bucky doesn’t know what to say, taking a sharp intake of a breath before blowing out the air in what sounds like a choked sob. Every fiber of his being longs to break the distance, wrap you in his arms, and never let you go. Cradling you close to his chest like he used to whenever you were upset. 

He had lost that privilege—he’s well aware of that, and yet his wishes remain the same. 

Bucky knows there’s more he can say. Things that might not restore what was broken, but that will definitely give you answers or closure. Although, at the risk of hurting you even more he keeps them to himself and instead whispers a strained, “I’m sorry.” Letting the weight of his apology hang in the air.

Your tears threaten to spill, but you blink them away not wanting to cry in front of him. Maybe you shouldn’t be bitter and resentful—after all the man you loved with your whole heart ended up better off without you. If you truly loved him you should be happy for him. Despite that, there is no ounce of happiness that you can conjure up for him right now. At this moment, you are swimming in an ocean of negative emotions that are close to pulling you under into a very dark place. 

You can be the bigger person tomorrow—tonight you won’t be.

Bucky can hear it before it comes into view, a cab is finally making its way down the road. He steps out into the road to wave it down, the rain ricocheting off of his shoulders. Without speaking another word, he heads over to the cab and opens the door to the backseat, gesturing for you to go in. For a second, you hesitate to take the cab. You know once you do this is it—it's over. 

A beat passes until you make a decision. With a heavy heart, you force one foot in front of the other, stepping into the rain and then into the backseat. Accepting this small gesture from Bucky as a heartfelt goodbye. If you stuck around any longer that bit of animosity brewing in the pit of your stomach would’ve boiled over. 

You don’t look at Bucky as he closes the door, but you steal one last glance at him as you tell the driver your address. The sight squeezes your chest so tightly it might stop beating—Bucky is crying. He’s hiding it well with the rain and with the way he stands, but you know him better than that. At one point he was your other half and you can tell by the way his jaw trembles, his eyes narrow, and his expression molds to one of pain that he’s crying.

You hide your face from him as the dam breaks and everything you had been holding back comes flooding out.

Bucky steps back into the shelter of the glass walls and watches the cab drive off with you in it—taking his heart and his hope with you. 

Bucky tries to force the tears to stop, but he knows it's no use. Just like you, he had held back a sea of truths he wanted to confess. Truths he wasn’t sure you even wanted to hear or he even deserved to tell. 

Bucky is not doing good. He has to throw himself into work and missions every waking moment because if he doesn’t his thoughts will run straight to you. Every night he has to hold his pillow close to his chest because he got so used to sleeping with you cuddled against him, that he feels like a part of him is missing and it steals his sleep. He tosses and turns for hours and stares at the ceiling as if there he’ll find the answers on how to make the heartache go away. In the silence, he longs to hear your voice, so the radio and the tv stay on so he doesn’t have to sit with the uncomfortable. The food he eats lacks flavor and the world around him seems devoid of color. 

His existence feels soulless without you.

Sam is trying to get him to talk about it, but you’re the one thing Sam is not allowed to bring up. Not when Bucky is ashamed of the full story—of the truth. 

The full story—the full truth—was the one thing most of all that he wanted to get off of his chest and confess to you. Bucky didn’t break up with you because he wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship. That was the biggest lie he had ever told and one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He was ready. He was so damn ready he even bought the ring to ask you to marry him—to make forever official. That was until he noticed how his problems began to bleed into your life. So much so, that your career as a surgeon began to suffer from it. The one thing you were most passionate about—your dream—the one thing you worked blood, sweat, and tears for was in jeopardy because Bucky was still suffering from the baggage of his past as the Winter Solider.

Bucky felt like a burden. You would never call him that and he knew if you ever heard him call himself that, you would do and say everything you could to assure him he was wrong. You loved him so deeply and so selflessly that your career became an afterthought. When his nightmares plagued him, when his PTSD was triggered, when the world felt like it was closing in on him—there you were. By his side no matter the time of day to hold him close and reassure him he wasn’t alone, that he was safe, and that he was loved. Bucky had become so dependent on you he didn’t realize how it had affected you until he stumbled across the warning letters your job sent, the voicemails, and the overheard calls. The articles that came out questioning your morality for dating the Winter Solider—a cold-blooded killer.

Your reputation as a surgeon was on the line because of him.

That’s when Bucky knew he had to call it off. He had to be the one to end it and fix his own problems before his darkness ruined you. You had sacrificed so much and worked endlessly to prove yourself in your field, that there was no way he would let you risk all of that for him. He knew he couldn’t be honest with you over the real reasons—you would never accept them. So he made sure to find a reason that would lead you to hate him. 

Bucky knew he had to be the villain of the story. He was used to it, he’d be okay with it. As long as you were safe from the shadows that followed him, he would gladly be the bad guy. For some people that was all he’d ever be, at least in this case he could control the narrative and in the end it would benefit you.

Bucky couldn’t give you forever, no, but in letting you go he made sure you kept your dream—and that was enough for him. That meant everything to him. 

He had to suffer the greatest loss of his life so that the love of his life could be free. A hard truth that he would forever carry the weight of and that you would never know was done as an ultimate act of love—the selfless act of knowing when to say goodbye. 

[gardenof-eda]

I’m wide awake at almost 5am in the morning. So while I have a smoke I want to tell you about another thing I love.

Ever just listen to classic radio? Well, I do. Before bed, early in the morning, while I work, sometimes in the shower, etc. I find it lovely because it’s hands and eyes free which sometimes I need more than I realize. TV and movies can be so over stimulating these days. There is something delectable about being able to close your eyes and just listen to a good story. Thank goodness for radio, podcast, audiobooks and all other media made for the ears.

Among my favorites is the Mel Blanc show. Ring a bell? He better! He’s only the voice of all your favorite Looney Toons, actually he might be the voice of most of the Looney Toons! Once that contract ended, he also voiced some of our most memorable characters from the Hanna Barbera universe! Mel��s IMDB is one giant endless scroll, I’m not joking go look. It’s only about 53 years worth of indescribable talent.

It seems the show was designed to give Mel’s array of voices free rein and a place to call home for about a year. It’s a fairly simple premise, Mel plays himself as he runs an auto shop where hijinks ensue. In the auto shop you’ll recognize a few voices of Mel’s while the rest of the characters are played by 5 other voice actors.

Mel’s very Porky Pig like character Zookie, is a staple on the show and one of the reasons I stayed tuning in. To be clear Porky did come first but Zookie is equally if not more hysterical to me. The other reason is for the commercials of show sponsor Colgate-Palmolive. You know, the ones with the jingles sang live on air by a couple of folks? If I must listen to rampant commercialism then it absolutely must be nothing short of delightful. I could probably write you another essay on old commercials, and perhaps I’ll venture that another day.

The show didn’t last long and among the criticisms the consensus seems to be there was too much going on the show. All that chaotic talent was hard for the writers to organize with the format they were using for the show. Personally, I enjoy it regardless. If you continue to read my blog, and these unprovoked dissertations you’ll notice I love a lot of potentially unpopular media. Many times have I excitedly opened Letterboxd to log a movie and see the comments are trashing it. Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder. Beauty for me is being able to witness Mel Blanc, the Man of 1,000 Voices, years after the beginning of his career and unfortunate but inevitable end of his life.

"Ugga-ugga-boo, ugga-boo-boo-ugga"

[iloreyou]

The Let Them Theory. Invisible String Theory. Breadcrumbs. Lore.

This is cool.

I briefly would see some lady's podcast on healthier habits on TikTok; I’ve liked a couple. I then saw Indigo had ‘Most Anticipated Books for 2025’, and The Let Them Theory book was the top pick.

I like non-fiction, but sometimes it’s just egotistical jargon and not genuinely helpful to people. This ‘Let Them Theory’ seemed like it had immaculate vibes.

I had been struggling. I had been struggling to put words to a phenomenon that happened when I ‘quietly quit’ arguing about my 2023 summer job expectations when my supervisor was clearly not putting the time into understanding the updated orientations and protocols that I attended for my ‘self-proclaimed’ last year of outdoor work. I decided that, as long as my main employer and the data collectors were happy with my performance and I clearly communicated with them my job expectations, there was no reasons to “butt heads’ with the sup in the middle about the role. Rather, I participated in the things I loved about the role, including connecting with the naturalists, the public, nature walks, and discovering theories about science communication for kids through certified training (mind you, other staff refused to use the certificate because it leaned more theory than experiential and led to them never updating their programming or themes…eeeks).

Anyways, it turned into one of those healing experiences where I loved my job, had limited interactions with co-workers, could finely tease the work drama from my work and genuinely focus on self-development.

As for the next year, I dove into academia (again)—a profession that also has some clashing opinions. I found that I was stuck in the above ugly pattern until someone recently volleyed that I had great perspective. In my 30 second TED Talk response, I struck the chord that permeated the realization that my current work was the same vibe as the above scenario.

I was currently ‘butting heads.’

I was emotionally invested in something that wasn’t productive. I was trying to 30-second synopsis the reason I enjoyed helping people with perspective in teams because it goes by in such a flash, and you can’t always compartmentalize feelings; you wouldn’t want to look back at the experience and just see that you spent that time frustrated—with yourself, with others, with the work.

All of a sudden, when my mouth stopped its righteous cliff notes venting, I realized I needed to distill whatever the nonsense I was spewing and use it for my current melancholy.

It went unlabeled, but the essence was there.

I would pick up slight reassurance. My partner would say, “…ahh, yes, I see why you feel this way because it appears like you don’t have autonomy and that’s why you’re unmotivated.” And I would reply, “Sure, yes; as long as you support me and I’m not just a Butt Head but ‘butting heads’ then I’ll take it.”

Now, back to this book.

I saw it. I got it on Audible. While watching TikTok, Mel (the author that I know in name only) scrolled in, and I said, “Holy! I like the way she’s breaking down information, regurgitating it, and feeding my girl brain.” I said, “Yes! She’s on TikTok; she’s relevant; she’s on my algorithm.” A couple of scrolls later and BAMM—the BOOK! Mel is THEE author of THE LET THEM THEORY BOOK. Instant follow.

I am convinced more than ever I need to read this book. I need to order several copies for friends. This book will change me.

I start the book. Mel starts off the book with the turmoil of her life (same). Within 10 pages, Mel drops her irresistible urge to dissect human habits, behaviour, and the science of motivation to basically write ‘a dissertation on the science of motivation on the side,’ while also fully disclaiming the unholiest activities of participating in public speaking during which she experienced blacking out and crippling anxiety (same).

I pause to write this invisible string theory, breadcrumb finding, named experience to my ladder out of melancholy of poorly placed emotions gatekeeping my motivation.

Thanks for investing in the lore.

Hugs,

el

[fabiancole]

3 Reasons Why Scholars Ask Expert Guidance to Write and Edit a Dissertation A dissertation is a document created by a student through research, writing, and finalizing their work. It requires focus, regular work, and is easily readable. The language, structure, and details are crucial for forming a valuable dissertation, evaluating the student's effort. Before seeking dissertation editing services, it's essential to understand the importance of these aspects in a student's work.

[ladymidnight24]

Alright, time for my English degree (and thr 3 whole classes I took with a literary tragedy obsessed man) to finally come into use (also a chance to go off on a subject I very much enjoy)!

So OP (and co) are 100% correct. Aristotle's definition of a tragedy has multiple parts to it, but at its core he says that a true tragedy must be a representation of human action, it must be about a "hero" who by all means, means well and in most other circumstances their core personal traits would likely serve them well, but in this particular circumstance, those core traits, the ones that make them who they are, will serve as their downfall. Not only that, but something that I think OP hits on the head is the idea that story needs to invoke pity and fear from the audience, pity because the situation is dire enough and the "hero" is enough of an understandable/likeable person that we feel bad for them, and fear because we understand the feelings, decisions, and steps that it took for them to get there. We know exactly how this happened and we know exactly how it could have been prevented, but the fact remains that it wasn't and now this person is going to suffer because of decisions they made in good faith.

On a slightly less serious note, an idea that has been living rent free in my head, something that I have been thinking for literal YEARS at this point is that I'm fairly certain I could write a gods damned dissertation breaking down how the Netflix show Arcane is a true and proper tragedy no matter which character you choose to follow as the "main" character. I am so serious right now, just off the top of my head, I'm fairly certain I can make strong arguments for this for Vi, Jinx, Ekko, Jayce, Mel, Victor, Silco, Vander, Caitlyn, and Marcus. If I dug into the other characters more, I could probably find a way to swing it for them too.

So anyway, if you're ever looking for a REALLY great example of a properly done tragedy in modern media (if shakespear and other classics arent your vibe like they are mine, lol) then Arcane is truly a fucking FANTASTIC work of art

‘A good tragedy is always both preventable and inevitable’ is one of my main hills to die on. It’s literally so important to me. I’m fucking correct

[mel-hath-no-fury]

So I've been having a rough time writing my dissertation ever since I started it. I can throw out 1000 words of fanfic in one sitting no problem, but academic writing feels much more high stakes. I'll sometimes go days without getting more than 100 words on the page. It's like pulling teeth.

Anyways, after I started vagueposting about my current chapter on rusalky, a few people seemed interested in hearing more, so I started drafting a post explaining more of what my research was about.

This turned out to be an excellent writing exercise, and I now have a so far seven-page document (and counting) covering a bunch of stuff I haven't been able to write into the dissertation itself. Like, I wrote nearly 2000 words in ONE DAY of writing. This is unprecedented. Apparently, writing with tumblr in mind just works better for me?

I'm still debating over whether or not I want to post any of it, because my specific topic (which isn't just rusalky but something else) is kind of niche and I don't want to dox myself (or have my dissertation flagged for plagiarism when it gets deposited, since I'm probably going to recycle a lot of that text), but at the very least writing with a general audience in mind is helping me get words on the page.

Anyways, if there's any interest maybe I'll make a side blog just for gabbing about research? That way if it does get traced back to me, at least I won't have to explain...everything else on my blog.

[orlissa]

Hi guys!

There are a lot of new people here, so I guess I’m up for an intro (and I can’t find my previous intro post, so...)

Hi, I’m Orlissa!

30, white (Hungarian-German), straight, feminist, pro-choice, cis woman, living in Budapest. I’m a phd student, studying changing gender representation in mainstream superhero narratives, somewhat focusing on the male/female gaze. I’m supposed to finish my dissertation in a couple of months, so please, don’t ask how it is going XD I also teach some classes at my university, and work as a translator. I mostly translate young adult and fantasy books, but I’ve tried my hand at different genres as well.

I’ve been writing fanfiction since I was 12, and minored in creative writing during my BA. My current fandom is Shadow and Bone (Darklina), but I’ve been somewhat known in fandoms such as AoS (Skyeward), A:tLA (Zutara), and Vampire Academy (Romitri), to mention a few. I’m especially known of my fluff.

I’m a cat person, and a somewhat-practicing Wiccan (I observe the Sabats. I observe as they go by). I adore fashion history and especially corsetry, and will have a fit over bad costuming in period dramas. I like to crochet, like a hip grandma. I like comics, art, good books, summer, and pink.

Some pieces of media I adore: All Souls/A Discovery of Witches, Galavant, The Golden Girls, Miracle Workers, Firefly, the MCU, Mel Brooks’ movies, Disney renaissance, that specific brand of sentimental movies where an oldish woman does whatever makes her happy even if society scoffs at it.

Stuff I don’t like: gore, gratitious violence, frogs and toads, people smoking on the street, fascism, dictators, the hopelessness of the current day and age... You know, the usual stuff.

[northwindow]

february: love and envy

a syllabus on desire, shame, and neighborliness

“love your frenemy” by sara protasi

aeon article by a philosophy professor who specializes in emotions. she writes on the tendency to envy our friends and neighbors and the possibilities of emulative envy. if you prefer listening, much of the content is also in “frenemies” from the podcast counterpoint.

“suffering like mel gibson” by zadie smith

a essay on the ubiquitous suffering and envy of others in the time of covid-19. from intimations, a collection written in late spring 2020 about life during the pandemic. (it’s difficult to find a pdf, so the link is a video image of the essay as it’s read aloud)

selections from a lover’s discourse: fragments by roland barthes

six fragments from barthes’ a lover’s discourse that relate to desire and envy in the context of love: “atopos,” “tutti systemati,” “connivance,” “we are our own demons,” “the orange,” and “jealousy.”

envy by joseph epstein

short, broad-strokes book on envy commissioned for a series on the seven deadly sins. collects some writing on envy from philosophy and fiction with added observations, anecdotes, and musings about envy’s social roles.

“envy” by sianne ngai (p. 137)

a chapter of ngai’s book ugly feelings, which explores aversive emotions through literary theory. she describes envy as an emotion that culture has feminized and investigates the impact of this feminization with an analysis of single white female (1992). see also ngai’s “competitiveness from sula to tyra”. (“invidia’s snake” by elisabeth ladenson in the same journal on envy is another pretty good literary essay on proust that has a feminist critique of the epstein book above)

“my enemy” by joanna klink

poem by american poet joanna klink from her collection raptus.

love and saint augustine by hannah arendt

political theorist hannah arendt’s dissertation, where she writes about neighborly love in saint augustine’s confessions. topics include craving and desire; love of self, god, and neighbor; covetousness; and what it means to love thy neighbor as thyself.

[winderlylandchime]

Would the dissertation on Brian and Lindsey’s relationship fit in an answer here, perhaps? 🤣

Definitely!

So my problems with Brian’s relationship with Lindsay starts with CowLip’s inability to write established relationships and the themes of misogyny and biphobia in the show. It’s like they couldn’t imagine a femme lesbian with no desire for a man.

Lindsay is a weird combination of in love with Brian (the gifset I just reblogged is right before a scene where Lindsay confesses that she fantasized about her and Brian getting married etc) in a way she never demonstrates with Melanie (she looks at Brian with these soppy heart eyes and never looks at Mel that way) and maternal. She sends him mixed messages “oh Brian I love that you’re not apologetic and live life on your terms” and also “but when will you grow up and settle down with Justin?” Similarly “oh Brian give me your handsome sexy sperm, don’t worry you won’t have any responsibilities. Melanie and I will be the parents!” But also “when will you visit Your Son?” (Again disrespecting Melanie) and also the message “be involved but not THAT involved.”

Brian for his part doesn’t push back and demand better treatment. But then he never does, does he? I hated his line to her about “you can like cock and you can like pussy but not at the same time” - your biphobia is showing Kinney. Oh and calling them The Munchers, boiling their entire identity down to one sexual act isn’t cool either.

Big big thanks to my enabler @haxpr0cess who chatted with me about this and who also regularly does violence against me by reblogging QAF gif sets that make me Feel Things™️

[paralleljulieverse]

This Day in Julie-History: Julie Andrews gives her final performance in My Fair Lady at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane on 8 August, 1959 

Sixty years ago, Julie Andrews took her final bow in the original stage production of My Fair Lady after an astonishing three-and-a-half year run –– two years on Broadway and sixteen months in London. Of the show’s original principals, only Stanley Holloway and Robert Coote outlasted Julie, though only by a few short months and, it must be said, in far less demanding parts. 

Indeed, the role of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady is widely regarded as one the most difficult in the musical theatre canon. With its performative shifts between drama and light comedy and weighted use of “warring vocal registers...from belt to soprano and back,” the role has a reputation as “one of the great voice killers” of musical theatre that has “created problems for more than one Eliza” (Mordden: 196). Small wonder, Julie likened her three-and-a-half year tenure in My Fair Lady to a gruelling marathon:

“Playing Eliza was perhaps the greatest challenge I’ll ever have to face. It was an extremely difficult role and I found it an enormous weight every night. I can’t remember a single performance when I didn’t wonder to myself am I going to get through it tonight?” (Andrews 1964: 20)

Such was the significance of My Fair Lady as an era-defining cultural phenomenon that Julie’s farewell performance on August 8, 1959 made headline news around the world. A capacity audience of friends and well-wishers packed the house to bid farewell to the star and director Moss Hart flew in from New York to emcee the affair. As Julie took her final bows, the company linked arms to serenade her with a moving rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” (Frost:13). Needless to say, there were tears –– press reports claimed Julie “made off for her dressing room and stayed there more than an hour weeping” (ibid) –– but they were tempered with a measure of joyous relief. In her memoirs, Julie writes:

“When I finally ended my run in My Fair Lady, it was as if I emerged from a long, narrow tunnel into the bright sunlight. The world was suddenly in Cinemascope, and I had a life once again. I had tremendous affection and fondness for the show, and I received a wonderful send-off from the company...but the relief was overwhelming...[M]y diary entry for that week simply says, ‘Lovely, loverly end to show––very sad but very glad, too’” (Andrews 2008: 266).

Many other Elizas have followed in Julie’s wake, whether in the original productions –– which continued for years after her departure and featured a veritable revolving door of replacement leads –– or in the show’s numerous international productions and revivals. But Julie’s status as the original musical Eliza and, perhaps most influentially, her star presence on the show’s  two record-breaking original cast recordings, has made her performance, if not the definitive Eliza, certainly the gold standard by which all others are measured. Critical commentary on the recent New York revival of My Fair Lady at Lincoln Center, for example, featured frequent nods to Julie from comparisons of singing style –– “unlike the original...Eliza, Julie Andrews, [Lauren Ambrose] is an imperfect fit for the vocal demands of this role” (Rooney: para. 7) –– to fan gush about star idols –– “Laura Benanti has wanted to play Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady since she was 4 years old [when she] fell in love with both original star Julie Andrews and the role of the Cockney flower seller” (Evans: para. 2).

In her research monograph on female musical stardom, Julie Noonan (2006) mounts a compelling argument for My Fair Lady as the quintessential example of the “virtuoso star musical,” a show that is built around the “exceptional abilities” of “star performers who were or became stars through their roles in [these shows]” (128) and whose benchmark original performances “haunt” collective memory and all subsequent productions (136). In the case of Julie’s turn as the original Eliza Doolittle, Noonan writes:

“Andrews contributes a virtuosic quality to the character of Eliza which makes the role difficult to cast…Not that the role cannot be done by another, but the composite qualities of Andrews leave a mark on the character which are evident in the recasting” (141). 

All of which only intensifies the bitter irony of Julie’s loss of the role of Eliza in the film version of My Fair Lady and helps explain why the decision was so deeply controversial at the time and, even now half a century later, continues to rankle and provoke debate (McHugh: 180-83). As Mel Brooks’s comic character ‘The 2000 Year Old Man’ cracks with hilarious acerbity: 

"Everybody asks me, ‘What did you think of the Crime of the Century?’ The hackles are still going up at the back of my neck. That those idiots gave Audrey Hepburn Julie Andrews’s role in the movie My Fair Lady after she sang it on Broadway for two years—to me, that’s the crime of the century...I'm upset to this day!” (Brooks and Reiner: 104).

Sources:

Andrews, Julie. “Julie Andrews on Challenges.” Daily World. 27 August 1964: 20. 

__________. Home: A Memoir of My Early Years. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2008.

Brooks, Mel and Reiner, Carl. The 2000 Year Old Man in the Year 2000: The Book. New York: HarperCollins, 1998.

“Eliza Farewells ‘My Fair Lady’.” The Age. 10 August 1959: 1.

Evans, Suzy. “Laura Benanti on Playing Her Dream Role in 'My Fair Lady'.”  Hollywood Reporter. 1 March 2019, <www.hollywoodreporter.com>.

Frost, Colin. “Tears Stream Down Face, Julie Bows Out of ‘Lady’.” The Morning Call. 10 August 1959: 13.

“Julie Portrays Her Last Eliza.” Chicago Tribune. 10 August 1959: 1.

McHugh, Dominic. Loverly: The Life and Times of ‘My Fair Lady’. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012.

Mordden, Ethan. Anything Goes: A History of American Musical Theatre. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2013.

“New ‘Fair Lady’ at Drury Lane.” The Sphere. 22 August 1959: 95.

Noonan, Julie A. The Sound of Musicals’ Women: Tessitura and the Construction of Gender in the American Musical. Unpublished PhD dissertation. University of Kansas, 2006.

Rooney, David. 'My Fair Lady': Theater Review. Hollywood Reporter. 19 April 2018, <www.hollywoodreporter.com>.

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