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#and one of them is just my native language
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1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]
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Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.
Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.
Word Count: 5.2k
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Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.
It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.
Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.
Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.
In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.
The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.
The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.
~~~~~~~~~~
What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.
It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.
One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.
You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”
And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”
In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.
“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.
Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.
But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.
Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.
That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.
Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.
When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?
Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.
Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.
As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.
“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”
“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”
Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”
Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”
“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”
“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”
“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.
“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”
Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.
LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.
The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.
“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”
“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.
“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”
You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”
“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”
“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”
“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.
“The butcher of Saigon.”
Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.
You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”
Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”
“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”
“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”
“That sounds…logistically challenging.”
“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”
“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”
Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”
“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.
“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”
He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”
“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.
Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”
He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.
You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.
“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”
You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.
“What did LBJ say?”
“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”
“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.
For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?
When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.
You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”
“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”
“Mimi—”
“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.
“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”
Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”
You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”
“The world would be better without me in it.”
Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.
Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.
Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”
“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”
“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”
You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.
“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.
Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.
You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.
You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”
“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”
You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”
“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”
“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”
“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”
“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”
You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”
“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”
He looks over at you. “Io?”
“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”
He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”
If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.
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mimisempai · 2 days
Text
You're making my day better
Summary
There's nothing like a cup of coffee and a loving embrace to take the sting out of a nightmare, and the florist won't disagree. Especially when it's the bookseller who does the coffee and the hugging.
Notes
I just missed my florist and bookseller and wanted them to have a little moment of domestic bliss.
On Ao3
Rating G -  534 words
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It was one of those mornings.
When the nightmare clung to Crowley like a leech.
When he felt its shadow hovering over his head.
He reached the kitchen where Aziraphale was finishing the coffee, the smell pleasantly tingling his nose.
He couldn't hold back a yawn, then scratched his head before saying in a still sleepy voice, "Good morning, my angel."
He planted a kiss on Aziraphale's hair as he walked by and jumped up to sit on the kitchen counter.
Aziraphale looked at him with a fond expression and replied, "Good morning, sweetheart.  I'm surprised you're up, considering it's your day off. You could have slept longer. "
Crowley shook his head and replied monosyllabically, "Nightmare...couldn't sleep."
Aziraphale's expression turned compassionate as he poured coffee into two cups before turning to his lover and handing him one. The florist took it gratefully, inhaling its scent with an expression of delight.
He set the cup down beside him and took the bookseller's hand, pulling him between his legs.  Aziraphale, smiling with amusement, let the florist manhandle him without resistance until he was in the right place, with his back to him.
The bookseller leaned against Crowley, who wrapped his arms and legs around him, resting his chin on his lover's shoulder.
Aziraphale took a sip of coffee and, after humming contentedly, asked Crowley quietly, "Aren't you drinking your coffee?"
Crowley hummed against Aziraphale's ear, "I need you now, not coffee, at least not right now. Can I stay like this for a while?"
Aziraphale nodded and replied softly, "Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you need."
They stayed like that for a few moments in silence, Aziraphale slowly sipping his coffee while Crowley nestled against him.
After a moment, the florist leaned his head forward on Aziraphale's shoulder and said softly, "I could use a sip now."
Aziraphale chuckled and brought his own cup to Crowley's mouth, who took a sip before saying, a playful smile on his lips, "It's like an indirect kiss."
Aziraphale laughed softly and replied, "It's totally cheesy."
Crowley chuckled into his neck, fully aware of the shiver he was causing in his lover, before replying in a laughing tone, "I know you like it, so don't pretend you don't.... That's why I'm going to tell you something cheesier. You know I love coffee, and that I love you even more. But do you know why?"
Aziraphale shook his head, curious to see what nonsense Crowley would come up with.
"Coffee makes my day bearable, but you make it enjoyable." 
Crowley's propensity for saying profound things when Aziraphale least expected it never ceased to amaze him, and above all left him once again speechless and blushing.
Crowley, knowing this, whispered in his ear, "See? I knew you'd like it. I knew you'd like my cheesiness, my sweet angel."
Aziraphale didn't try to deny it because it was true, so he set the cup down on the counter and turned before taking his lover's face between his hands and saying softly, "I still prefer a direct kiss."
Then he gently pressed his lips to the florist's and Crowley felt the last remnants of his nightmare slowly fade away in the soft, coffee-flavored embrace.
_________
Still not beta'd
Still not my native language
Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰
Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝
The florist and the booksellers series : here
Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here
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yinyuedijun · 23 hours
Note
okay maybe i’m toxic or didn’t pick up the hints but can you maybe elaborate more on what makes the readers behavior w aventurine manipulative? bc i feel like lwk i would do the same but i didn’t realize it was bad behavior 😭😭😭 like if he was saying stuff in his sleep i didn’t understand i would totally try to translate it 😭😭 and how they know he might not be comfortable w doing some things like teaching them avgin but asking anyway i took it as a bid for connection almost?? IDK im just gobsmacked bc i totally thought i was a healthy secure individual but if this is toxic behavior maybe im not 😭😭
FKDJSAKSHJA I won't lie anon I love getting chonky questions about my fics so thank you for reaching out about your confusion with this particular subject . in your defense I understand why it might be confusing on a first read because it IS fundamentally a story about two lovers wanting connection. the catch is that they are too messed up to actually achieve it in a mutual manner 😞
SADLY I must write an essay about this because I'm unbearable. but before I do I'd like to share screenshots from a couple of my readers (SHOUTOUT TO LEEHI ANON AND MIN !) that explains it succinctly
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okay now my unbearable essay
so basically. I think the mc's first weird thing that they did was wanting to know what aventurine was saying in his sleep and not just asking him LMFAOOO instead they fucking went about learning it in a roundabout way, without his permission, and just did not care about his boundaries gkdhdsldhsmsj
but while that is whack dishonest behaviour, the real crux of the manipulation in this dynamic is that the reader gave the impression to aventurine that he would be able to understand them better via language exchange, but they set him up for failure in this regard. from the outset, they had no intention of revealing anything about their inner world to him because they planned to deceive him in their native tongue. on the other hand, through learning aventurine's mother tongue, they are able to access a deeply vulnerable part of him. and they do it without him knowing.
so they use this knowledge of his mother tongue and his weakness to it to manipulate him into treating them better: crying in it to gain his pity (just as they did with their captors) and asking for gestures of affection using his language because they know he can't say no. they can use his first language to control him, but aventurine cannot do the same. it's very one-sided.
but as you said, it's ultimately a bid for connection. and they resort to this behaviour to achieve connection because, put frankly, aventurine has already created a one-sided dynamic where he has killed any potential for true connection. like tl;dr he really does treat them like garbage 😭😭😭 the mc just got kinda tired of that and wanted to girlboss him back so that he'd be actually affectionate to them. though they also just want to find a way to make him happy.
ANYWAY SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG.... thank you for reading my fic . I appreciate you so much!!!!!!
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cricketnationrise · 2 days
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20 questions for fic writers
Thanks to @cha-melodius, @kiwiana-writes, and @happiness-of-the-pursuit for the tags!
How many works do you have on ao3?
253
What's your total ao3 word count?
481,635
What fandoms do you write for?
RWRB, Check Please!, Tortall, verrrry occassionally The Parasol Protectorate
Top five fics by kudos:
Going Platinum - camboy!Alex AU
Burnin' Through the Sky - speed dating meet-cute
Set in Platinum - camboy!Alex sequel
warm from the inside out - some stuff happens under a desk 😉
Downburst - In The Shadow of Two Gunmen/West Wing AU
Do you respond to comments?
I have responded to every comment so far!
What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
I don't tend to write angsty endings. That being said, this Check, Please! ficlet I wrote for @shygryf is very angsty: Hotel Room, Mar. 1 (I did fix it with a later ficlet, but on it's own...)
What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
Most of them tbh. I'm an unrepentant happy ending lover.
Do you get hate on fics?
Nothing that comes to mind--I've been extremely lucky. I've gotten some baffling ones and some with a strange tone, but I think that's more down to English not being their first language, not hate.
Do you write smut?
Yes.
Craziest crossover:
I tend toward fusions/AUs rather than actual crossovers. Although there are Check Please! easter eggs in the Going Platinum universe.
Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not that I know of.
Have you ever had a fic translated?
Not that I know of, although I would hope that any translator would have let me know so that I can flail in overwhelmed gratitude.
Have you ever co-written a fic before?
Not yet, although there's one that's been sitting for a year-ish that I'm gonna be really excited to finally get to.
All time favorite ship?
I won't choose and you can't make me.
What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
Not right now. All the wips I've got that are more than just like, one line or a title, I'm really excited about writing and sharing.
What are your writing strengths?
Immersive descriptions, humor, and metaphors. This bitch loves a metaphor.
What are your writing weaknesses?
Action scenes. I'm getting better, but any time I have a particularly big action scene I beg on my knees for @cha-melodius to get into the doc.
Thoughts on dialogue in another language?
Only If I feel confident about the translation. I'll usually get a native speaker to check it over if it's more than an easy phrase I already know/can google, especially if it's a whole conversation.
First fandom you wrote in?
Check, Please!
Favorite fic you've written?
You're so mean to me making me pick. Le sigh, fine.
Check, Please!: How Delightful if that Were True - Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society AU (100% homegrown epistolary baybee)
RWRB: More Than Brick and Mortar - sentient Brownstone AU, magical realism
Tortall: i'll rise up in spite of the ache - hockey AU of First Test
Parasol Protectorate: No Small Matter - 5+1 pranks on Conall that I wrote for @homobiwan
(narrowing these down was absolute agony, btw. hope you're happy.)
Tags under the cut, but if you wanna do this, who am I to stop you? Aka consider this your open tag.
@celeritas2997 @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @inexplicablymine @leaves-of-laurelin @anincompletelist
@firenati0n @missanniewhimsy @montrealmadison @doggernaut @parvuls
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0xstarzx0 · 1 day
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STALK| ONE-SHOT
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Rafe Cameron S3 x Reader
{OPEN COMMAND}
[english is not my native language❗️❗️]
SYNOPSIS: Your stalker must run, especially if Rafe Cameron knows.
TW: stalk, mention of murder, mention of rape, violence, insults, fear.
______________________________________________
You’ve never been very open, you’ve always kept your problems to yourself. 
"To show his emotions is a proof of weakness" your father repeated to you, he did it until his death.
Even now that it’s been 1 year since he died you have trouble showing them ,but when Rafe, this kook who stole your heart.
You opened up a little bit more every time you were happy or showed him that you were in love with him, giving him hugs or kisses.
But it's last times, you were a little more closed in, distracted. The reason? A jerk who keeps harassing you with messages.
At first you didn’t care, it was just a dick that wanted attention, but it became more and more frequent and frustrating.
Today was the last straw, you woke up and found hundreds of messages, insults of all kinds and threats. But one message stood out.
"If you have the misfortune to cross me today, I would kill you and rape your corpse, even your boyfriend will not find it."
That message terrified you, you cried for over two hours, and when Rafe got up, you insisted he stay with you. "I’m not going anywhere, baby," he told you.
______________________________________________
You were lying on Rafe’s chest, you were watching a romantic movie from the 2000s, Rafe wasn’t all that interested compared to you who was into the movie.
Rafe gets up staggering. "Where are you going?" You immediately ask, trying to hide your fear." Looking for my laptop, I still have some work to do." He said as he walked out of the living room to climb the stairs four by four.
Rafe entered his room, he took his laptop when a vibration caught his attention, he looked at the dresser next to the bed, where your phone was.
He casually grabbed your phone and checked the notification you got.
"You listened to my threats, that’s good. I wonder what you’d give in bed, you bitch."
The blood of Rafe made only one turn, he unrolled your phone and read one by one the messages. "What the fucking hell is that!" cried Rafe.
You run to him in the room, fear made your whole body beat. Rafe is in front of you, eyes fixed on your phone.
"If you have the misfortune to cross me today, I would kill you and rape your corpse, even your boyfriend will not find it." Repeated Rafe.
You freeze on the spot, you fast forward to Rafe and get your phone. You try to delete the whole conversation when Rafe picks it up again. He reads out the messages one by one.
No matter how much you jump to catch him, Rafe won’t give it to you. "Jesus, Y/N, what the hell!" He’s on edge. "Rafe Cameron drops that phone right now," you say, trying to convince him to listen to you.
"Y/N" said Rafe, crossing his arms over his chest. " Rafe." you said, shooting him with your eyes.
"Can you explain?" He asks by scrolling through your phone screen. "There’s nothing to explain, my phone now." You reach out to get it back.
Rafe looks at you for a few seconds, your behavior makes him even angrier. "You want that phone?" He asks, nodding.
In a split second, the phone flies across the room, it breaks on the wall at the other end of the room.
You look at Rafe shocked, you don’t know if you’re happy or if you want to hit him.
You walk towards him quickly, he does not have time to react that you roughly plate your lips against his. He remains perplexed a certain moment not understanding your reaction, but ends up giving you back your kiss
You take off breathless, you grab Rafe’s face in your hands. "Thank you." You say trembling voice, Rafe looks at you with an expression you can’t decipher. "Who’s that son of a bitch?" You bite your lip. "I don’t know." You let out a little tear, you couldn’t help but cry.
You cry against Rafe’s chest, he gently caresses your hair. "I’m here, I’m here. I’ll take care of this." He hugs you. "I promise, Love."
______________________________________________
.
.
.
.
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20 Questions for Fic Writers
Thanks to @kiwiana-writes for the tag!! I did this back in like... October, and a LOT has changed since then lol
How many works do you have on ao3?
29
What's your total ao3 word count?
299,988 (though this includes 110,000 from the co-written PJO AU and 2,000 words from Manu's fic that I podficced to)
What fandoms do you write for?
Only RWRB for now, though never say never to others. I recently read Check, Please! and I've had some thoughts, but I have far too many WIPs for RWRB to write them rn. Also I have some ideas for The Pairing, but again, I have... so many RWRB wips...
Top five fics by kudos:
Longer Than Most | 26K, trans Henry accidental pregnancy (also this is how I found out it had become my top kudos-ed fic AH)
The Super Six Take a Lie Detector Test | Vanity Fair | 7K, YouTube interview
Let Me inside (I Want to Get to Know You) | 6K, epistolary roommates
Claremont 2008 | 28K, canon divergence where Ellen gets elected in 2008, childhood friends to lovers
(Dil)Do It Yourself | 17K, meet cute at a DIY dildo workshop
Do you respond to comments?
I really try to. But. I have gotten quite behind recently. I would love to catch up but it's just a bit overwhelming at the moment.
What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
I don't really have any angsty endings?? but a fic @affectionatelyrs and I are working on is going to have an ambiguous ending and my joke is that someone should the version of it where things take the angsty route
What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
I mostly write happy endings, but I am going to say that Let Me inside (I Want to Get to Know You) is the happiest because it's kinda the tropiest
Do you get hate on fics?
Not hate, but I've gotten one or two weird comments, or comments asking about updates.
Do you write smut?
I do! (this is one of the things that's changed since the fall)
Craziest crossover:
The closest I've gotten to a crossover is the PJO AU, but that's not even an actual crossover.
Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Nope.
Have you ever had a fic translated?
Nope.
Have you ever co-written a fic before?
Yes!! Super Six and the Siren's Call with @inexplicablymine and @read-and-write- was the first, and then I wrote Let Me inside (I Want to Get to Know You) with @affectionatelyrs. I also did the podficcing of the voice notes for love has a voice (and it's yours) by Manu. I've also got a couple more projects coming up with Jamie also.
All time favorite ship?
Well that I've written for, FirstPrince :)
What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
Unfortunately I don't know if I'll ever finish Baby's First Pride because I've grown a ton as a writer since then and I would want to redo the old chapters and that just isn't all the compelling to me anymore...
What are your writing strengths?
I fucking hate this question. But I am going with dialogue and humor (and humorous dialogue) which has been co-signed by others so I feel less weird about saying this.
What are your writing weaknesses?
I would like to be able to keep smut more concise at times, because it always turns into a Big Scene but it doesn't always need to be a Big Scene. And I've been trying to work on a particular style of writing which is a bit more uhhh snappy? I don't know how to describe it. But that's still a huge work in progress, because I always get more rambly than I want.
Thoughts on dialogue in another language?
I definitely try to include it for the characters in RWRB who speak other languages, and when I do I lean on my friends who speak those languages as a native speaker.
First fandom you wrote in?
Officially: RWRB. For myself: HP.
Favorite fic you've written?
Honestly it's always whatever I'm working on at the moment, which is a couple of WIPs: Fire Island WIP, Parasocial Relationship AU with @affectionatelyrs, and my Big Bang fic come to mind.
But really I want to know what y'all's favorite fic of mine is!!!!
I'll tag 20 people, sorry if anyone's done this recently, but in case anyone wants to go again: @mainstreamelectricalparade @14carrotghoul @anincompletelist @littlemisskittentoes @gay-flyboys
and @songliili @gayrootvegetable @leojfitz @welcometololaland @rmd-writes
and @bigassbowlingballhead @eusuntgratie @captainjunglegym @cactusdragon517 @cricketnationrise
and @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @bribumblebee @nocoastposts @magicandarchery @itsmaybitheway!!!
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cha-melodius · 3 days
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20 Questions for Fic Writers
Thanks to @ninzied for the tag!
How many works do you have on ao3?
120!
What's your total ao3 word count?
1,371,932
What fandoms do you write for?
RWRB, TMFU, Lokius
Top five fics by kudos:
Please Don't Let Me Be So Understood
Nova, Baby
Class(room) Warfare
All the Old Showstoppers
Always Where I Need To Be
Do you respond to comments?
I try. I used to be very good at responding but my backlog has gotten extreme (1491 unanswered comments as of right now, if you're curious) so at this point I pretty much only answer if it's a chapter in an ongoing multichap, or someone asks a question.
What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
I have a caradin fic that's straight up a break-up fic with no resolution, but I still feel like my angstiest is probably Black Moon (napollya), because they're in love but the situation is so fucking bleak. Sorry guys.
What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
Any of them that end with a proposal lol? I've got a lot of fluffy fics and all of my long fics end with pure fluff, so I don't think I could pick out one.
Do you get hate on fics?
I have been lucky not to really get any, at least lately. I've gotten... less than polite comments, of course, but no outright hate (knock on wood).
Do you write smut?
Yes, although I would not say it's an integral part of my writing tbh.
Craziest crossover:
Craziest might be Maybe, This Time, which is a Mandalorian/BSG crossover that involves dimension-hopping lol.
Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not that I know of.
Have you ever had a fic translated?
Yes! I've had a few of my TMFU works translated and now there's someone in the RWRB fandom that translates most (!!) of my fics into Mandarin, which is mind blowing and flattering and I'm so grateful because I've gotten comments from people who have read them translated and loved them.
Have you ever co-written a fic before?
Not yet!
All time favorite ship?
I don't think I can pick one; some of my past ships are just that—past—but there are a few I will carry in my heart forever.
What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
If I want to finish it, I will, even if it takes a long time. I might stop wanting to finish a wip, but that's not the question is it?
What are your writing strengths?
Banter/dialogue, action, pacing, plots. People have told me that they can picture my scenes like a movie because of the description and that makes me feel good.
What are your writing weaknesses?
Although I have my moments, I don't really tend to think of my writing as beautiful. I'm just not that poetic/lyrical.
Thoughts on dialogue in another language?
Sure! If it's in my own fic I usually have a native speaker look over it (I haven't done this lately but I have gotten Russian consults for TMFU fics).
First fandom you wrote in?
Xena: Warrior Princess, back when that show was airing. Fanfic primarily distributed over internet mailing lists and posted on your own website.
Favorite fic you've written?
Stealing Nina's idea and doing one in each of my main fandoms I've written in because it's hard to pick (even then this was rough).
Nova, Baby Series—Spy AU, Firstprince
Love is a Losing Game—Chess AU, Napollya (SHOCKER I KNOW)
What Makes a Good Man Series—Spy AU, Lokius
Here It Goes Again—The Mandalorian (Caradin but mostly Din character study in a time loop)
I'm not sure who's been tagged and who hasn't or even everyone who has done this, but a few tags below the cut. If you'd like to do it, jump in!
@kiwiana-writes, @rmd-writes, @three-drink-amy, @cricketnationrise, @14carrotghoul
@leaves-of-laurelin, @tintagel-or-cockleshells, @inexplicablymine, @firenati0n, @liminalmemories21
@orchidscript, @sparklepocalypse, @loki-is-my-kink-awakening, @mirilyawrites, @heytheredeann
@nicijones, @justabigoldnerd, @myheartalivewrites
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royalarchivist · 1 month
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[A sad violin song plays over an image of a sad hamster]
Pac: This doesn't have anything to do with me – I wear a blue sweatshirt, you're crazy, this mouse doesn't even have a sweatshirt, this hamster! [Reading chat] Am I a depressed hamster?
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[ Transcript continued ↓ ]*
Pac: Actually– that's fine! I embrace that idea – of course I'm going to be depressed, are you crazy? [He hits his desk, then starts counting off people on his fingers] Fit is gone, Richarlyson is gone, Ramon is gone, Bagi and Empanada who were always there when we were there are also gone, I haven't seen them! It's just me and Tubbo, and sometimes Philza shows up.
Pac: I lost Chume Labs, I lost the Favela, I lost Murder Mystery, I lost Ilha Chume Labs, it's crazy! Look at how much I've lost, and I've gained nothing! Of course I'm going to be depressed, are you crazy?! How am I supposed to be happy?!
Pac: [Reading chat] "You have us Pac," that's true, thank you. No, that's true, sorry.
* NOTE: Please note that this is an incomplete transcript, as I was primarily relying on Aypierre's translation mod at the time and if I am not confident of the translation, I do not include it. As always, please feel free to add on translations or message me corrections.
#Pactw#QSMP#Pac#March 18 2024#As much as I love keeping people updated about Pac / the other Portuguese-speaking creators#I think I might not make as many transcribed posts for their clips anymore#I just don't think I'm qualified enough to be transcribing things for a language I don't know#like yeah we have the Qlobal Translator and Aypierre's translators to rely on#And I'm always upfront when I'm not 100% sure about a translation#but I've been thinking about it a lot and it kinda makes me feel a bit icky. Idk.#I might be overthinking this but I just I don't want to spread around translations I'm not super confident about#esp. since I know a lot of people cite my clips in analysis posts or link them to other people as resources#and 90% of the time I'm like ''Hell yeah I love seeing people getting a lot of use out of the archive''#but sometimes I get a bit anxious like ''Did I do a good enough job translating this''#''Am I ruining someone's entire perception of a conversation or character because I left one word out or mistranslated something?''#And like I said that's normally not a HUGE concern since if I'm not certain about a translation I just won't post a clip. but you know#idk it might just be the anxiety talking but I really really don't want to spread bad info#Happy to hear other folks' perspective#I'm really grateful for people like Bell and Pix and others who translate clips and I always try to reblog those#but we don't have a ton of people posting clips & translating things on Tumblr since we're so English-centric#which is part of the reason WHY I like sharing clips of the non-English-speaking CCs#but at the same time I want to do an accurate job representing what they're saying#Maybe I'll just start posting things and give a TLDR context of what they're talking about but not a transcript#that way native-speakers can hop in and add translations if that's something they're comfortable doing#and if not then well. at least I'm not sharing something that isn't super accurate#idk I'm just thinking out loud a bit in the tags#But I'm open to hearing other people's thoughts on the matter#Anyways giant rant aside. q!Pac is NOT doing ok rn
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thelien-art · 9 months
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Day 3 of @silvergiftingweek
Marriage | Bonding
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Peonie: Peonies are usually associated with romance, love, and weddings, one of the reasons is because it´s a spring flower, and another is the vibrant feathery petals that make a declaration in a bouquet
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saym0-0 · 2 months
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so the mechs totally speak a pidgin language of all their native languages right. we can agree on this right. their accents are a horrific mashup of all their original ones too, to the point where every single word they say sounds heavily accented to a native speaker of the language that word came from, even if its the mech that was originally a native speaker of that language. does this make sense at all?? they're just a linguistic mess i think they deserve it
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solradguy · 3 months
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This book I got to scan for otherkin talks about quantum physics-based magic. I literally cannot escape quantum physics-based magic systems. Can Guilty Gear just like give me a moment, ok, for getting me consistently into this mess. I need to throttle Dr. Paradigm. My brain is getting so wrinkled from having to learn about quantum theory and particle theory and Planck's Constant and Heisenberg's Principle and Bohr models... At least it's in English this time. I GUESS.
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awek-s · 3 days
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the person editing my piece for the anthology put my work through a translator…… 😣
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irisbaggins · 3 months
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"My God, your entire life rests on how you do in three exams in your last year." My god Siobhan, same. The whole American experience is wild to me, that last year is where you're done with everything. Last year meant everything for our High Schools, where if I failed even one exam I was fucked. I'd have to take an elective year just for the chance of fixing that fuckup. I was one ball of stress throughout that whole fucking year, and then I got math and biology as my exams. I thought I was going to die.
So, I guess, nice (??) to know someone else at the table had the experience of their last year in HS being a nightmare of a time. Also, horrifying. What is up with us Europeans where everything hinges on just a few exams that are randomly selected and can be in your worst subject?
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please do not tell me you like how i write, because i will inevitably think i'm decent at it and think i'm worth appreciating
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handweavers · 1 year
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been teaching myself sanskrit and the nāgarī script using this book from the early 1970s and it's an incredible resource like it really covers so much and does it really well, and bc it's written by a white westerner for a (presumably) white western audience he explains what parts of pronunciation and grammar and such might be more difficult for europeans to learn based on their own native languages (primarily english and french) but it's very validating when he mentions how present day indians tend to pronounce various things in sanskrit and i realize that's the pronunciation/whatever i was already doing and how much is intuitive to me just having grown up listening to people speak punjabi my whole life. like even if i don't speak it myself i find it easy to do the sounds and i'm finding that i know, instinctively, what sounds Sound Correct and what cadence Sounds Correct without needing to be told explicitly, and there's something very exciting about that. like my brain is already trained to understand many of the patterns and systems here even if i don't understand them in a technical sense (which is why i'm reading the book) that instinct is there and the feeling is similar to being told i have my grandfather's eyes.
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lilbirdblu · 10 months
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maybe its because i was really into kpop & a part of the community prior to QSMP so i always feel the need to wait for context, clarification, or an explanation before deciding how i feel about something a non-english CC says
i truly hope i can say this in a way that makes sense, and in no way do i intend any offense with this, but i feel as though a lot of people within this community, from all sides, need to truly understand that they are consuming and engaging with content and creators that speak a different language than they do. yes, majority of the CCs do speak a common language but the QSMP community needs to realize that they still come from a different part of the world so there are going to be things lost in translation and cultural context that we, as outsiders to that culture, are most likely unaware of until we learn otherwise
so it is even more harmful to immediately jump the gun and harass creators prior to any clarification
should we hold creators accountable? 1000%, absolutely
should we immediately dog pile them for something they said? no
if something makes you raise your eyebrows and instinctively go into 'cancelation mode', its perfectly okay to instead go "hey, what did this creator mean/what is the context?"
as the consumer it is up to you to acknowledge that at times, you will not have all the context, whether situationally or culturally. as the consumer it is up to you to acknowledge that at times, you will be ignorant. while not entirely impossible, it would be incredibly rare for any of us to completely understand the complexities of ALL of the languages and cultures involved at all times.
which leads into why the QSMP is so important: it's bridging the gap between cultures/languages/communities but that gap will be infinitely harder to close if we dont have the patience and humility to acknowledge other viewpoints and experiences of the world and to admit when we dont understand something outside of our own, whether its positive or negative
just because you dont understand something does not mean that your character or allyship is called into question--it simply means that youve encountered something outside your own word experience and is a good opportunity to learn about other parts of the world, other experiences and viewpoints and cultures
and at its core, qsmp is about learning to understand people that are different from you despite any sort of barrier, but you will not come to understand one another if you do not allow the time to ask questions, listen, and allow yourself to be educated on things outside of your own culture & experience
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