#i’m already a slightly unhappy poet

[paladinpeterparker]

me before ttpd vs me after ttpd

[damienthepious]

i yeet myself forcibly from tuesday to tuesday like some sorta leapfroggin’ disaster honestly.

Space To Be Kinder

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, Fluff, Sleeptalking, Napping, Nightmares, Somft......

Summary: Sir Damien still prattles, even when the knight is unconscious. Unsurprisingly, he still worries, too.

Notes: I realized too late that this is two weeks in a row of unconscious!Damien, but at least THIS one is SOFT. yeehaw. love you. Title from the song Apple Cider by Early Eyes.

~

“Arum…”

“Yes, honeysuckle?” Arum perks up, pulling his snout out of his book and glancing over at the poet beside him, only to find Damien slumped entirely sideways, curled on the blanket, his own journal of poetic drafts loose by his hand. Arum blinks, tilting his head as Damien shifts slightly with a small, weary sigh. “Honeysuckle?” he murmurs again, more quietly, and Damien shifts at the sound of his voice and murmurs Arum's name again.

Rilla peers over Arum’s shoulder from his other side. “Oh, did he pass out?”

“It appears so.”

“I knew he was more worn out from that trip than he said he was,” she says softly, shaking her head and turning back to her sketching. “So damn stubborn.”

“But-” Arum glances to the knight, watches him shift again, fingers twitching against the blanket as he murmurs an incomprehensible plea with his eyes still closed. “What…”

“Oh,” Rilla whispers, her lip quirking into a fond smile. “I forgot you probably haven’t seen him nap before. He talks in his sleep, sometimes.” She shrugs. “Mostly nonsense, though on occasion it comes in rhyme anyway, which is fun.”

“He-” Arum stares down at the knight as the lines of his face shift with whatever dream is gripping him, as he mutters another low, musical line of nonsense, and Arum feels his heart flop over in his chest. “Ridiculous,” he murmurs. “Even unconscious he cannot help but prattle-”

Damien makes a small pained noise, brow furrowing, hands flexing. “Arum,” he says again, a pleading worried murmur, and then he mumbles something that Arum cannot understand, his tone still low and unhappy, and Arum’s own hands flex in response against the blanket beneath them.

“What…” Arum swallows, the worry twisting Damien's face making his chest feel tight. "What do I… do?"

"You don't really have to do anything," Rilla says, looking at the pages in her hands rather than at either of them. "It's just a dream, and he usually either wakes himself up or starts sleeping more deeply pretty quick."

Damien makes another quiet, unhappy noise, and Arum stares down at the sleeping poet, unconvinced.

After a moment, Amaryllis lifts her head from her sketching, the slight movement catching at the edge of Arum's vision, and she breathes out a very small laugh.

"If you're worried," she says indulgently, "you can play with his hair a little bit. That tends to help him zonk out."

"Worried," Arum scoffs, but his voice is still near a whisper, so obviously feigning a lack of concern won't fool anyone, least of all someone as clever as Amaryllis. She raises an eyebrow, and Arum frowns and looks away until she gives another small laugh and flits her attention back to her notes.

Arum attempts to do the same, lifting his book and trying to focus on the words before him, but Damien inhales sharply, his head tilting away with a low stream of murmurs slipping from him, and Arum cannot focus on the book when he can still see Damien over the pages.

"Arum," the poet whispers, and Arum clenches his teeth. "Please… please…"

He fades to mumbles again, but Arum can hear his heart stuttering, his sleeping breaths growing more ragged, and he cannot help himself. He can hardly bear to see Damien plagued by his own mind when the poet is awake- how could he possibly endure watching when Damien cannot even attempt to fight back against it?

He reaches a hand out, slow, and just barely drifts his knuckles down Damien's cheek, hissing low between his teeth as Damien gasps. Damien murmurs again, wordless this time, and Arum leaves his hand on Damien's cheek, cupping his face gently before he lifts another hand and slips his fingers into Damien's hair.

"Please," the poet murmurs. "No- please don't- don't hurt-"

"Hush, honeysuckle. You're perfectly safe. I have you," Arum says, his claws carding slow through Damien's curls, but the poet's brow stays furrowed as he presses his face into Arum's other palm, and he gives a low whimper. "You are safe," he says again. "You're safe, honeysuckle."

"No," Damien murmurs, his expression twisting. "Can't... can't lose you, I can't…" he mutters off, incoherent once more, vague denials on his tongue, and Arum's heart lurches hard.

Arum leans closer, flicks his tongue, hesitates. "You're safe," he says, more quietly, and Damien whimpers. Arum hesitates again, repeats the motion to draw his hand through Damien's hair, slowly. "I'm safe, honeysuckle," he tries instead. "We are all safe."

Damien inhales, exhales a little less harshly. "But- lily… my lily-"

"We are safe, little love," he repeats, reaching a third hand to touch Damien's shoulder, to stroke up and down his arm. "Safe, and home, and-"

Arum pauses, and Damien shifts again, his lips parting. Arum leans closer, pressing his snout nearly to the skin beside Damien's ear, feeling Damien's heat tickle at his scales, his hands soft in the poet's hair, on his cheek, drifting across his shoulder.

"We are all safe, and home, and loved," he whispers. "Loved so fiercely, honeysuckle."

Damien hums, only almost words, and Arum can hear his heart slowing down already. He smiles, helpless against it, and nuzzles carefully closer.

"Not a force in the world could touch the magic between us, Damien."

Damien sighs, the remaining tension leaking out of his limbs, and when he murmurs again Arum cannot quite pick out his words, but-

Amaryllis was right. The nonsense does, indeed, seem to rhyme.

Arum buries a laugh, leaning back away from the poet now that he is sleeping more gently, and he realizes after half a moment that Amaryllis is watching him.

His frill flutters automatically, but the look on her face is nowhere near the laugh he expects. She is smiling, yes, but the smile is somewhat crooked, somewhat soft.

"Huh," she says.

"What?" he mutters, ducking his head. "You told me to- to play with his hair, I did."

"Yeah," she says, her smile going even wider. "You're… kinda good at that, huh?"

"I am good at most things, Amaryllis," he mutters, looking away, but then she shifts closer, her hand lifting to his chin to tilt his face back towards her.

"You're actually really sweet, you know that?"

Arum scoffs, his frill flaring in earnest now as he tries to look aside again, but he cannot pull away from her without disturbing Damien, and-

He startles when her lips press against his cheek, no hint of teasing in the touch, and when she pulls away her dark eyes are soft and warm. He can't make himself look away, and- he does not try.

"That was a compliment, y'know," she says, still smiling. "It's one of the things I love most about you."

"I- Amaryllis-"

"I just- I love you a lot, okay?"

She leans into his shoulder, settling against him with a sigh, and Damien is still curled beside him as well on the other side. Arum feels pinned between them, utterly breathless, perfectly warm.

He wraps an arm around her shoulder after a moment, pulling her even closer, dropping his head to rest against her own.

"I love you too," he murmurs, closing his eyes. "Rather absurdly much." Amaryllis breathes a slight laugh against his neck, and Arum smiles. "Enough, even, to let you call me sweet."

[theotherbloodfart]

Hi! Please would you continue that ask about the reader defending Pennywise? It was great!

I'm drawing heavily from book canon for this. My 2 jams I used to write this were Carnival of Rust by Poets of the Fall and Velvet Rope by Janet Jackson. Hope you like!

Reader Defends Pennywise Part 2 SFW

You hold his small body close to your heart with one arm, trying to warm him even tho your limbs feel icy from adrenaline. He feels so cold. One of his tiny hands cups your temple. This somehow changes your vision, making you able to see in the dark. The edge of the cavern advances upon you, a green monolith looming from the void. Your temporary night vision is green. It looks like the night vision you've seen on television. You suppose this is because Pennywise has fashioned this to match your perception of night vision.

He’s panting raggedly against you, frightened mewls mixed with rasping words.

“Little child. They wanted my heart. Were going to steal my heart. You saved me. Why did you save me? I am hunger. I am endings. I am the void. Ever consuming. Unchanging. And you. So tiny. So weak. Your own beating heart. You hurt. You hurt for me. Tell me why?” he is squealing. Babbling. His words shudder out over your own heavy breathing as you run as fast as your wounded leg will allow.

You feel his mind with yours. Pushing. Nudging. Telling you where to go. You exit the cavern thru another opening at the base You see a tunnel. Short enough that you must bend slightly to avoid hitting your head. You clasp him to you. You trust him. You run.

The hunched position of your laboring body forces you to hold him closer to your face, cupping your hand over the back of his soft head, supporting. Protecting.

Dust. Nitre. It brushes your face softly as you stumble along the ancient tunnel. He’s whispering now.

“Dear child. You shall be mine. My own. You shall never escape. Ooooo but I am so sorry. Dear thing. I must have you. My savior. My creature. My own.”

You feel no fear in this garish green blackness. Only him. His pain and fear. His darkness. And you know he speaks the truth. You would have it no other way. You are his. Always were. Always will be.

There is no time here. Hours. Moments. Days. You do not know.

You slow to a walk. A shamble. Your injured leg feeling tingling and numb. You feel him weakening in your mind, your emerald vision fading to blackness, as his hand falls from your temple.

“So tired.” He pants. “Must rest.”

You feel panic. As if this had all been for nothing. And comfort. Perhaps you would die with him. How fitting. Your knees buckle. You use the last of your will to rotate your body so that you do not land on his little body. You feel his hands on your cheeks. Small gloved hands trace every line.

“Do not fail child.”

You feel tears. You have already failed.

“Sshhh” you feel a finger trace your lips. “Reserve your strength. Put me on the ground (Y/N).”

You shake your head vehemently, your body shaking even as your arms comply to him. Not setting him down as much as slumping weakly to your side.

“Now go.” His thin voice is calm now.

Only sobs pour from you as your head continues to shake. “I can’t leave you. I can’t. I’m scared.” Your voice chokes and sobs on these last words. “I love you.”

His voice remains at the same calm pitch. “I am the only fear here (Y/N). Go. Go now. Before I am too tired to guide you out.”

Pain sings thru your leg and exhaustion makes you shaky as you pull yourself up to a sitting position, jerking like a marionette. You lean forward and retch bile. Then you gather your legs beneath you and stand, leaning against the tunnel wall as you can no longer stand on your own.

Stumbling blindly, dragging your now useless injured leg, you trust that tug and pull you feel in your mind. You go as his will directs. You nearly fall. Once. Twice. And then you do. Sobbing you choke on soil and rock and feel as if you’ve no more to give.

Then numbness. Your exhaustion is gone. Your numb limp leg moves on its own. And then the other. Your body sits up with a snap. Your glassy eyes can see nothing, yet you can sense where obstacles are now. And you realize what is happening.

He has taken control. As he has done with nearly every adult to have existed in Derry for hundreds of years. No emotions matter. No pain matters. Only the sweet siren call of his command. Of his control. Your legs stride confidently. You arms swing by your sides as you enter the cavern and can finally stand upright. There is no movement in this massive place. Those people have gone. You continue. Across the cavern. Up the tunnel. Thru the sewers. He doesn’t take you to Neibolt. You emerge in the barrens. And walk silently thru the trees and shrubs, the bright blinding sunlight and vicious mosquito bites not even registering to you. You approach a road. Stand in the middle. Collapse. Then your consciousness goes black.

Then you hear his voice. In your dreams. It is his lilting gravely healthy voice. The voice you have come to love so well. There is no mocking or his usual laughter. No snarling. His voice is calm and commanding.

“You shall rest now. As shall I. Your body shall heal. As shall mine. And you shall forget. You must. As all mortals do. But I shall not forget.

I shall give you a gift I have given to few others. I cannot make you like me. Not eternal no. But I can slow your death. The death of your body. And so I will do this to you. For you. For me.

No. I won’t forget you. Never forget. For 27 years, I shall dream of you. I shall crave you. I shall miss you.”

And then all is silent.

It is all true. You rest. You heal. You forget.

You live your life. Not an exciting life. But prosperous and satisfying. You never feel interest in making permanent bonds with anyone but are always honest and kind. You live alone.

You cannot leave. Not even for vacationing or travel. You feel physical pain in your heart at even the mention of leaving Derry Maine. You do not know why. Neither do you question this instinct.

But you are not unhappy. You career and personal life are fulfilling and calm. Almost stagnant. As if you are waiting for something. Some nameless thing.

You don’t really notice the difference in yourself for a long time. Or rather…… the lack of difference. The lack of change.

At first, people tell you that you look great for your age. Then phenomenal. But then…… nervous glances. Asks about what surgeon you use. Burning envy tinged with nameless fear. In typical human fashion, the human populace of Derry, rather than embracing uniqueness, shuns it. So you lock yourself away in your home.

29 Neibolt street. You’d always felt a draw to this place. And so, after you’d amassed financial comfort doing something you loved, you had bought it. Cleaned it up. Remodeled it. Became imprisoned in it.

You rarely go out during the day. But exit often at night to enjoy the night air. And so that others won’t see you.

And so this is the case one night. You are walking near the barrens when you hear a rustling sound in the foliage.

A burning pain slashes behind your eyes. You cup your palms to your temple and hiss as the memories flood into your mind. Fast. Almost too fast. Your mouth opens and saliva dribbles out. A silent scream.

Memories. Your childhood. The laughter of your mother. Scraping your knee after falling over on your first bicycle ride without training wheels. That nervousness of your first kiss. The struggle of your young adult life. Tinkling of tiny bells. The thrumming of your heart as some nameless thing kisses you in the dark. The primitive desire. The bravery which had burned in your heart as you’d defended that thing which you’d loved. The fear of losing that very same thing. And then…. A voice. Promises from consumption. From destruction. From endings. The ancient eldritch darkness.

Your eyes snap open. He is here. You know he is here. The joy which flames in your heart, which had been so numb for so long, is painful. You gasp.

The sound of those familiar bells make you twist and crane your head.

And there. In the darkness. Between leaves and rays of moonlight twin embers of vermilion light. You hear a harsh desperate whisper.

“(Y/N)”

[ashtray-girl]

Morrissey and A. E. Housman

From Morrissey’s Autobiography:

“New air is discovered in the words of A. E. Housman, scholar-poet, vulnerable and complex […] who was said to be a complete mystery even to those who knew him.[…] He shunned the world and he lived a solitary existence of monastic pain, unconnected to others. The unresolved heart worked against him in life, but it connected him to the world of poetry, where he allowed (in)complete strangers under his skin. In younger years he had suffered from the unrequited love of Moses Jackson, the pain of which was so severe that it doomed Housman for the rest of time. All of his work would be governed by this loss, as if life could only ever offer once chance of happiness (and perhaps, for every shade and persuasion, it does?) […] The pain done to Housman allowed him to rise above the mediocre and to find the words that most of us need help in order to say. The price paid by Housman was a life alone; the righteous rhymer enduring each year unloved and unable to love. […] Now snugly in eternity, Housman still occupied my mind. His best moments were in Art, and not in the cut and thrust of human relationships. Yet he said more about human relationships than those who managed to feast on them. You see, you can’t have it both ways.”

Housman’s name comes up again when Morrissey talks about the press vilifying him in the 90s after the Joyce trial and he uses one of his poems to reflect on the tribulations he was experiencing at the time:

“The thoughts of others Were light and fleeting, Of lovers’ meeting Or luck or fame. Mine were of trouble, And mine were steady; So I was ready When trouble came.”

When I wrote about the role of Elizabeth Smart’s writing on Morrissey’s lyricism, I said that I thought Morrissey used her novella By Grand Central Station I Sat Down And Wept not just as creative inspiration, but also as a way to relate to and to sublimate his feelings towards his sexuality in general and Johnny in particular. To put it shortly, I think he did the same with Housman but, as much as he praised his poetic output, he probably related to him on a more personal level than he did with Smart, and for two simple reasons: 1) Housman was a queer man 2) He harboured an unrequited love for his best friend Even though he apparently found out about his work before meeting Johnny, I feel like this must have hit even closer to home a few years later. (Also, the thing that slightly freaks me out is the fact that Housman and Jackson first met in 1877 and parted company in 1886, while Morrissey and Johnny first met in 1978 and The Smiths broke up in 1987 – almost exactly 100 years later.)

But who exactly was A. E. Housman?

According to Wikipedia, he was “an English classical scholar and poet, best known to the general public for his cycle of poems A Shropshire Lad.

After winning an open scholarship to Oxford, he went there to study classics and this is where he first met Moses John Jackson, with whom he formed a strong friendship.

He failed his Finals and had to resit the exam but, though some attribute Housman's unexpected performance in his exams directly to his unrequited feelings for Jackson, most biographers adduce more obvious causes. Namely, Housman was indifferent to philosophy and overconfident in his exceptional gifts, and he spent too much time with his friends.

After Oxford, Jackson went to work as a clerk in the Patent Office in London and arranged a job there for Housman too. The two shared a flat with Jackson's brother Adalbert until Housman moved to lodgings of his own, probably after Jackson responded to a declaration of love by telling Housman that he could not reciprocate his feelings.

Two years later, Jackson moved to India, placing more distance between himself and Housman.

When he returned briefly to England to marry, Housman was not invited to the wedding and knew nothing about it until the couple had left the country.”

De Amicitia (of Friendship)

“In 1942, Housman's brother Laurence deposited an essay entitled “A. E. Housman's ‘De Amicitia’” in the British Library, with the proviso that it was not to be published for 25 years.

The essay discussed A. E. Housman's homosexuality and his love for Moses Jackson.

Despite the conservative nature of the times and his own caution in public life, Housman was quite open in his poetry, and especially in A Shropshire Lad, about his deeper sympathies.

Poem XXX of that sequence, for instance, speaks of how ‘Fear contended with desire’: ‘Others, I am not the first, / Have willed more mischief than they durst’.

In More Poems, he buries his love for Moses Jackson in the very act of commemorating it, as his feelings of love are not reciprocated and must be carried unfulfilled to the grave.

His poem ‘Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?’, written after the trial of Oscar Wilde, addressed more general attitudes towards homosexuals.

In the poem the prisoner is suffering ‘for the colour of his hair’, a natural quality that, in a coded reference to homosexuality, is reviled as ‘nameless and abominable’.”

I read the essay and here are the parts I found to be the most interesting:

“… his deepest friendships were with men, [that] those friendships caused him trouble and grief and [that] – in one instance at least – he gave a far greater devotion than he ever received in return. In that greatest of all his friendships (and probably in most of the others), there was no response in kind. Almost every friendship that he formed was destined to be a lonely one – the emotional element which went to the making of them his alone.”

He then goes on to talk in more detail about the relationship between Housman and Jackson:

“My brother and Moses Jackson first met when in 1877 they both went up to St. John’s college Oxford with scholarships. Their association remained unbroken for a period of four years, for the last two of which (together with A. W. Pollard) they shared lodgings in St. Giles. Their association was resumed when […] my brother became a Civil servant at H. M.’s Patent Office, where Jackson was already in a position of somewhat higher standing. From 1882 till somewhere about 1885 they shared lodgings, together with Jackson’s younger brother Adalbert, in Talbot Road Bayswater. In 1885 or 1886 they parted company and my brother went to live by himself at Byron Cottage Highgate. After that they met daily at the Patent Office, and as a rule lunched together, until Jackson in December 1887 sailed for India, where he remained […] for the greater part of his life. On leaving India he took up another post of a similar kind in British Columbia, where he died in 1923.”

“The shared lodging in Bayswater ended in an incident of which I do not know the full explanation. Quite suddenly, and without a word of warning, my brother, after something which must have been of the nature of a quarrel, disappeared for a week; and an anxious letter from Jackson came to his father to say that he did not know what had become of him. […] After a week’s absence he returned, but only for a short time; probably the strain of such close association with a friend who could not respond with the same warmth of feeling had proven too much for him; and he found it better to part. […] But though there was disagreement, there was no final parting […]; they remained firm friends through life, but always with a difference.”

He then goes on to talk about the diaries he kept:

“In those diaries nothing whatever was entered of a personal character except what had to do with his association with his friend Jackson. […] But hardly once is his name given - ‘Jackson’ never; once or twice the abbreviation ‘Mo’ for Moses. It is nearly always ‘he’ and nothing else.”

“In the diary of 1889, nothing is recorded for six months; the friends do not correspond. In October of that year Jackson returned to England, for a reason which [my brother], it would seem, did not know until a month after the event. […] He and Jackson only met twice during the latter’s stay in England from October to December; once in the company of others and only once alone. At the time of their meeting – only three weeks before Jackson’s marriage – it is evident he’d not been told of it.”

“When Jackson had resigned his Indian appointment, and was on his way to take up another at Vancouver in British Columbia, he stayed in England for the last time; and it was at the house of their mutual friend A. W. Pollard, that the two had their final meeting. There was no estrangement; all three were, in Pollard’s account of that meeting, ‘very youthful and light-hearted’. For my brother the remedy of age had come to ease the old trouble which had left on his life so deep a mark.”

“Nobody reading these diaries can have any doubt about the emotional nature of my brother’s love for Jackson; it was deep and lasting, and it caused him great unhappiness. Even in memory the emotion of it remained. Only two years before his death, I had proof of it. In his rooms at Trinity College Cambridge, two portraits hung near together over the fireplace – the one a portrait taken in youth, the other in late middle-age. The youthful one, I learned later, was of Adalbert [Jackson’s younger brother]. I asked him, when I was staying with him two years before his death, whose was the other. In a strangely moved voice he answered: ‘That was my friend Jackson, the man who had more influence on my life than anyone else.”

Does any of this sound at all familiar? No? Well…

“When I sleep with that picture of you Framed beside my bed Oh, it’s childish and it’s silly But I think it’s you in my room By the bed Yes, I told you it was silly.” (Late Night, Maudlin Street)

I’m gonna end this with some of my fave Housman’s poems, which I also think may apply to the Morrissey-Marr relationship:

More Poems

XII I promise nothing: friends will part; All things may end, for all began; And truth and singleness of heart Are mortal even as is man.

But this unlucky love should last When answered passions thin to air; Eternal fate so deep has cast Its sure foundation of despair.

XXIV Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.

All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever; Here shall your sweetheart lie Untrue for ever.

XXVIII

He, standing hushed, a pace or two apart, Among the bluebells of the listless plain, Thinks, and remembers how he cleansed his heart And washed his hands in innocence in vain.

XXX Shake hands, we shall never be friends, all’s over; I only vex you the more I try. All’s wrong that ever I’ve done or said, And nought to help it in this dull head: Shake hands, here’s luck, good-bye.

But if you come to a road where danger Or guilt or anguish or shame’s to share, Be good to the lad that loves you true And the soul that was born to die for you, And whistle and I’ll be there.

XXXI Because I liked you better Than suits a man to say, It irked you, and I promised To throw the thought away.

To put the world between us We parted, stiff and dry; ‘Good-bye’, said you, ‘forget me’. ‘I will, no fear’, said I.

If here, where clover whitens The dead man’s knoll, you pass, And no tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass,

Halt by the headstone naming The heart no longer stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word.

XXXVII I did not lose my heart in summer’s even, When roses to the moonrise burst apart; When plumes were under heel and lead was flying, In blood and smoke and flame I lost my heart.

I lost it to a soldier and a foeman, A chap that did not kill me, but he tried; That took the sabre straight and took it striking And laughed and kissed my hand to me and died.

XL Farewell to a name and a number Recalled again To darkness and silence and slumber In blood and pain.

So ceases and turns to the thing He was born to be A soldier cheap to the King And dear to me;

So smothers in blood the burning And flaming flight Of valour and truth returning To dust and night.

Additional Poems

II Oh were and I together, Shipmates on the fleeted main, Sailing through the summer weather To the spoil of France or Spain.

Oh were he and I together, Locking hands and taking leave, Low upon the trampled heather In the battle lost at eve.

Now are he and I asunder And asunder to remain; Kingdoms are for others’ plunder, And content for other slain.

VI Ask me no more, for fear I should reply; Others have held their tongues, and so can I; Hundreds have died, and told no tale before: Ask me no more, for fear I should reply -

How one was true and one was clean of stain And one was braver than the heavens are high, And one was fond of me: and all are slain. Ask me no more, for fear I should reply.

VII He would not stay for me; and who can wonder? He would not stay for me to stand and gaze. I shook his hand and tore my heart in sunder And went with half my life about my ways.

[one-night-story]

Heart of a Man (Hríd)

A/N: Y’know, I wish I had like... an excuse or something but the truth is that uni ended and I didn’t wanna write anything, then I started the project, and now I’m addicted to Fire Emblem Heroes, because of @lunalove25 so now all of you must suffer with me as I drown in both my inability to deal with not having affection 24/7 and possibly wrestling with my identity. Meet my Summonersona (yup that’s what I’m calling them) Summoner River. (’cause both my actual Summoner name and my name are already characters in different fandoms)

River was sitting on a hill. Alone. They didn’t mind, prefered it even. Breidablik was laying next to them and they were staring out at the valley away from camp. River needed a break, more accurately they needed a nap. But everytime they went to lay down and take one, they were ripped away and in need to do something. So seeking solitude was as close as they were going to get.

“Mind if I join you?” A male voice asked. River looked over their shoulder and found Hríd looking at them with a hint of pensive energy bleeding into his usual stoic expression. He was standing just a bit behind them, so had River decided to have said “no” he could leave without much fuss. But River nodded and looked back down at their hands. They had summoned Hríd a week ago and always found themselves at ease in his presence. They were close, but he didn’t call them Rio yet. Hríd nodded and wandered the rest of the way. Promptly sitting down, adjusting his sword, and then laying out so his head fell into River’s lap. River chuckled slightly, they hadn’t made it secret that with very few exceptions they were open to affection. Hríd was just such a stoic figure in their mind that they found it surprising that he of all people would take them up on the offer.

“Comfy?” River asked. Hríd let out a light chuckle.

“Very.” He replied. River smiled and let one of their hands start to play with Hríd’s hair. They were slightly surprised when he leaned into their touch. So River continued, letting their fingers stroke the strands, occassionally twisting them and allowing the fingers to take their sweet time. “Rumor around camp is that you’re quite the singer.” Hríd said.

“I wouldn’t say that, Azura and Shigure are far better,” River said. 

“I believe you’re just being moddest River. And even if that is the case, I’d like to decide myself.” Hríd said. River sighed and lean into the tree a bit, still letting their fingers play with strands of his hair. 

“Fine,” River remarked. “For you, prince.” They added. It took them a second to decide as Hríd looked up at them expectantly. River smiled softly and settled on something.

“Heavy and hard is the heart of the king. King of iron, king of steel. The heart of the king loves everything like the hammer loves the nail.” They started and immediately Hríd was transfixed. River wasn’t even looking at them, instead focusing on something in the distance, but Hríd still watched.

“But the heart of a man is a simple one. Small and soft, flesh and blood. And all that it loves is a woman, a woman is all that it loves. And Hades is king of the scythe and the sword. He covers the world in the color of rust. He scrapes the sky and scars the earth. And he comes down heavy and hard on us.” River sang. Occasionally, their glance fell to Hríd, who sometimes had his eyes closed, but other times was looking up at River with such a sense of fondness it almost hurt them to know that they might have to leave all of this one day. 

"But even that hardest of hearts unhardened, suddenly, when he saw her there, Persephone in her mother’s garden. Sun on her shoulders, wind in her hair,” River found themselves swaying at this line, something they always did when they sung that line in particular. “The smell of the flowers she held in her hand. And the pollen that fell from her finger tips.” They finally fully looked down at Hríd and smiled. “And suddenly Hades was only a man, with the taste of nectar upon his lips, singing la, la la, la, la, la, la, la.” River trailed off as they continued to play with Hríd’s hair, now swaying just a bit more.

“Now I’m certain you were being modest.” Hríd remarked from his spot. River looked down and smiled just a little.

“Thanks. I don’t do it for other people very often, it’s just something that occupies my time on occasion.” They said. “Gives me comfort sometimes, like when my brain’s over run and I can barely think straight… it gives me something to focus on.”

“What does the song mean though?” Hríd asked. River smiled and thought of the best way to describe their mythology to a man who is in the process of helping them kill a god. 

“It’s from an album that tells the story of a man who’s a musician and one day, his fiancé is tricked into dying. So he goes to the underworld to get her back. The song is the musician appealing to the king of the realm that he was once the same way the musician was once and nothing but time really separates their ordeals.” River explained. Hríd nodded but still looked at them. 

“How does it end?” He asked. River chuckled.

“The king of the Underworld allows the musician to take his wife back, if and only if, he believes and trust her enough to follow him without having to look back. If he is to look back, he’ll lose her forever. The musician accepts this deal and he and his wife walk towards the exit. But as they walk, doubt comes in and just as they are steps away from the exit, the musician turns, and thus loses his wife.” They explained.

“Does your realm have stories with happy endings? It seems all you tell carry sadness, endings where they die or they end up with the wrong person, it makes me worry for you.” Hríd pondered. 

“There are some, but there’s something to be said about unhappy endings. Besides, endings are inherently unhappy, A poet in my realm once said that “There are no happy endings, endings are the saddest part, so just give me a happy middle and a very happy start.”” River said. 

“Your realm never ceases to amaze me.” He said. River’s hand had gone lax in his hair, but was still in it, occasionally playing with the ends. That was until Hríd sat up and kneeled next to River. “May I hug you River?” He asked. River smiled slightly.

“Only if you start calling me Rio.” They replied. 

“Rio?” Hríd asked. Even as a question, River could tell they could drown in Hríd calling them that.

“It’s a nickname my friends call me. In my realm it’s another culture’s word for River.” They explained. Hríd nodded.

“Rio it is then.” He said. As the words left his mouth he looped his arms around River and pulled them quickly into his chest. River managed to get their arms around their waist and squeezed, trying to not completely squish their face into his armor. They stayed like that for a while until Hríd pulled them backwards and landed so River was still on his chest. River let a small laugh escape their lips as they fell and was grinning, though they tried to get up, but was quickly discovered they were unable to. 

“Can I help you?” They asked in jest to try and figure out why a crowned prince had willingly put himself into a situation like this. Not that River was complaining too much, they were comfy and while physically Hríd was cold, they found themselves very comforted by that. Not least of which because the urge to take a nap had returned.

“In a way that is meaningful? For a start you can rest. Rio, I know how hard you work and you need to rest.” He said. 

“That’s why I was up here in the first place.” River responded. “Though I kinda want to just nap.” They added, slowly dropping their head to Hríd’s chest. Hríd let out a sigh and shifted under River a bit before looping his arm around their waist. His hand drew small circles on the small of their back, trying to ease whatever tension they had. River let out a content sigh. “I will pass out if you keep doing that.”

“That’s the goal dear Rio, get some rest, the weather is nice enough and I’ll move if it changes.” Hríd said. River wanted to complain, but they’re far too touch starved to deny the comfort being brought to them right now. Who were they to deny being held when that was their one big complaint in life. 

“Fine, but only because you’re like… perfect sleeping temperature.” They muttered into his chest. Hríd chuckled, not even really sure what that meant. But they were cute so he allowed it. With a small peck on their forehead, Hríd allowed River to drift off and soon enough, he did as well.

[thesydneyfeminists]

6 Kick-Ass Women on International Women’s Day

March 8th is International Women’s Day, and what better way to celebrate than to share a few of my favourite women in pop culture? Fictional and non-fictional, because the heart wants what it wants. This is not an exhaustive list by any means, because there are millions of kick-ass women out there doing their thing, but these are some of the first women who spring to mind for me.

Image Description: A photo of a white, wooden block calendar set on a light pink and white floral fabric background. A longer, rectangular block with the word “March” written in all capital letters in dark grey is on the bottom. A larger, square block with the number “8″ written in the same dark grey is on the top.

 Cristina Yang (Grey’s Anatomy)

I grew up in a time where there weren’t many prominent Asian characters in TV shows or movies. If they were there, they were relegated to background extras or secondary characters that are supposed to be a passing joke or a harmful stereotype. And truth be told, Cristina does sometimes fall into the overachieving Asian trope. But the way Sandra Oh played the character made her likeable and not an over-the-top, offensive stereotype that we’ve seen countless times before. Seeing Cristina on Grey’s was so new, so fresh - she was a character I could look at and go “oh hey, someone who’s written for me”. Not to mention, I hadn’t really seen too many Korean characters before, especially one played by a Korean-Canadian actress, which is a bonus. So, here was someone who looked a little like me, and was smart, sassy, and real. She was funny for the right reasons, not at the expense of herself, but because she was quick and witty (it also helped Sandra Oh’s comic timing is impeccable). Cristina also had some pretty excellent advice (regardless of some of the storylines, Cristina Yang is ride or die, and I won’t hear anything else) some of which are summed up nicely here: https://www.theodysseyonline.com/11-times-cristina-yang-gave-best-advice. Sandra Oh’s portrayal of her character came at a time when I desperately needed to see representation, and Cristina definitely left her mark on my life.

Image Description: A photo of Korean-American actress, Sandra Oh, with her hands in her pockets. She is in costume as her character on Grey’s Anatomy, Cristina Yang, with dark blue scrubs and a white lab coat. She is looking directly at the camera with a slight, closed-mouth smile.

Veronica Mars (Veronica Mars)

Honestly, I don’t know many people who have finished watching Veronica Mars without thinking Veronica is cool as hell. She’s this badass, teenage girl who went through some traumatic experiences but came away from them tough, strong and ready to fight back. Which, admittedly, viewed through a 2019 lens comes across a little clichéd and tired. But, back in 2004, I hadn’t yet learned about the trope that’s far too common when men try to write female characters. Lazy or not, I think what makes Veronica one of my favourite characters is that even though the whole situation is unrealistic (she’s a teenage private detective), the way she reacts to her circumstances is realistic. She makes mistakes. Oh boy, she makes a tonne of mistakes. But Veronica has a good heart and, if I had to sum her up, I’d say “she’s trying her best”, a saying I always strongly related to. And, listen, the girl has a taser and isn’t afraid to use it. I respect that.

Faith Lehane (Buffy the Vampire Slayer / Angel)

Anyone who knows me in real life can attest I will go down swinging when it comes to defending Faith. Right from the moment she stepped her biker boots into Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I was a fan. Faith was the slayer from the “wrong side of the tracks”, less fortunate in life than the show’s heroine. She was the “dark/evil slayer” and she was the best character that ever happened to that show. I think my pattern of favourite characters is becoming clearer … if you’re rough on the outside with a soft interior, that’s apparently my jam. Faith had a tough childhood and then made mistakes when she was 16, mistakes Buffy and her friends punished her for. She was so deeply unhappy with the path she’d taken but thought that was all she was good for. She even begs Angel to kill her because she’s “evil”. That scene is still my favourite scene in the whole BtVS universe, not going to lie, and Faith’s redemption arc is beautiful. At any given time, she proved she could’ve broken out of prison. But she stayed because she was trying to atone and be better than she was. Honestly, Faith is a blessing.

Anna Akana (YouTube)

I found Anna fairly late in the game - she had already been making videos for a few years when a friend linked me to her video Why Guys Like Asian Girls. I thought it was hilarious, relatable, and summed up everything I’ve ever thought about dating and my experiences as an Asian woman. From that one video, I was hooked. As I watched more and more, I learnt about her life. Her videos play out as comedy sketches where she plays different roles. Through them, she tackles every day advice and shares stories about her life. When Anna was a teenager, her younger sister committed suicide. Since then, Anna has been a strong advocate for suicide prevention. She’s talked about it in various videos, as well as in her books. She is upfront and honest about the aftermath of the suicide and her reactions. More than just a “YouTuber”/content creator, Anna is a wearer of many hats. She writes, produces, acts, directs (not only in her own YouTube videos, but in external projects too). And she’s written two books. One was a series of journal entries she wrote after her sister died, and the other was a memoir /guide to life that she wrote as a series of letters to her younger sister. There’s no doubt what happened in her family influences the way she views the world and has made Anna who she is today: an upfront and honest woman with a big heart and the gift to make people laugh.  

Jenna Marbles / Mourey (YouTube)

Apparently, all I do is watch TV or YouTube, because one of my other favourite women is Jenna Mourey (more commonly known by her YouTube alias Jenna Marbles). Although she is one of the “OGs” of YouTube and found her success after going viral, Jenna’s video style has changed over the years. What I’ve always loved about Jenna is she’s undeniably herself. Especially lately, she’s taken to making videos she jokingly refers to as “me time”, which include things like painting herself to look like her armchair, covering herself in green paint to blend into her green screen or gluing rhinestones all over her face, just to name a few! She credits her success to being genuine, to being herself, and to releasing content that makes her laugh. In my opinion, she succeeds. Jenna’s been one of my favourite YouTube creators since the beginning, and I was lucky enough to meet her a few years back. She’s every bit as humble, sweet and funny as she comes across in her videos.

Image Description: A photo of Jenna Marbles’ head and shoulders against an off-white background. Marbles is a white woman with brown hair pulled up in a ponytail. She is wearing a neon pink, snakeskin-patterned shirt and has silver rhinestones glued to the bottom of her face in the shape of a beard. She is looking just beneath the camera lens and her mouth is slightly ajar.

Tee Linden (Writer)

This one may be cheating a little, but I couldn’t in good conscience write a list of my favourite women and not include my best friend/platonic life partner and soul mate. Tee scrapes into the pop culture theme on a technicality by being a talented poet and writer, able to create whole universes within a few sentences. We’ve known each other for 25+ years now and have gone through the many ups and downs of life together. Tee makes me laugh in a way no one else does - the kind of laughter that physically hurts because there’s so much of it. The smartest, fiercest and most supportive woman I know, she makes everything she does look easy. In that way, and many others, we’re complete opposites. I feel as though I struggle through everything and that it shows. But our differences have always made our friendship stronger. When everyone else lets me down, I know I can rely on Tee to pick up a conversation we had five years ago and continue on as though no time has passed and nothing has changed at all.

Honestly, I could go on forever and list so many more women. But these are the ones that immediately came to mind when I tasked myself with coming up with women who inspire me. I have countless women in my life who I’m so incredibly blessed to know and even more that I’m yet to meet. So, this International Women’s Day, take a moment to acknowledge the women who shaped your life, who you admire and look up to. The ones who fought for us before we could, the ones who are still fighting and the ones who are paving the way for a better future. Support your sisters, not just your cis-ters, and remember women are magic. When we get together, we change the world.

By: Vee H

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of the Sydney Feminists. Our Blogger and Tumblr serve as platforms for a diverse array of women to put forth their ideas and explore topics. To learn more about the philosophy behind TSF’s Blogger/ Tumblr, please read our statement here: https://www.sydneyfeminists.org/a

[alstanfordart]

Repost since Tumblr decided NOT to let my art/writing appear in any of the tags unless posted with the app. Thanks tumblr. 😡😤 

Harold. Perhaps a part of her had hoped to run into him.

She approaches, focused on his wide shoulders, before he turns around, revealing the talisman is now obscured with a dark blue scarf.

“You like it? I just bought it,” he asks, fingering the fabric. “Don’t I look dashing?”

“Seeing you here again.” she says as she comes to a stop before him. His pure golden pupils gaze to either side of her.

“And..where is..?” Harold begins.

“You do that too. Ask questions you already know the answer to,” Mirasal peers around at the scant group of people. She’ll humor him as she does Robert. “At the hotel.”

Harold purses his lips, bushy brows arching. “There’s some friction between you two.”

Mirasal keeps her gaze turned down, examining the tips of her sandals. No need to explain. Harold, without warning reaches out and gives her a comforting pat on the back.

She jumps slightly at the touch. Harold looks apologetic. “I felt that was necessary. Social protocol.” he offers.

“It isn’t. I’m fine really,” she says raising her head, eyeing the scarf. “Yes that is a good look for you.”

Harold lifts his hand towards a cafe, the doors now being opened by an employee. “Why don’t we have something to eat.”

Mirasal nods. She wasn’t even close to being hungry now, but she could use a warm drink.

“Or a drink,” Harold adds with a twinkle in his eye as they take a seat inside the small, intimate area, filled with diminutive round tables and the warmth of the oven from the nearby kitchen. “You previously were expressing unhappiness with conversing with me.”

“Yes, well..that was before. It’s just,” Mirasal opens the flap of her purse and removes the turtle carving, placing it on the table in front of them. “This. Can you believe he got upset over this? Why is that? He wouldn’t really tell me.” She gives it a tap with the tip of her metal finger.

Harold blinks at it for a moment, before he picks it up. “See the turtle of enormous girth, on his shell he holds the Earth.” he says, as his irises pass over the thin delicate lines of the wood.

“Poetry? What’s that from?” Mirasal asks.

Poetry or another riddle.

“His thought is slow, but always kind,” Harold chuckles before he sits it carefully back down. “Skoldpadda.” he adds softly.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s an old poem, about a turtle-one much larger than that. But he can alter his size,” he nods at the carving. “He’s a creator. A watcher, although,” he leans forward, his expression dropping to something more serious. “His thought isn’t so slow, if you ask me. Some would call him stupid.” He settles back against his chair, attention directed out the small window near them, giving his beard a stroke.

Mirasal remains mute for a few passing minutes. “I..wouldn’t,” she finally says softly. “I hope you’re not going to talk like that again.”

“Like what?”

“In riddles. I can’t understand what you say.”

“Riddles. Bessa invented them to keep her husband entertained.” Harold replies.

“I don’t find it entertaining. It’s more frustrating,” Mirasal shifts in her seat. “I prefer directness.”

“So I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in a riddling contest?’ Harold gives her a knowing smile as he motions a waiter over to them.

“I most certainly would not.”

They both order the same drink-Caelo-before the waiter heads back to the kitchen, promising to be prompt.

“Very well. I will be straightforward,” Harold replies “He has his moods. Certain things can set him off.”

“I’m realizing that,” Mirasal retorts. “But it seems so absurd to me.”

“Maybe to you. But to him..surely you have things you are particular about. Things others might see as trivial or of no importance.”

Mirasal stares at him a moment, her bottom lip jotted out as her eyes wonder to the scene outside. Yes, she most certainly does. Without question.

But a turtle.

“Sometimes you need to see things from someone else’s perspective. Try to put yourself in their shoes.”

The image of wearing Robert’s dress shoes enters Mirasal’s mind before Harold cuts in, waving his hand.

“Figuratively in his shoes. Just seeing things from his point of view.”

“Oh,” Mirasal slowly nods her head. “Yes, I understand.”

“Empathy. To perceive is to suffer, as Aristotle said.”

“Poet?”

“Philosopher, scientist,” Harold offers. “There was a man I met, who at times seemed rather unsympathetic or cold, but he often tried to offer his assistance to those who needed it, despite seeming rather detached emotionally. Not really good in ‘thinking around corners’ as he called it.”

Mirasal, taking a sip of the warm Caelo the waiter has delivered, brings her elbows to a rest on the table. “I call that being practical. You can’t let your emotions have control over you. You have to see things from a pragmatic point of view.”

“Yes, that’s true. But there are times when you have to be-”

“Open to things? I know.” Mirasal smirks.

“That. But that’s not always the case. Sometimes being distant can save oneself from harm. You’re right that you must be practical. That can sometimes save you from any kind of pain or suffering.”

“Not always,” Mirasal sits her now-empty mug down. “Not always, no. No matter how much I try to distance myself,” she starts to rise form her seat. “I should be getting back now.” Sometimes she felt she overreacted to certain situations. Maybe she was doing that with Robert’s behavior.

“Well, perhaps you should trust that instinct a little more.” Harold says as he watches her adjust her shawl. She pauses to look down at him, arms folded, jaw shifting to either side as she gawked at the turtle carving.

“Why don’t you just keep that.” she says as she slides it towards his side of the table. Harold picks it up, admiring it as it sits in his palm, giving her a silent nod of appreciation as she walks out the threshold.

More crowds are beginning to appear as she strolls down the street. Robert would know they’ve talked. Know it wasn’t by chance. He’d know she’d intentionally interacted with his brother. A feeling of trepidation starts weaving through her as she sees the Terog not far in the distance. She needed someone to talk to. Someone she knew she could trust to confide in, although she certainly doesn’t know Harold. But at the same time, felt he was trustworthy. It was a strange feeling. Certainly unusual for her. Trusting this complete stranger with her innermost thoughts. Perhaps it was the kindness he exudes. That same feeling of comfort she had felt, like when she and her Grandfather are conversing. No barriers up.

But, come to think of it, he really didn’t even answer her question.

[bbparker]

Stars and Sweaters (Loki Laufeyson x Reader)

Summary: (Y/n) and Loki have been friends for awhile but it's the stars and receiving ugly sweaters for Christmas that seem to set things forward. 

A/N: So here's the beginning of my Christmas prompts and requests! TBH I don’t think this one was that good and its pure fluff. 

Words: 2.9k- not even sorry. 

Warnings: Little NSFW (like so tiny but its there) Pure fuckin’ fluff. 

Prompts: (Requested by Anon):

 - the stars always shine brightest in the presence of their own.

- Firstly, did you just set one of your presents on fire and secondly, can I join?

MASTERLIST ||  CHRISTMAS PROMPT LIST || REQUEST

(Gif belongs to @loptrlaufey )

Loki did not like a great many things, one of them very much being stuck on the Avengers compound; but when it came to celebrating mere mortal holidays, Loki nearly wanted to die. (Again) Everything suddenly became louder; the people, the music and especially (y/n). (Y/n) wasn’t just a person to Loki, she was the person for Loki. He met her when he was first sentenced to the Avengers compound and she appeared to be the only one who was quiet enough to tolerate the presence of. Not that (y/n) was shy, she just preferred to be silent until needed.

“Mind somewhere else, Laufeyson?” a soft voice came almost startling Loki. Almost. Turning his body in the seat under the window to find (Y/n) in his doorway, a book tucked under her arm. It was way too late for any normal person to be up, hence why Loki himself was awake; but (y/n) was always the one who was dead to the world by 10pm. Though here she stood in his doorway at 1:30am.

“Good morning (y/n). Are you alright?” She smiled softly and tiredly, strolling towards the bay window. She sat almost graceful as Loki would have and some part of his heart softened at her tender heart, drawn to the softness of life. He was the opposite, always getting difficult and angry at those around him; yet, something pulled him towards her. Made him kinder but only towards her.

“I’m okay Loki and I suppose it is morning, isn’t it?” Loki’s heart jumped at his name softly rolling from her lips. “Looking up to Loki, (y/n) found him staring at her almost as if trying to solve a puzzle. Shaking her head, (y/n) spoke up once again. “Do you mind if I stay here for a while? I can’t seem to sleep…” Loki merely nods, his gaze falling back to his book on literature.

The silence continued for an hour, the time reaching 2:30am when Loki finally looked up to see (y/n) wasn’t reading her book at all, in fact, she was gazing at the stars. Closing his book slowly Loki continued to look upon (y/n) with the starlight adorning her features. ‘She was almost a goddess, but obviously not one she still had some flaws on her skin and around her body’ Loki thought.

Following her gaze, Loki’s eyes widened. Now he knew she was staring, the stars seemed much brighter than usual. “Did you know Loki, -” His attention was stolen by a much brighter and beautiful creature beside him. One who outshone them all in her grace, her wit and her bravery. Oh yes, Loki had seen (y/n) on the battlefield and she was just as graceful fighting her way through the masses as she was reading at 1:30am in the morning. The first time he’d seen her during the invasion of New York, he almost regretted invading. Almost.

“Hmm?” He hummed in reply, realising he had not done so yet. Noticing he may have been staring too long, Loki moved his gaze back to the faraway lights of many realms. “Did you know that the stars always shine brightest in the presence of their own?” Taken aback by her poetic words that seemed to bloom from her very soul, Loki’s head snapped towards her but she was already looking at him. For the first time, Loki didn’t know what to say. Could she possibly be talking about him? No…. She couldn’t be.

“I see the way your smirk drops sometimes when you think nobody looking, the slight was your fists tighten when you're nervous. You don’t like to show people how you truly feel because you’re afraid they won’t care. So, instead, you think it’s better to close it up, hide it away and hope nobody notices. -” (Y/n) was about cut off by an angered Loki but he was unable to get a word in as her soft voice continued, looking back to the night sky.

“But I wanted to tell you that I noticed. That I care and I wouldn’t mind if you ever came to me with anything. I care for you Loki, which says a lot of things since you kind of invaded us a couple years ago. Talk about personal development.” She laughed lightly and finally had the courage to look back at Loki.  

His face held shock, mild anger and something akin to fondness. “I’m sorry if that was overwhelming, but what other way to get things off your mind than under the stars at 2:30 in the morning. I’ll just- “

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re asleep every night by latest 10pm, you get up at 6am every morning. You almost never differ from your schedule, yet you’re here with me. So why now, what’s changed that you’ve turned into a poet at this time of the morning?”

Glancing down at her fingers (y/n) crossed her legs on the couch, Loki still opposite her. “I-I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking…”

“About what, dare I ask?”

“This person. He’s wonderful and I feel like nobody fully understands me to the point he does-” As (y/n) continued, Loki’s hearing seemed to turn to ringing, he couldn’t hear her because all he could think was ‘she’d in love with someone else and I can do nothing. I’m a monster and monsters don’t love pretty girls, they destroy them.’ Realising his thoughts, Loki mentally shook himself and listened reluctantly to (y/n). “-he’s a bit annoying when he follows me sometimes but I secretly love it. The worst is, I’m nowhere near enough for him and- “

“Nonsense- “

Wide-eyed, (y/n) looked up to see Loki reading his book once more but he was obviously still listening. “I’m sorry?” “I said, nonsense. Anyone who can’t see you’re the gentle, passionate mortal you are then maybe mortals are in fact, not worthy of you.”

“Like Thor’s hammer?” A small smile slipped onto Loki’s book as he glanced up to see (y/n) smiling back at him. “That could be a correct analogy, yes.”

A small silence ensued as the two looked at each other, both glancing over one another features. “Could you ever lift Thor’s hammer? Are you worthy?” (Y/n) whispered as she leant forward; both parties knowing that she was in fact not referring to Mijolnir, Thor’s trusty hammer but rather herself. “No, I never could be after all my history.”  (Y/n) continued to lean forward, testing the waters and slowly but not too obviously, Loki began to lean as well. “Good thing I always thought history was overrated anyways.”  Finally begin unhappy with the pace, (y/n) reached out to Loki and pulled his lips down and onto hers. Both letting out a sigh of relief at the touch of each other. Lips slowly moved against each other as Loki moved his book to the side and lay his hands gently on her waist.

It seemed both had been anticipating and wanting this moment for quite a while and it was worth the wait as a euphoric feeling streamed through their blood. The kiss suddenly intensified, (y/n) pushing herself up so she was kneeling above him as he sat. Their lips never disconnecting. As (y/n) inched forward, Loki got the hint and sat back against the wall, pulling her by the hip and into his lap.

The kiss seemed to intensify once (y/n) was properly seated within his lap, groans leaving both of their lips. Loki pulled away slightly muttering breathlessly “what about the person you were thinking about?”

“It’s you, dumbass- “

“I am not a- “

Loki was cut off by (y/n)'s lips gracing his own and as if a jolt had run through his body, Loki grinds his hips slowly upwards into her heat. A gasp fell out of her mouth at the feeling and unsuspected movement.

Pulling away slowly, still with her eyes closed (y/n)'s lips lifted into a gentle smile before finally opening her eyes. The sight that greeted her was almost as beautiful as the one she’d seen upon entering his room; a book in his hand, one side of his hair tucked behind his ear, and the moon and stars shining so brightly on him in a urethral glow. Almost if just for him.

“Merry Christmas Loki.” She whispered, resting her forbad on his. Loki’s eyes widened slightly before he covered up his emotions. “Merry Christmas,” Loki whispered back just as lightly. On the inside, he was screaming. Today was Christmas and everyone would be in an overly cheery mood and be offering him hugs. Ridiculous.

——————————————

The morning came and with it came the loud irritating voice of Tony Stark. “Wake up or for anyone refusing to get up at a normal time, Clint I’m talking about you, be woke up with today’s special of ice water! Choose wisely!” A groan came from beside (y/n), reminding her that she wasn’t alone. “Good morning, Loki.” She whispered in her light tone, sitting up to peer down at him. “Good morning, love.” His morning voice struck you. Loki had always been this smooth person, smooth talking, smooth skin, smooth movements etc. But his morning voice crackles and runs deeper than ever. Raising a hand and placing it on his cheek, (y/n) lightly stroke it, occasionally pushing some of his hair off his face. Loki sat up on one elbow and brought his face to yours, unable to resist, she gave into his demand with no complaints. The kiss was slow a bit sloppy since they both woke up, but meaning all the same.

Three loud knocks came at the door, causing both people to groan and break their kiss. “MERRY DAY OF CHRISTMAS BROTHER! HAVE YOU AWOKEN?” Loki rolls his eyes and gets out of bed with no shirt on, only pants to cover him up. Last night it was a bit of a shock for 9y/n) to see any other parts of his body as he usually covered most of it up. It was lean but toned and she would be lying is she said she didn’t check him out as he walked towards the door. Swinging it open Thor was greeted with a shirtless Loki and a very tired looking (y/n). “Oh, you have company. Well then… GOOD DAY OF CHRISTMAS (Y/N)” Due to her exceptionally good mood, (y/n) let out a small giggle. Thor would always hold a soft spot in her heart, them usually being partnered up on missions and although he was loud, (y/n) didn’t mind his company.

When Thor left, (y/n) made a quick escape to her room, not after a quick kiss on Loki’s shoulder which left him a little star struck. She quickly showered and changed into her Christmas outfit for the day. Entering the main hall for dining, quite a big room so there’s room for all of them, (y/n) spotted Clint first before seeing Sam holed up in the corner of the lounge wrapped in blankets. “Shocking, two rare birds sighted in one sitting. Simply marvellous.” The fake British accent she put on only added to the humour as a loud laugh came from her right. Looking (y/n) found Steve Rogers attempting to somewhat hide his blush at his loud outburst.

Sam and Clint simply rolled their eyes making comments on how they refused to be woken up with ice water. When everyone finally arrived, with Loki being the last, standing next to (y/n), they began handing out gifts as per morning tradition. It seemed (y/n) and Loki were the only ones to fully get ready for the day, everyone simply arrived with pyjamas on and blankets wrapped around them. Tony began first, of course handing everyone little expensive things. Natasha, Wanda, Vision (who gifted everyone food because he thought what we needed, referred to our dietary needs). Most went before it was Steve’s turn, handing everyone drawings of the things they loved, knowing it would mean a lot more than just a crappy stir-bought present. Tony received one of him working on his Iron Man suit, Bruce got one of Tony and himself laughing together, Natasha got one of her and Steve in a car during a mission. So, when Steve handed (Y/n) a watercolour drawing of the night sky she nearly cried. How he had known about her love for the stars was strange but she loved it all the same.  “S-Steve? You drew this?”

Her smaller than usual tone drew the attention of Loki who looked over her shoulder at it. He couldn’t deny the art was mesmerising, haven been given one himself with a rather intimate photo drawn. It was the only present he’d received from the team, given they didn’t feel obliged to gift mass murderers, but Steve had known what it was like to be excluded and felt uncomfortable singling people out deliberately.  “Y-yeah, I always saw you star gazing so I figured-” The Captain was cut off by a large force hitting him and then squeezing. (Y/N) wasn’t a person who always openly went for affection (unless it’s from Loki of course) and the fact she was hugging him, made Steve blush slightly. The blush on Loki’s cheeks was the complete opposite. Loki couldn’t figure out the feeling until he thought about last night’s actions; he was very jealous. You were his and he had never enjoyed sharing.

When (y/n) finally released Steve, (y/n) sat back down on the floor with Loki. Seeing the look on his face, (y/n) slid her hand over to his one resting on his knee. Putting her hand over his and waited for him to turn and look him in the eyes. When he finally did, Loki saw only fondness and caring eyes reflecting at him. Only for him. His jealousy quickly died down.  Thor was up next and booming laughter entered the room with his gifts, all slightly ridiculous. Natasha received a toaster or ‘fire in a box’ that can melt all the substances and Sam received a train timetable and sunglasses. “You always seem so close to the sun flying around, so I thought why not protect your eyes Son of Wilson.”  Thor was only met with mumbles of “sure Thor” When Thor got to 9y/n) he gave her a wink and handed her a present, (y/n) opened it to find the ugliest sweater of all. “I. Absolutely. LOVE IT! Thanks, Thor.” Maybe it was the Christmas spirit or maybe it was the fact she had Loki all to herself finally but (Y/n) had almost shouted her words at Thor, almost scaring him. Loki smirked at (y/n) before opening his present, causing his smile to drop. Inside was an identical ugly Christmas sweater only green where (y/n) was red. “I’m not wearing this ghastly thing.” “Thor, you got us matching sweaters? Cute.”

Loki looked up to (y/n) in disbelief but only to be met with her pulling the silly sweater over her head. Finally turning to Loki, “Are you going to put it on or not?” Seeing Loki’s reluctance, (y/n) smirked devilishly. Loki’s heart beaten hard and fast at the sight, it was simply perfection to see her mischievous face… yet he was quite interested in what she had planned. (Y/n) took the sweater form Loki’s hands and folded it nicely in her lap. “That’s fine if you don’t want to wear it-” Loki breathed out in relief, still suspicious. “I’ll just ask Steve to wear it, he loves ugly sweaters, its actually how we bond really-” The sweater was suddenly ripped out of her lap and shrugged over Loki’s shoulders. It was a bit baggy but (y/n) loved it all the same. Shuffling closer (y/n) kissed his cheek before turning his head with her hand to give a light kiss on the lips.

A gasp came from across the room. “Since when?!” Tony pointed at the two, obviously so close that it was obvious what had happened. The Avengers turned and most didn’t look shocked. “You are too blind,” Wanda states towards Tony.

—————

It was late at night, after dinner when (y/n) noticed Loki hadn’t been seen for a while. Wandering through the halls and even checking his room, (y/n) couldn’t seem to locate the god. Passing Thor, she quickly asked if he knew where Loki was. “Last time I saw my brother he was on the main balcony.” Saying thanks, (y/n) rushed off and when she arrived at the main balcony, she found Loki standing in front of a small fire. Not remembering ever having a fire pit there, she ventured closer to see what was burning. Realising what it was, she laughed finally gaining the attention of Loki who was decent enough to look slightly guilty.

“Firstly, did you just set one of your presents on fire and secondly, can I join?” Loki smirked and opened his arms inviting her out. Sliding the sweater off herself, she throws it into the fire watching it burn. Loki then grabbed her hand and pulled her into him, nose to nose. “But I thought you loved your sweater darling?” “It comes in pairs, Loki. Nobody wears just a one half. Sort of like you and me. We can’t have one without the other anymore.” Loki’s mischievous green eyes turned soft and he lightly kissed her before laying his forehead on hers. “I guess so.”

Christmas Prompt list (open until 23rd Dec.) || Masterlist || Request

PERM. TAGS

@eliza-hamilton-helpless @purelittleblueberry @iamwarrenspeace

@fuck-my-marvel @jahanana @feelmyroarrrr @asexualmarauder @theharrisontomytom @shippingfangurl @ironmanlover24 @come-with-me-and-imagine @alwayshave-faith

[tbehartoo]

Besties and Breakups

A/N: Thanks @marichat4lyf for all your help especially the idea for the comfort food idea and @sassyhazelowl for the beta work!

Rating: General

Characters: Juleka and Rose

WC: 1868

Summary: Rose needs some comforting and Juleka knows just what is needed.

Juleka looked at her phone to see who was calling at this time on a Friday night. Rose? That could only mean one thing. She jumped up from the couch already putting on her boots.

“Hey Rosie,” she said grabbing her jacket.

She was expecting the wail but the volume was even louder than she had anticipated.

“Juuuuuuuules!”

Jacket? Check. Helmet? On the table by the door. Keys? In her hand. Remember to grab the backpack!

“He dumped me, Jules!” the sob that followed wrenched at Juleka’s heart.

“I’m sorry, Rose. That really sucks.”

She switched the phone to the other side so that she could use her shoulder to hold it while she locked the door, even if all she could hear were the cries of her friend.

“I thought this guy was different,” Rose said once she’d blown her nose.

“That’s because you always see the best in people, sweetheart. It’s why everyone likes to be around you.” Carefully get down the stairs to the street, now.

“But I thought that this one would be the one. You know, that one that you can’t wait to see first thing in the morning and the last thing at night? The one you can sit in a room with and just be glad they are there with you even if you aren’t talking?” She hiccuped a little. “He was the one! At least I thought so. The one that would want to make a life together with me. I could almost see our children reflected in the depths of his eyes. See us as a little old couple going for slow walks in the park and spoiling the grand kids. Just being together until the end. You know?”

“I know, Rosie,” Juleka said quietly as she straddled the motorcycle. “I’m gonna put you on speaker now. If I lose you I’ll call you right back. Okay?”

There was another small hiccup and then... “Okay.”

Juleka switched on the bluetooth speaker in her helmet. “Are you still there?” she asked as she put her phone in her jacket pocket.

“I’m still here,” Rose said miserably. “I can’t believe that he dumped me just like that.”

“What happened?” Juleka looked for oncoming traffic and pulled out onto the street.

“Well, we were going to a movie and then to dinner,” Rose said.

“Did you even make it to the movie?” Juleka asked, remembering the one one guy that had brought his new girl to the theater for Rose to meet before he dropped her. He had still expected Rose to join them for the date and possibly for other things afterward, and had been completely baffled when she had run out of the cinema.

“Yes,” Rose said. “It wasn’t like with Alexandre, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Juleka snickered. “That was precisely who I was thinking of,” she turned down the street looking for a parking place. “You thought he was the one as well,” she pointed out, “but afterward …”

“Afterward we all realized what an actual creep he was, and that I was lucky to have made it out of his grasp,” Rose said with a sigh.

“Yes,” Juleka said with a firm nod. “He was most assuredly NOT the one for our Rose.” She put down the kickstand and, leaving her helmet on, went into the shop. “And before the creep was the crybaby.”

“Pierre wasn’t a crybaby,” Rose huffed. “He was a sensitive soul.”

“He was always close to tears and would turn them on anytime you didn’t agree with him, Rose,” Juleka said flatly. “He was sensitive only to the needs of Pierre and was willing to make you unhappy if it made his world as he liked it.” She grabbed one of the items she had been looking for and a similar item next to it. “You only liked him because he had that long hair and wore those frilly blouses.”

Rose let out a small giggle. “They weren’t frilly blouses,” she objected but not strenuously.

“They had lace, Rose!” This was an argument they’d had before. “Lace on the collar and the cuff makes it a frilly blouse.” She continued along the shelf till she came to the smaller bottles she’d need. “He dressed like a poet from the 1700’s and went around needing someone to cheer him up because all he saw was what is wrong in the world. He was like your exact opposite,” she chose the three that she knew were Rose’s favorites then had one more aisle to go. “And before the crybaby was the tank,” Juleka said moving the conversation along.

“Jérémy was a very nice, but misunderstood, young man,” Rose objected.

“Rose,” Juleka’s voice managed to sound as if she were peering over her reading glasses while wearing a bun and a severe look of disapproval, “Don’t give me that. Everyone but you could see that he liked to be the biggest and strongest guy in the room because that meant he could hit everyone else harder.” A warm tone came into her voice. “I still love the memory of tiny, little Marinette dropping him to the floor in one hit for what he said to you.”

“Well, we both know that would have been you if Adrien hadn’t been holding you back,” Rose said.

“Trrrrue,” she said distractedly as she reached for her last item. “Remind me to punch Adrien’s arm next time we see him.”

“You’ve asked me to do that everytime we’re supposed to meet up with them,” Rose said with a small laugh. “The poor boy’s arm would have fallen off by now if I actually did it.”

Juleka sighed. “Yeah, I somehow find myself giving him a hug instead of a hit for it. Next week it’ll be both,” she said firmly.

This time Rose had no difficulties laughing at Juleka’s statement. Juleka made it through the store without having to talk to a cashier. She was so glad that self-check out was an option here.

“What about the short, blond hobbit?” Juleka asked. “Why wasn’t he good enough for you?”

Rose sighed. “That one really was a mistake for both of us. Paul had just broken up with Axel, and I’d just broken up with Corentin, and we both had that literature class together.”

“Ah yes,” Juleka said as she got back on her motorcycle. “Rebounded right off each other.”

She got the bike back out into traffic.

Rose sighed. “It’s just that, well so many of our friends have gotten married or engaged, and I’d like to find someone that wants to share their life with me, too. You know?”

“I know,” she said slowly. “But maybe you don’t need to try so hard?” There was silence between them for a moment. “I’m sure there’s someone out there Rosie that wants to be happy with you, too. Maybe they’re trying just as hard to find you, but you just keep missing each other, or you’re not in the right place to really see each other right now. Or maybe your person doesn’t live here yet. Perhaps they are only going to meet you when you’re on one of your family trips.” Rose chuckled. Her mom was notorious for setting her daughter up on impromptu dates in whatever country they were visiting, it made for some very interesting family outings. “I have no doubt that you will find your person. And when you’re with them then all of this heartache will go away and you’ll see that the wait was worth it.”

“But I’m so tired of waiting,” Rose whispered.

The tears were back and Juleka let her cry. Sometimes you just need to let the salty rivers flow. She’d taken to murmuring quiet words of encouragement as Rose apologized for her tears. Rose didn’t often cry, but when she did it was because of deep pain, and Juleka always thought it was best to get the pain out. At one point the small cries turned to deep sobs, and Juleka was annoyed at not being able to be there to hug and rock her friend as she cried.

Finally! The entrance to the parking garage was in view and Juleka could pull into a parking spot reserved for motorcycles. She hurried over to the elevator and pressed the button.

“I’ve got to go now, sweets,” she said gently into her helmet. “See you soon?”

“What? Oh, okay,” Rose sniffled into a tissue before hanging up.

It felt like forever for the doors to open but the car eventually arrived. Juleka stepped inside and had to wait for people to get in and out on nearly every floor. She tapped her booted foot in irritation until the doors opened on the 47th floor.

She had to make nearly a full circuit of the floor to get to #89, but her keys were in her hand and it was but a moment before she was in the apartment and hurrying over to the couch.

There was Rose curled up with the giant black dragon plushie that Juleka had won for her in lycée, dried tear tracks on her cheeks, and red rimmed eyes. The pink and purple throw that Marinette had made Rose for her last birthday was wrapped around her shoulders and it was still slightly shaking. Next to the couch was an overflowing garbage can filled with at least two tissue boxes’ worth of kleenex. Juleka heard Rose noisily blow her nose and couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped.

Rose immediately turned at the sound. Her face almost managed a sincere smile before tears sprang up into her eyes.

“Never fear, your Juleka’s here!” she said as she tackled the little blonde with a huge hug after dropping her helmet on the floor.

“You came!”

“Of course I came,” Juleka said as she drew back far enough to see Rose’s face. “And I’ve brought reinforcements!”

“You don’t mean...” Rose asked

Juleka nodded.

“And did you also get?”

“Yes. Though I still have no idea how you can like it.”

“What about the sprinkles?”

“You think I forgot the sprinkles?” Juleka put a hand to her chest. “I’m shocked. Shocked, dismayed, and hurt that you’d think I’d forget them.”

“Well you do have a track history of-”

“They were out of sprinkles!” She stood up as she headed to the kitchen. “As much as I love you, I cannot make the store just magically have them because you have a need,” she huffed.

Rose laughed and followed her, pulling out bowls and spoons as Juleka unpacked her bag.

“Vanilla ice cream, magic hardening chocolate topping, and sprinkles,” Juleka announced as she pulled each item from the pack.

Rose squealed and gave Juleka another hug. “Thanks Jules!”

“Anything for you,” she said with a smile. “Well, anything except that waxy chocolate topping,” she said as she pulled out another container, this one full of caramel. “Now how about we make our sundae’s and throw on your favorite break up movie?”

“Ice cream and monster movies?” Rose said with a grin. “How did I ever get lucky enough to have you as my friend?”

Juleka shrugged her shoulders. “What are best friends for?”

[kkintle]

The View from the Cheap Seats by Neil Gaiman; Quotes

Some years ago a writer not much older than I am now told me (not bitterly, but matter-of-factly) that it was a good thing that I, as a young writer, did not have to face the darkness that he faced every day, the knowledge that his best work was behind him. And another, in his eighties, told me that what kept him going every day was the knowledge that his best work was still out there, the great work that he would one day do. I aspire to the condition of the second of my friends.

I believe that it is difficult to kill an idea because ideas are invisible and contagious, and they move fast.

Prose fiction is something you build up from twenty-six letters and a handful of punctuation marks, and you, and you alone, using your imagination, create a world, and people it and look out through other eyes. You get to feel things, visit places and worlds you would never otherwise know. You learn that everyone else out there is a me, as well. You’re being someone else, and when you return to your own world, you’re going to be slightly changed.

And discontent is a good thing: people can modify and improve their worlds, leave them better, leave them different, if they’re discontented.

Fiction is the lie that tells the truth, after all.

I’m going to point out something so obvious that it tends to be forgotten. It’s this: that everything you can see, including the walls, was, at some point, imagined. Someone decided it might be easier to sit on a chair than on the ground and imagined the chair. Someone had to imagine a way that I could talk to you in London right now without us all getting rained on. This room and the things in it, and all the other things in this building, in this city, exist because, over and over and over, people imagined things. They daydreamed, they pondered, they made things that didn’t quite work, they described things that didn’t yet exist to people who laughed at them.

It was as if some people believed there was a divide between the books that you were permitted to enjoy and the books that were good for you, and I was expected to choose sides. We were all expected to choose sides. And I didn’t believe it, and I still don’t. I was, and still am, on the side of books you love.

the fundamental most comical tragedy of parenthood: that if you do your job properly, if you, as a parent, raise your children well, they won’t need you anymore. If you did it properly, they go away. And they have lives and they have families and they have futures.

We who make stories know that we tell lies for a living. But they are good lies that say true things, and we owe it to our readers to build them as best we can. Because somewhere out there is someone who needs that story. Someone who will grow up with a different landscape, who without that story will be a different person. And who with that story may have hope, or wisdom, or kindness, or comfort. And that is why we write.

“Nothing much has changed, except everything.”

Listen: to be eccentric, you must first know your circle.” And I—for once—heard, and listened, and understood. You can fuck around with the rules as much as you want to—after you know what the rules are. You can be Picasso after you know how to paint. Do it your way, but know how to do it their way first.

“There are three phrases that make possible the world of writing about the world of not-yet . . . and they are simple phrases. “What if . . . ? “If only . . . “If this goes on . . .”

(As a final note, in these days when we worry and we argue about whether ebooks are real books, I love how broad Ray Bradbury’s definition of a book is at the end, when he points out that we should not judge our books by their covers, and that some books exist between covers that are perfectly people-shaped.)

Well, it’s also the prerogative of the elderly and the retired to share their knowledge, to drive from the backseat, and to offer unsolicited advice. “And,” as a poet put it, “being good for nothing else, be wise.”

I learned early on that most of the people at the top of their professions—and I’m not talking about comics here, I’m talking about everything—were the nicest people, easy to deal with, and with little side to them. And I also learned that the people who were most insistent on having VIP status, on making a loud noise about everything—the kind of people who would actually say things like “Do you know who I am?”—were the second-division talents, the ones who hadn’t made it, the ones who never would. It took me longer to learn that you can say no. And it’s an easy thing to say. It helps define your boundaries.

Play to your own strengths if you’re an artist—but don’t relax into shtick or into the dozen things that you do.

Don’t stop learning. It’s too easy to achieve a level of competence in your field, whatever it is, and to stop there.

Don’t worry about trying to develop a style. Style is what you can’t help doing. If you write enough, or draw enough, you’ll have a style, whether you want it or not. Don’t worry about whether you’re “commercial.” Tell your own stories, draw your own pictures. Let other people follow you.

If you believe in it, do it. If there’s a comic or a project you’ve always wanted to do, go out there and give it a try. If you fail, you’ll have given it a shot. If you succeed, then you succeeded with what you wanted to do. And last of all, know when to leave the stage. I thank you.

There is room for things to mean more than they literally mean.

The Eisner Awards, like all awards, are flawed. But they reflect something very important, which is a striving toward excellence.

If you feel that great work by other people is going unrecognized and unrewarded, then make a noise about it. Tell everyone you know. Word of mouth is still one of the best sales tools there is.

Another piece of advice: I’ve learned over the years that everything is more or less the same amount of work, so you may as well set your sights high and try and do something really cool. There are other people around who can do the mediocre, meat-and-potatoes work that anybody can do. So let them do that. You make the art that only you can make. You tell the stories only you can tell. As a solution to various problems you may encounter upon the way, let me suggest this: Make Good Art.

Be proud of your mistakes. Well, proud may not be exactly the right word, but respect them, treasure them, be kind to them, learn from them. And, more than that, and more important than that, make them. Make mistakes. Make great mistakes, make wonderful mistakes, make glorious mistakes. Better to make a hundred mistakes than to stare at a blank piece of paper too scared to do anything wrong, too scared to do anything. Critics will grumble. Of course they will. That’s one of the functions of critics. As an artist it’s your job to give them ulcers, and perhaps even something to get apoplectic about.

it would be a poor sort of world if one were only able to read authors who expressed points of view that one agreed with entirely. It would be a bland sort of world if we could not spend time with people who thought differently, and who saw the world from a different place.

I suspected, that music-as-object (CD, vinyl, cassette tape) was going to lose value, and that other things—mostly things that could not be reproduced, things like live shows and personal contact—would increase in value.

Mammals, he said, and I paraphrase here and do not put it as well as Cory did, invest a great deal of time and energy in their young, in the pregnancy, in raising them. Dandelions just let their seeds go to the wind, and do not mourn the seeds that do not make it. Until recently, creating intellectual content for payment has been a mammalian idea. Now it’s time for creators to accept that we are becoming dandelions.

The more you know, the harder it is to appreciate the things that once gave you joy. But sometimes it’s nothing like that at all. Sometimes you return to a book and find that it’s better than you remembered, better than you had hoped: all the things that you had loved were still there, but you find that it’s even more packed with things that you appreciate. It’s deeper, cleaner, wiser. The book got better because you know more, have experienced more, encountered more. And when you meet one of those books, it’s a cause, as they used to say on the back of the book jackets, for celebration.

so the explanations one gets are always partial and unsatisfactory, the stories, as with the stories of our lives, are unexplained and incomplete.

Is it better to actively seek happiness or to avoid unhappiness?

Having a place the story starts and a place it’s going: that’s important. Telling your story, as honestly as you can, and leaving out the things you don’t need, that’s vital. The Moth connects us, as humans. Because we all have stories. Or perhaps, because we are, as humans, already an assemblage of stories. And the gulf that exists between us as people is that when we look at each other we might see faces, skin color, gender, race, or attitudes, but we don’t see, we can’t see, the stories. And once we hear each other’s stories we realize that the things we see as dividing us are, all too often, illusions, falsehoods: that the walls between us are in truth no thicker than scenery. The Moth teaches us not to judge by appearances. It teaches us to listen. It reminds us to empathize.

“I think that night may have lasted a thousand years, one for every ocean.”

Sometimes some songs take years to get right. You do it and you just know it’s not right and you can’t get it right so you leave it. I think you can only do your best with it and sometimes your best isn’t good enough. At which point you have to give it a rest. Because then you start doing really strange things to it. And when it starts going that far astray it’s time to go away from it.

They say that sex and death are all we’ve got to write about . . . Those are the basic themes. There’s a reason they’re there, but I think every generation has to have them reinterpreted for them.

They are aware of the audience. They respond to applause. But they are not on that stage for us.

But whether it be or be not so You can afford to let this go For nought as nothing it explains And nothing from nothing nothing gains.

First of all: when you start out on a career in the arts you have no idea what you are doing. This is great. People who know what they are doing know the rules, and know what is possible and impossible. You do not. And you should not. The rules on what is possible and impossible in the arts were made by people who had not tested the bounds of the possible by going beyond them. And you can. If you don’t know it’s impossible it’s easier to do. And because nobody’s done it before, they haven’t made up rules to stop anyone doing that again, yet. Secondly, if you have an idea of what you want to make, what you were put here to do, then just go and do that. And that’s much harder than it sounds and, sometimes in the end, so much easier than you might imagine. Because normally, there are things you have to do before you can get to the place you want to be.

I tended to do anything as long as it felt like an adventure, and to stop when it felt like work, which meant that life did not feel like work.

and I decided that I would do my best in future not to write books just for the money. If you didn’t get the money, then you didn’t have anything. If I did work I was proud of, and I didn’t get the money, at least I’d have the work.

To all today’s graduates: I wish you luck. Luck is useful. Often you will discover that the harder you work, and the more wisely you work, the luckier you get. But there is luck, and it helps.

So be wise, because the world needs more wisdom, and if you cannot be wise, pretend to be someone who is wise, and then just behave like they would.

The joy and power of portraiture is that it freezes us in time. Before the portrait, we were younger. After it has been created we will age or we will rot.

Do not give either of us gifts: give us the tale that accompanies the gift. That is what makes the gift worth having.

The joys of the gifts are in the stories.

Life has a sense of humor, but then again, so does death.

I’m thinking about all those signs we put on our walls when we were teenagers and knew that we would live forever, in order to show how tough and cynical and worldly-wise we were: NOBODY GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE was one of them. THE PERSON WHO DIES WITH THE MOST TOYS WINS was another. There was one of two vultures sitting on a branch that said PATIENCE MY ASS, I’M GONNA KILL SOMETHING. And it’s easy to be cynical about death when you’re young. When you are young, death is an anomaly. It’s not real. It only affects other people. It’s a bullet you’ll dodge easily. It’s why young people can go into battle: they really will live forever. They know. As you stick around, as you go around the Earth, you realize that life is an ever-narrowing conveyor belt. Slowly, inexorably, it takes us all along with it, and one by one we tumble off the sides of the conveyor belt into darkness.

Though one may conquer a million men in battle, yet the noblest of victors is he who conquers himself. Self-conquest is far better than the conquest of others. Not even a god, an angel, Mara or Brahma could turn that triumph back into defeat.

We win some, but we lose many. We lose a lot. We lose our friends and we lose our family. In the end we lose everything. No matter who’s with us, we always die alone. When you fight your battles, whatever battles you fight, it’s always going to be about life.

There are things you can never unsay, that you cannot say and still remain friends, and that would have been one of them.

[alstanfordart]

Thinking Around Corners

From my story. Scene below.

Harold. Perhaps a part of her had hoped to run into him.

She approaches, focused on his wide shoulders, before he turns around, revealing the talisman is now obscured with a dark blue scarf.

"You like it? I just bought it," he asks, fingering the fabric. "Don't I look dashing?"

"Seeing you here again." she says as she comes to a stop before him. He gazes to either side of her.

"And...where is...?" Harold begins.

"You do that too. Ask questions you already know the answer to," Mirasal peers around at the scant group of people. She'll humor him as she does Robert. "At the hotel."

Harold purses his lips, bushy brows arching. "There's some friction between you two."

Mirasal keeps her gaze turned down, examining the tips of her sandals. No need to explain. Harold, without warning reaches out and gives her a comforting pat on the back.

She jumps slightly at the touch. Harold looks apologetic. "I felt that was necessary. Social protocol." he offers.

"It isn't. I'm fine really," she says raising her head, eyeing the scarf. "Yes that is a good look for you."

Harold lifts his hand towards a cafe, the doors now being opened by an employee. "Why don't we have something to eat."

Mirasal nods. She wasn't even close to being hungry now, but she could use a warm drink.

"Or a drink," Harold adds with a twinkle in his eye as they take a seat inside the small, intimate area, filled with diminutive round tables and the warmth of the oven from the nearby kitchen. "You previously were expressing unhappiness with conversing with me."

"Yes, well...that was before. It's just," Mirasal opens the flap of her purse and removes the turtle carving, placing it on the table in front of them. "This. Can you believe he got upset over this? Why is that? He wouldn't really tell me." She gives it a tap with the tip of her metal finger.

Harold blinks at it for a moment, before he picks it up. "See the turtle of enormous girth, on his shell he holds the Earth." he says, as his irises pass over the thin delicate lines of the wood.

"Poetry? What's that from?" Mirasal asks.

Poetry or another riddle.

"His thought is slow, but always kind," Harold chuckles before he sits it carefully back down. "Skoldpadda." he adds softly.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's an old poem, about a turtle-one much larger than that. But he can alter his size," he nods at the carving. "He's a creator. A watcher, although," he leans forward, his expression dropping to something more serious. "His thought isn't so slow, if you ask me. Some would call him stupid." He settles back against his chair, attention directed out the small window near them, giving his beard a stroke.

Mirasal remains mute for a few passing minutes. "I...wouldn't," she finally says softly. "I hope you're not going to talk like that again."

"Like what?"

"In riddles. I can't understand what you say."

"Riddles. Bessa invented them to keep her husband entertained." Harold replies.

"I don't find it entertaining. It's more frustrating," Mirasal shifts in her seat. "I prefer directness."

"So I suppose you wouldn't be interested in a riddling contest?' Harold gives her a knowing smile as he motions a waiter over to them.

"I most certainly would not."

They both order the same drink-Caelo-before the waiter heads back to the kitchen, promising to be prompt.

"Very well. I will be straightforward," Harold replies "He has his moods. Certain things can set him off."

"I'm realizing that," Mirasal retorts. "But it seems so absurd to me."

"Maybe to you. But to him...surely you have things you are particular about. Things others might see as trivial or of no importance."

Mirasal stares at him a moment, her bottom lip jotted out as her eyes wonder to the scene outside. Yes, she most certainly does. Without question.

But a turtle.

"Sometimes you need to see things from someone else's perspective. Try to put yourself in their shoes."

The image of wearing Robert's dress shoes enters Mirasal's mind before Harold cuts in, waving his hand.

"Figuratively in his shoes. Just seeing things from his point of view."

"Oh," Mirasal slowly nods her head. "Yes, I understand."

"Empathy. To perceive is to suffer, as Aristotle said."

"Poet?"

"Philosopher, scientist," Harold offers. "There was a man I met, who at times seemed rather unsympathetic or cold, but he often tried to offer his assistance to those who needed it, despite seeming rather detached emotionally. Not really good in 'thinking around corners' as he called it."

Mirasal, taking a sip of the warm Caelo the waiter has delivered, brings her elbows to a rest on the table. "I call that being practical. You can't let your emotions have control over you. You have to see things from a pragmatic point of view."

"Yes, that's true. But there are times when you have to be-"

"Open to things? I know." Mirasal smirks.

"That. But that's not always the case. Sometimes being distant can save oneself from harm. You're right that you must be practical. That can sometimes save you from any kind of pain or suffering."

"Not always," Mirasal sits her now-empty mug down. "Not always, no. No matter how much I try to distance myself," she starts to rise form her seat. "I should be getting back now." Sometimes she felt she overreacted to certain situations. Maybe she was doing that with Robert's behavior.

"Well, perhaps you should trust that instinct a little more." Harold says as he watches her adjust her shawl. She pauses to look down at him, arms folded, jaw shifting to either side as she gawked at the turtle carving.

"Why don't you just keep that." she says as she slides it towards his side of the table. Harold picks it up, admiring it as it sits in his palm, giving her a silent nod of appreciation as she walks out the threshold.

More crowds are beginning to appear as she strolls down the street. Robert would know they've talked. Know it wasn't by chance. He'd know she'd intentionally interacted with his brother. A feeling of trepidation starts weaving through her as she sees the Terog not far in the distance. She needed someone to talk to. Someone she knew she could trust to confide in, although she certainly doesn't know Harold. But at the same time, felt he was trustworthy. It was a strange feeling. Certainly unusual for her. Trusting this complete stranger with her innermost thoughts. Perhaps it was the kindness he exudes. That same feeling of comfort she had felt, like when she and her grandfather are conversing. No barriers up.

But, come to think of it, he really didn't even answer her question.