#my only concern with these is how it hurts the artist whose art is being ripped off but like... god damn. that AI can iterate

[spearxwind]

btw i fully condone the theft of AI generated designs. it's morally correct

[adornesibley]

What's an August: A Newsletter

Reading: Camp Damascus by Chuck Tingle, Rare Birds by L.B. Hazelthorn, and A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas

Finished Reading: The Reddening by Adam L.G. Nevill, Whalefall by Daniel Kraus, The End and Everything Before it by Finegan Kruckemeyer, A Wizard's Guide to Defensive Baking by T. Kingfisher 

Podcast: N/A

Playing: Lunacid (PC), and Salt and Sanctuary (PS4/PS5)

Making: A .°˖✧website✧˖°.

Writing: Project E

Word Count: 164030

TLDR: RAGE, memes, capitalism sucking the fun out of fun, breaking away from socials, the magic of the INDIE WEB, I’ve got a website :3

Stop wasting beautiful stories on memes. I get so mad whenever I see a meme with a pitch for a story… and it’s brilliant… I have many memes (which now have permanent residence in my brain) which I am thinking of while writing this. I wanted to share some… Which meant searching for them and now I have more that exist and it hurts. It hurts for two main reasons. One is a me problem I should maybe look at deeper and one is a societal problem which can only be fixed by the death of the patriarchy… I’ll try to bring both down.

Number one is that I do not feel that a meme is a fully-fledged art form and that something is less valuable in meme form. How dare I, right? Bring out the guillotine. I guess, my personal art form is long-form storytelling and so I think about how these story ideas could fit into my own art form and that would be so cool, and I want to write them. And I can’t… which brings us to Number B.

Anyone who might want to write a novel or other fully published work based on these ideas, or inspired by it will likely not be able to. But first, let's take a look at the post which started me thinking about this right now.

The post in question:

So, Number B reason… Coming from me, this is going to be a real shocker, Capitalism. If you’re a storyteller and want to not… y’know, starve to death, you need to be concerned with the origin and claims to the core concept of a story. If you want to make a story based on a prompt like this, or a meme you saw, you can absolutely do so! However, if you do, and sell that story, and then the person who originally made this idea finds out… you could A. lose your publishing deal as you did not have the right to license this story and/ or B. get sued by the person whose idea it was.

This is bullshit.

We should be and feel free to share stories, ideas, and story ideas and art as freely as we care to. We should have a society where storytelling is being done by the vast majority, not the lucky few. We should be able to burn these brilliant story ideas on the pyre of memes/ communal storytelling. We should be able to make art without having to resort to squeezing every last Schrute Buck from your IPs cold corpse. Of course we all can make art for the masses and give it freely… but food is nice, so is paying rent, or a mortgage. And it is hard to be an art faerie, flitting about creating art like you were Magi Lune or Christa from Ferngully, art springing from your very presence on this fertile Earth… But you’ll have to squeeze it in, somewhere between your night shift at the Omega Mart and your 6am spin class and picking/dropping off children and of course there is the dishes to do. We must not forget the dishes! I have big feelings. 

Alright, I’m good now. Needed to get that off my chest.

Have I mentioned that I have a Patreon?

On a lighter note, and without a paywall: I’ve been making a website! I watched the following video on the “Indie Web” and got inspired to create my own Neocities website. I’ve become a supporter so I can include extra file types on my website and not be as concerned about the upper limit of how much space my website can take up.

I’ll be uploading the newsletters there under Tidings, as well as uploading art that I’ve made, and TTRPG stuffs, including the Umbrulexicon as I keep making them. I’m also going to be uploading writing projects there which will not be uploaded elsewhere. So there’s plenty to love over there~

Probably, WARNING FOR EPILEPSY!!!!!!!!:

Support weird. Support your local artist and help them bring down Capitalism.

[tokiro07]

Before I do my weekly Undead Unluck and Cipher Academy reviews, I just want to make a quick post about Kawada’s new work, Martial Master Asumi

The character designs are more or less what I’ve come to expect from Hinomaru Zumou, with the two leads both having just a touch of weirdness to them that I find charming. Okiba in particular, with her concentric circle eyes and her surprisingly large canine teeth (...Okiba...big fangs...my god...) immediately makes a great impression as the heroine of the story

Nito is also a great lead in my book, with a lot of nuance surrounding his fear of conflict. He doesn’t want to get hurt, and despite definitely being strong enough to fight off anyone who might hurt him, he knows that it’s still possible to get hurt because his martial artist father was killed in a car accident. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, and with how engrossed he gets in fighting, his concern that he might hurt someone is well warranted, as he was having too much fun to stop himself from breaking his opponent’s arm and possibly even intending to kill him. This is a deeply troubled kid whose wants clearly conflict with each other, and his feelings of guilt over his grandfather’s dementia will only serve to complicate the average life that he’s tried to cultivate

What I really want to talk about though isn’t the manga itself, though, but the context that it now exists in. There’s a lot of overlap between it and other series running in Jump at this very moment. It’s been a while since we’ve had a proper sports manga, and now we have two martial arts manga introduced within just a few weeks of each other, the other being Do Retry. The grandfather’s dementia also brings to mind The Ichinose Family’s Seven Deadly Sins, wherein amnesia and Alzheimer’s are a major facet of the story’s ongoing conflict. Finally, Nito’s introduction is almost identical to the lead’s in Nue’s Exorcist, with one character standing up to bullies and the lead jumping in to deescalate the situation non-confrontationally, as both leads are the cowardly type. Of course they differentiate themselves from each other pretty quickly, but the shared idea of a cowardly protagonist hiding secret prowess is sure to be noticed by the readers

If it were just one similarity to another ongoing story, that’d be one thing, but having parallels to three of its contemporaries seems like something that could potentially give the feeling of having seen it before, which is the sort of thing that could easily impact readership and sales. That, or MM-...oh lord, the initials are MMA...Martial Master Asumi will end up absorbing the readers of the other series because of Kawada’s name recognition and experience allowing him to create a more refined product

Whatever happens, MMA’s first chapter made a powerful first impression that endeared me to the entire main cast, and I hope it does well. I don’t anticipate this being one that I write weekly reviews for, but I’m definitely invested in seeing it succeed, so I may try to post about it with some consistency

[bettsfic]

I have been told that my writing sounds like fanfiction. I asked if it was bad because you could see the guy was mocking but he said no it’s not bad it just seems like horny fanfiction. That makes me feel super self-conscious because I write romance and apparently my writing is too much like fanfiction. You write original stories and fanfiction so what’s your opinion on that. Fanfiction comes up a lot to criticize bad writing

i agree, fanfic does come up a lot to criticize bad writing. "this is just fanfic" is very often meant as an insult. "romance" is also an insult, but slightly less of one, because at least it's "original."

people hate fanfic because it's written by women, queer people, and disabled people. they hate fanfic even more because it's a genre where, by and large, writers take the shitty work of mediocre cis white men and fix it. and they hate fanfic even more because they have absolutely no power over it. they cannot support it with money, or condemn it by denying it money. their readership, attention, and approval has no bearing on it. so all that's left is to turn it into an insult and hurl it at the people whose mere creative existence offends them.

in high school there was this girl who really hated me. her locker was next to mine and we were in a lot of the same classes. this was back in the days of personal blogs, and i remember someone sent me a link to her blog where she had post upon post just eviscerating me. making fun of every little thing i said and did. a bizarre record of my day to day life.

at the time i was really hurt and ashamed. but then i realized how fucking weird it was that this girl hated me so much when i didn't even notice her. i once remember thinking she had cankles. otherwise i had not devoted a single second of my mental energy toward her. why are you making fun of me, i thought, i don't even know you.

i think of fanfic the same way. we're a really big lunch table that does not concern itself with other lunch tables who apparently hate us. we are too busy having fun and being ourselves to have opinions on other people.

fanfic is the art of girlhood, and from beatlemania to now, fangirls have been the lowest of the low when it comes to pop culture. if your work appeals to girls, you've fucked up. fanfic is the sheer audacity for girls to become creators intentionally to appeal to other girls. it's the greatest artistic sin: taking other people's stories, wrenching them apart, putting them back together, and giving them away for free. to the pretentious layperson who over-values the dead white dude canon, what's not to hate about that?

anyway, the fact is, other people's prejudices have nothing to do with you. the dude who told you your writing reads like fanfic has probably never actually read a fanfic in his life. he doesn't know what he's talking about; he's just being an asshole. it's a good practice to build a door between yourself and other people's opinions of your writing, and only ever open that door when those opinions serve your goals and ideals. otherwise, keep it locked, and keep doing what you're doing.

[mminttae]

Clandestine | 02

-> Pairing : Jeon Jungkook x reader

-> Genre : tattoo!artist Jungkook, mafia! JJK,mafia au, bloody!missions, slight violence, got secrets they can't tell, angst, romance, Jungkook's part time job is flirting, sad (backstory), Y/N is strong!

-> Summary : who would have known that just doing a part time job at a night club would lead you to the tattoo artist Jeon Jungkook's messed up world. One letter related to the secret comes out of your mouth you'll be laying in Jungkook's arms but alive or not, that's not guaranteed...

-> Word Count : 4.286 K ( A/N: I’m increasing words )

-> T/W body language, killing, curse words and intimacy are included in the story (you may read if you're comfortable with these)

Part : 2

<< previous chap

.・゜-: ✧ :-playlist -: ✧ :-゜・．

Jungkook's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. Even if me saying that line didn't flatten him enough I knew the nickname did as it always have been doing. It was clearly visible that he didn't expect me to be this bold suddenly. But he being himself smirked after a couple of seconds as his hand snaked up to grab my wrist pulling me more closer "Sure princess.. Do you want to go to the trip now? " His tongue rolling over his bottom lip as his piercing doe eyes holding so many thoughts looked at my lips then to my eyes.

"I don't want to interrupt but the trip has to be postponed "Jimin interferes in the moment, his eyes narrowed and only looking at me as if scared that the younger guy would throw him out if he locked eyes with his. Making a 'tch' sound Jungkook raises his eyebrows at Jimin in a manner that reads he's asking why postpone. I yeet his hand which was holding my wrist and get off from the table clearing my throat while fixing the skirt and apron. Jungkook clearly disappointed for not being able to hear my answer gets up from the seat while putting the black leather jacket around his shoulders. Jimin and Taehyung following him gets up too grabbing their bags. Jungkook walked up to me while fixing his bangs with his index finger.

"Gotta go princess a client's waiting" Nodding I proceeded to walk away but I could hear Jungkook saying with a sad dramatic tone. "Atleast act that you don't want me to go". I'm afraid I won't be able to because I myself don't know what this client of yours gonna do if you don't go on time. Is the person waiting even a client or not? Knitting my eyebrows I look back only to meet with strangers taking up the seat. The three tall mesmerizing men with inks on their body not to be seen anywhere. I don't know what's going on in that foolish yet extremely clever brain of yours but...

Be careful Mr. Artbook..

End of YOUR POV

Mid summer yet the night breeze is able to run shivers down your spine. Not a single soul in sight.

10 at night maybe the shopkeepers closed down the shutters and went to bed. Not many shops here in this area to even begin with. The only workshop's bell which rings here is the Jeon's Tattoo corner which has been ringing from the morning today , seemed to have stopped in the evening but now making its sound again. "Argh I should really break down this bell "

With an annoyed expression the black haired guy opens the drawers searching for a fresh towel. The tall man who just entered the shop walked past the desk table, turning the door knob and allowing himself inside the cozy room. His loud footsteps on the wooden floor telling Jungkook that the guest has arrived.

"Where were you? I waited here for five minutes then went inside the nearby plant store to kill time"

Taking off the long coat the tall silver haired guy walks up to the chair positioned in the middle of the room beside the various tools. "Sorry hyung, Taehyung and Jimin wanted a new tattoo so went to hear out their designs"

Jungkook says, eyebrows knitted while he fishes out the stencil of the beautiful clematis he has drawn beforehand of the leader's arrival. Smiling to himself he walks up to the seated boss whose like a big brother to him, he puts the stencil aside. Taking out a black rubber band from his pocket he takes his hair and ties it up to a small ponytail before taking out a drawer full of tattoo needles and inks. "Heard that Yoongi started boxing classes with you"

The older male speaks as his lip corners slowly moves upwards. Jungkook giving out a laugh says, "Yea Yoongi hyung be moving like a turtle. "

The thought of his hyung boxing and whining that it's hard is enough to make the little one giggle. Taking out a small wooden stool with one hand as the other one was holding the tattoo gun, Jungkook sits himself beside the strong looking man who rolls up his shirt's sleeves revealing all the different type of arts and words of different languages tattooed on his arm.

"Need chewing gum?"

The younger one asks at the thought that it might hurt but the older one replies plainly that he's fine after all his skin had been coming in contact with this gun for a long time now. Jungkook nods before resting the needle on the free space on the top of the man's biceps before starting to draw on it, the awestrucking clematis. "Was thinking of getting a lip piercing but not being able to get it cuz of the adults in the house"

The man says while his dimples makes visits to his cheeks.

"The exact same reason why am postponing on getting an eyebrow piercing"

Jungkook replies as he carefully moves the tattoo gun sideways on the man's bicep.

"So when are you planning on telling your sister?"

He asks as the silver haired guy closes his eyes once realizing what Jungkook meant.

"When the time's right.. "

He replies, slowly opening his eyes his gaze meeting the ceiling.

"But first we need to pinpoint Mr. Choi's location"

Replying with a small and quiet yes Jungkook draws the details on the flower carefully.

"Seokjin has been checking the cctvs regularly and the only thing he found was the black hyundai stopping at a night club at exactly 7pm every Tuesday and Wednesday"

"What's the night club's name? "

Jungkook asks as he draws on the small leaves.

"Hell's night club"

With just the mention of the night club's name Jungkook's hand stops moving as his eyes widened. "Isn't that the club you often visit with the others? "

The silver haired man asks making Jungkook quietly nod his head. If the most feared mafia in the country slash his team's biggest rival had been going to the exact same club at the exact same time as his how come he never saw the familiar old man's face? He thought.

What kind of person does the man disguise him as that even Jimin who encountered him multiple times doesn't notice. "You should be careful and try to see your clients faces carefully and see if they match that old fart's face or not"

Jungkook humming a response continued on giving the clematis it's final touch. Finishing the tattoo he removes the gun making the silver haired man sit up straight and fix his shirt.

"You know what to do right?"

Jungkook asks referring to putting on Vaseline ointment on the tattoo and stuffs. The older guy nods while fetching his coat. "I'll get going then. Thanks for the tattoo kook"

Jungkook simply nods his mind stuck in a different topic. Putting the equipments away and tidying up the towels as the older guy leaves the shop and disappears into the darkness of the night in the empty alleyway, Jungkook couldn't help but think about what you were up to. His mind stitching up different negative thoughts together.

"If Mr. Choi is really going to that club then he must have seen Y/N always talking to us..... What if he does something to her? " Jungkook asks to himself and the next thing he does is take his bag, turn off the lights, lock the doors and run off to meet you.

• -

"I'll be off then"

Bowing politely you take hold of the two big disposable bags and huff out a breathe when you realize how heavy both of them were. Kicking the back staff door with your leg open the first thing you see is Jeon Jungkook leaning on the wall infront. His hair tied up in a small ponytail, a bag hung around his shoulder and inked hands resting inside his jeans pockets. His eyes falls on your hands holding the disposable garbage bags, sighing he walks up to you.

"I thought your job was to serve and take orders not bring out garbages" You looked down at the bags in your hands while saying, "I was coming out anyways it's no biggie"

You flashed him a small smile but his eyes looked worried and his face tensed. You wondered what happened but didn't dare to ask thinking that he will only answer with 'none of your business' . Yes Jeon Jungkook unknowingly says harsh things without thinking when he's tensed. Jungkook takes the garbage bags from your hands and put it beside the door when his eyes lands on your right hand which was bandaged. His eyes widen and he quickly took your right hand examining it while asking

"How did this happen? Are you okay? "

Embarrassed you put your hand away from his warm ones and answer while smiling, not making eye contact

"It's okay I'm fine these kind of injuries are meant to happen if you work in a bar." Jungkook not convinced took your hand again now keeping it infront of him not letting you pull it back. His eyebrows knitted . "You were totally fine this evening tell me what happened". Chewing on your bottom lip you look down, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

"Y/N tell me what happened.." Jungkook says once again this time his voice laced with concern as his hands caressed your hair. You were actually a bit taken aback at how the always dominant voice of Jungkook is making its way to you in a concerned and soft way.

"A drunk guy harshly pulled my hand wanting me to sit beside him but I fought back and he suddenly let go of me making me loose my balance at hit the edge of the glass table behind and that's how I got this"

You say while looking at your bandaged hand which was now resting in jungkook's warm palm. He softly held your injured hand and lower down a bit to meet your height. Looking at your eyes he said

"Tell me who did this. Tell me who did this to you I'm gonna fucking kill him"

In a calm soft voice but the last part obviously didn't come out in a soft way. You laughed and pushed him a bit away from you. "It's okay am fine don't overreact he was drunk" But Jungkook not buying the answer walked closer to you and again with a serious tone asked you . "Tell me how he looked like"

Knowing that he won't let go of the topic unless you give him a proper answer you sigh, rolling your eyes while describing the drunk man you happened to meet inside the club. "He had small eyes , a sharp nose and dark stubble on his face and.." You trailed off thinking what else did the man have but Jungkook interrupted asking in a quick manner

"Did he have any sort of tattoo on his wrist? " Replaying the moment inside your head you widen your eyes a bit and nod your head, "Yea he did.. Was that a crown? A crown maybe"

Exactly knowing who that drunk man you encountered was Jungkook's chest sank at the thought that the old man touched you with his dirty hands. Gulping down the saliva that formed in his mouth he without thinking pulled you to his chest engulfing you in a hug. He wasn't sure why he felt like protecting you but he wanted to . He wasn't supposed to feel this way now that he set his mind on the plan his brain made up on the way here but..he did. He wanted to make sure you were safe.

Widening your eyes at how Jungkook suddenly hugged you, your mind went blank. There's no doubt in how fast your heart was beating. To be honest to yourself you were actually frightened when that man tried touching you in an ill manner but now being in Jungkook's arms you felt safe. You felt safe when he was around. Jungkook's arms around you got tighter as he nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck.

So this is how you gonna play it Mr. Choi

He thinks.

•-

Flashback 5 weeks back

Stretching your arms you give out a small yawn before grabbing the books from the table and making your way out of the auditorium. Walking while looking at your  surroundings you didn't notice the tall man standing infront of you. Too immersed in the same old paintings hanging on the walls you hit something hard making the copies and books in your hands fall down. Without looking up at the person you bumped into you quickly said 'sorry' while kneeling down to pick up your supplies. The tall gentleman kneeled down too helping you with picking up your stationerys. You got up, the man following you soon. This time facing the guy properly as both of you made eye contact you were about to say thank you when your voice abruptly decided to not come out.

The man had soft long black hair .The kind of hair you would want to play with all day. His baby doe eyes staring at you, his lips parted. The oversized hoodie he was wearing made him the grizzly huggable bear image more.

As your eyes scanned him from head to toe, your lips a bit parted, the guy not being able to control his laughter at how cute you looked when your eyes went big as if you saw something really interesting and you'd like to study that thing more, he gave out small giggles making you quickly close your mouth and look at him. Noticing how every students in tha hall were staring at both of you, you shifted your weight from one leg to another leg uncomfortably. But the guy's Adorable bunny smile didn't go out of your notice. His eyes wrinkled as he tilted his face and asked you softly

"You okay? "

Blinking couple of times you nodded your head making him shyly scratch his nape and mumble 'thank god'. Your lips automatically curved up when your eyes landed on the ID card hung around his neck

"Jeon Jungkook"

Once realization hit you that you were now standing infront of your college's hearthrob while looking like a whole mess which you didn't care about that much until you bumped into him, your cheeks got tinted in a light blush. Pulling your lips in you tilted your head a bit to the side making your baby hairs fall over your face.

"Hey kook!"

A loud deep voice entered the ears of the people standing in the hall making them turn their heads to the two seniors waving their hands at Jungkook's direction, a big wide smile plastered know their face. Jungkook takes out his bracelet covered wrist from his pocket and waves at them. Jimin running towards us and wrapping his arm around the tall guy's shoulders he notices me and flashes me a smile

"Hey Y/N"

Waving your sweater paw at him as a hey you smiled. You met Jimin and Taehyung a couple of times before in some group works with seniors. You not really interested in gossips of the college noticed just a few days ago that Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook are the well known hot trio of this college.

"Y/N.."

Jungkook repeats your name to himself before looking at you once again , smiling while saying

"Sweet name"

His sweet honey voice saying your name was enough to melt you. If it was any other guy right now you would have simply said thank you for helping you pick up the books and walk away without saying anything but surprisingly Jeon Jungkook made you stop. "I'm hungry didn't have breakfast this morning" Taehyung whines while holding his tummy earning a slap on his head from Jimin. "we are going for lunch wanna join us? "

Jungkook asks you making you widen your eyes at the sudden invitation and Jungkook earning some smirks from the seniors beside him, Jimin elbowing his arm while wiggling his eyebrows. Jungkook simply rolled his eyes at his hyungs before looking at you for a reply. You glancing at your silver wrist watch said "I would love to but I should get going. I have some stuffs to do"

Jungkook quietly nods his head before flashing you a smile.

Is he always smiling?

You thought noticing that he had been smiling since the moment both of you met. "Y/N's always studying hard"

Taehyung says earning a nod from Jimin making you shyly scratch your nape.

The Brunnete haired approached you giving you a pat on your shoulder before saying "Study well but don't forget to have lunch okay? "

You flashed him a smile while nodding. Jungkook waving his hands at you as a 'bye' walked past you with the two boys. You looked back at three of them noticing that two of them were wearing hoodies and one of them were wearing full sleeved tees.

It's so hot these days why are they wearing hoodies on top of tees?

Shaking your head you quickened your pace and quickly got out of the college grounds. Walking to the bus stand while looking around at the cozy coffee shops on the streets you keep glancing at your watch from time to time to make sure that you're going on time or not.

Now here's a secret about you that no one knows

You're a student at an art college but you are also a student at a law school. Your father runs the family business of electronics. Yes the electronics company ranking the second best in the country out of all the other electronic companies, which he wants to hand over to your big brother after he retires. Your mother always wanted a child of her to be a sculptor. Borning late in the family with the talent of art you were forced to study this subject whereas you were interested in prosecution, catching criminals and stuffs. What you were most interested in were being a mafia or an assassin but you gave up on those dreams and decided to study law. Your parents only giving their all attention and care to their first born, didn't care about you that much. The only thing they wanted from you was becoming a great sculptor and bringing praise to your family.

After nights of confusion and judgement you decided to study in the law school that you got admitted, secretly with the money your grandparents left you. Your grandparents left some money for you and your brother before passing away and thankfully they were enough to pay for your study books expenses. But maintaining time for your law school as well as the art school was hard but you managed to make time after dropping off from some extra courses of the art college without telling your parents. But it was hectic. Your college hours starts from 7 am. And you have classes till 9am then a break at 9:15 am to 10:30 due to dropping off from some extra class. Your law classes starts from 9:30 so during the break you quickly leave the grounds and head off to the law classes. Then you return to the art college at 10:20 when it's a break at your law school. Then once again when it's a lunch break at the art school you head off to the law school while munching on some snacks, obviously not getting time to have proper lunch. And when it comes to events you had to make up excuses at the law school for not attending as your parents would obviously not skip their daughter's presentations.

It would be more hectic from today cuz you just applied to a job at a night club. There's a course for learning shooting at the law school but you don't have enough money to pay for that so it's time to earn some money.

•••

Stretching your arms while getting up from the seat you had been sitting on straight for 2 hours, you give a yawn before taking out a scrunchie and putting your hair up. All the classes for the day are done. Putting the back pack around your shoulder you bow at the teacher before leaving the school premises. Walking inside the bus and sitting on one of the seat you take out your phone and start typing to your mother , 'Mom I'll be late tonight as I got some extra lessons. Don't worry for me and you don't have to send car I'll come by bus'

"No one's gonna worry about me though"

You say to yourself while letting out a small laugh and looking out at the window. Everything vanishing from your sight at a fast pace as the vehicle picks up its speed upon seeing the empty road. Some of the street lights flickering due to not being fixed for several days now. You take out the 'guideline' paper of the bar you're gonna work in from backpack, going through the structure of the building in your mind and remembering all the rules explained to you yesterday when you went to apply for the job. This night club only seemed to be safe for you to work in now. By safe means you would have no worries of the common students who spends time in bars and clubs to see you. If anyone recognizes you then it's game over. Plus the pay is high too.

The phone screen lighting up as a notification popped up you unlocked the phone before seeing from whom the text is from.

Bro: heard you're coming late at night should I pick you up from the way while coming home?

"Geez already told him?"

You say to yourself once realizing that your mom told your brother to pick up but your brother being nice asked if you want to be picked up first or not. Smiling at his text before typing your reply It's ok you don't have to come. The office is far away from my college anyways. Get home safely.

Waiting for a few minutes to see his reply which you didn't get you turned off your phone and put it inside your bag. Looking out from the window thinking why he didn't reply when he saw your text whereas usually he would try to come pick you up, being the 'protective' brother. You got down from the bus as soon as the bus came to its stop. You walked for a few more minutes from the bus stop till arriving at your destination.

Hell's night club

•••

It's been only five minutes of you serving drinks but you're already tired. How can a human body and mind work for 13 hours straight without any rest. You did mess up some tables a couple of times for which you were now getting a scolding from the manager. You looking down bowing slightly while your hands in front of you.

"Miss Lee Y/N did you properly see the table numbers today? "

The old man asks to which you nod. "Then why are you messing up? " He asks in a raised voice making you flinch and quickly mumble a sorry. You lift your head up a bit to see the old man sighing while pinching his forehead, clearly visible that he's angry. "I'm letting you go as this is your first time don't make mistakes anymore"

He says making you bow and say

"Thank you"

He looked around trying to see if any waitresses are free. Sighing at how there's no one free without counting you he gave you a look before handing you a tray of various kinds of drinks. "Take this to table no. 14. And  do not  make any mistakes. They are regulars here I don't want them gone" Nodding at him you set off to find this table no. 14 . Noticing how your skirt got up a bit you tried pulling the skirt a bit down with one hand as the other one was holding the tray, you quickly withdraw your hand without fixing the skirt upon seeing the tray tremble in one hand. Quickly holding the tray in place and scanning if any drinks were spilled, you sigh in relief. You looked back to only lock eyes with the manager . He staring straight at you with his cold eyes. You gave a small awkward smile and walked towards table 14.

The table no. 14 seemed to be surrounded by many big men. All had some sort of tattoos on them. A familiar man sitting in the middle holding a pen and scribbling something on a notebook. His inked arms full on display as the silver earrings were still being able to shine despite the dullness in the scene. His long bangs falling before his eyes not letting anyone see the face beneath it.

You quietly approached the table and when you raised your eyes from the ground to the man sitting in the middle, your legs automatic came to a halt and your breath hitched.

Jeon Jungkook right there was sitting. The table in front occupied with various weapons and him sitting like a whole five course meal, fingers playing with the dangly earrings

This is totally not what I expected

[ambimakesarts]

I've been thinking about this for while

I've been brewing on these thoughts for a while since the anime for Twisted Wonderland was announced so I think I've had enough time to gather my thoughts about my fears of the fandom becoming a toxic place like every other fandom in existence. (Apologies for rambling too much but things need to be said)

I'm not worried about people shipping or sexualizing the fictional characters. The fandom was already doing that and tagging it properly making it harder to randomly stumble across, I really don't care about the artists and fan fic writers who write NSFW things and tag them. That's not the real problem I'm concerned with.

What I'm really concerned about is the behavior that comes from toxic people who harass the artists and fan fic writers for enjoying the problematic ships, or the sexy fan arts of the characters. If you truly don't like that stuff, (Which you have the right not to enjoy) I'd suggest just blocking tags and artists who make the stuff you don't like. I do that most of the time if I'm constantly seeing art of ships I don't like. Yelling at people and telling them to stop creating things that make you uncomfortable isn't going to help, it just creates the toxic environment of people to afraid to engage in the games and series they love out of fear of the toxic people who will try to harass them out of the community just because they don't like what that person was making.

NSFW content is always going to exist no matter what the source material is. So instead of bullying people, cater your online experience with the tools these sites provide. Your internet experience is also your responsibility. You need to put in effort too, not just the artists and fic writers, who properly tag their works for people who like that content to enjoy it, why waste your time looking for it and harassing the artist who hasn't hurt a real person?

And I get it, there are minors who enjoy the game, they shouldn't be exposed to this. Well they should also understand that when NSFW creators hide their NSFW works behind paywalls, tag their work appropriately, and/or block minors on site that this type of creator isn't making content for them to begin with. There's a huge difference between an adult actively trying to groom a real life minor and and adult who makes NSFW content and actively tries to keeps real minors out of their online spaces. So screeching about how the fictional characters are supposed to be below 18 isn't gonna help people take your concerns seriously. Fictional characters aren't real, they don't need to be treated as real minors, just because the content is illegal in real life doesn't mean the creators want to engage in that behavior in real life. Just like how crime and horror writers don't go and commit actual murders, people who make dark sexual content don't want to commit that crime irl on an innocent person. The fictional characters aren't in real world danger, they're just fictional beings made of lines and pixels or words.

I will assume most of the real minors who are interested in the game, are old enough to understand how blocking tags and people work. It could just be that I'm kinda old and grew up in a different internet era, but when I was minor on the internet I didn't engage in NSFW content made by adults cuz I was always taught that if I saw something online I didn't like or found uncomfortable, I should move on and ignore it. I don't know why nowadays everyone has to try and show their moral superiority by attacking artists and fan fic writers whose only crime is making art the attacker finds immoral, only to then be proven to be the real monster hurting real people.

I get it, we all want to make sure real life minors are safe from creeps, but I think some people just end up choosing the wrong targets, that just aren't hurting anyone, and it unfortunately comes off as jealousy, that this talented artist is getting attention making stuff you find gross, and instead of working on your art and making more of what you want to see, you try to damage another artists career over something as stupid as a fictional character drawn in a thong.(if you know anything about JoJo, you know what incident this was)

And now we have Twisted Wonderland, it's a PG game content wise, but target demographic wise it attracts an older audience who likes Yana Toboso's works(Like her most successful manga, Black Butler). So even though the game itself may be appropriate content wise, the fans can interpret the character interactions however they want. The game is more of a self insert experience since it's technically an RPG, but that won't stop fans from shipping characters with eachother based on the canon interactions those characters have in game.

This is just how fandoms can be, so instead of treating fandoms as these black and white groups of Holy saints and toxic degenerates, people should understand that everyone has their own interpretation of canon fiction and that not everything is made for them, especially noncanon fan art and fan fics.

But then again, that's just my opinion, I really don't like bothering people, I rarely ever share my own opinions on things I like, but I'm getting tired of seeing people harass each other over headcanons and ships that they can easily ignore. I'll just be in my own little space, making content I want to see. And I'll probably never make another long text post like this again, but like I said, I'm tired of seeing this behavior and I wanted to say something about it cuz I've been thinking about these kinds of things for way to long, and as an artist myself, I just hate seeing people try bully artists about what they should and shouldn't make.

[cargopantsman]

Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here

Trigger warnings: All of them, because I am lazy. Also none of this is sensical.

Utter, hyper-caffeinated brain noise.

The problem with the concept of a "sense of self" is it already tries to concretize an amorphous abstract. It makes us want to point at some thing and say "Well... that's me." Whether it is a set of ideals that we try to live by, a set of activities that brings us a sense of joy or fulfillment, or, gods forbid, and entirely different and other person that "completes us."

I've always had an affinity for trickster figures and shapeshifters. The wearers of masks, the truthful liars, the artisans of duality, yada, yada. Since I was a child my first instinct has always been to blend in. If into the background, great, but if need be, if I needed to blend into the social fabric around me, I could do that too. To throw this into the high school backdrop; I wasn't a social butterfly, I was shy as could be, but I got along with the jocks, the goths, the nerds, the art freaks, the band kids, the preps, the whatever. Where ever I was I could fake that I belonged there. I was comfortable drifting in between worlds. (Looking back, I could have caused a lot more chaos with the information I was privy to at the time...[Oh, there's a constant point. I'm good at keeping secrets, keeping confidence. I'll lie my ass off to keep a secret.]) Does any of that really help drive a sense of self though? When your natural instinct is to mirror, to blend, to fade? When your point of pride is walking into a room unnoticed and, even better, leaving a party unseen? Does being a ghost count as an identity?

"Expression of Will" comes to mind... what does that mean? Ok, so some abstract thing is inside of you and you manifest it objectly outwardly. I was an artist. I made images in my head and "kind of" manifest them on paper. Some times people see that paper...  I was a writer... images in my head "became" words and some people saw that. I combined them into comics. Some people Saw that. Is that a lasting affect? Maybe the fights I've been into?! That time in 2nd grade someone was picking on a friend and I laid them out... the time in 8th grade someone was picking on me and clocked them down. Or in high school when someone decided to start some rumors and I held them up by their throat in the air until they turned blue? That was an inward thing that manifested outwardly. Nevermind good or bad, but was any of that... me?

Hmm. The beast. The primal... come back to that later.

"Expression of Will," "Expression of Will," "Expression of Will" ... What the fuck even is "Will"? Is this why philosophers get their heads so far up their ass? Is it a desire? The will to live.... living requires eating and the amount of times I forget to even do that... Maybe been looking at the phrase all wrong...

Will to Live (noun) It isn't a thing.

Will (verb) to (preposition) Live (verb)

Why does that sound better?

Desire to Live (noun)

Desire (verb) to (preposition) Live (verb)

Okay, that feels better even, but still... Sense of self, will, desire, expressions thereof. Are these just the aimless desires and wills? The fleeting flights of frivolous fancies festering forlornly in frontal cortices?

The self with the will can direct the desires towards living. "Get in the fucking robot Shinji!" "I don't wanna"

The (ghost) with the (strength) can direct the (impulses) towards (being). Getting too close to a concept of a soul on that one huh?

Forget self. It's a useless moniker right now. There is no self. It's just this mind alone for the first time in its entire life. (Not alone alone, there are friends, but they've learned more about me in the past two weeks than the past 6 years so...) "What did they learn?" asked the projection of self that defines itself by interactions with other.

I thought we were forgetting self.... not an option really. Sentience is a bitch like that. But they've learned I'll put up with a lot of bullshit under the guise of strength and integrity when I should've callously called this whole thing ages ago. That I can shut myself down completely in the interest of bodily-self preservation. (Not Self-self preservation, fuck the English language). What did I sacrifice? What did I shut down?

Everything.

That is less than helpful.

The Beast. Vince. Your Shadow.

My Shadow...

What do you desire?

Blood in the cut, tears in their eyes, power over someone that wants that power over them...

Do you want that? I don't want it, I just need it. No... I want it.

Is that all you are? A sadist? An animal?

Maybe... probably not though. A caretaker, and a sparring partner. A trickster and a shapeshifter. A crafter whose tools are destruction.

Next problem, grandeur. Mythologizing everything. But how to see a thing if you don't blow it up/magnify it?

You lack a sense of self because no one ever tested your sense of self. No one actually fought you for who you are. To find out who you are. The ex didn't. An old friend did until she got scared by what she found there.

You don't want to be yourself because it's not nice is it? You were raised to be nice.

College. I controlled the group. Never hit anyone after high school aside from set matches in classes or sparring for funsies. They all saw my eyes and stopped if they were getting out of hand.

The Dom-Friend.

Don't use the d-word on me.

Destroyer? Yeah, that one's fine. That one fits. He says as he carelessly tosses lit matches around his entire life. Can we bring up the phoenix or is that too grandiose? Why shouldn't it be grandiose? We spend every day of our lives going through the same kind of tedious bullshit all the time why not make our inner lives a bit bigger, a bit richer?

A bit darker.

Why do you want them to bleed? Hurt and comfort. That's a big theme, a trope if you will. Why not have both at the same? Why not let her think that I'm about to kill her but let her rest in the trust that I won't? Why not let me think that I'm about to break her while believing she is the most precious thing in the world?

Caretaker. A caretaker kills all the time. Tearing out weeds, uprooting the prized plant to move it to a better place for its growth.

Growth.

The self isn't going to be found just in ones self... not in another either. No, the self has to be found in everything. The things one wants to run to and run from. The soul (oops) is formed by what it crashes into right? The mind recoils from traumas races towards panaceas, why not, if one can, flip the polarity on the two. Bring the darkness screaming into the light so you can see it, bring the light quivering into the darkness so it can loose its terrifying brillance. Balance in all things right?

You're not a very positive person, they say. No... I'm not. It lashes out in bad ways sometimes, sure. Control, control, you must learn control. But being negative isn't bad. Not if you can grow from it. No plant can survive the sun for 24 hours. Trees sleep in the winter. We sleep, we heal, we grow.

Self-Destruction!! That's a fun one... seven fucking months downing a bottle of whisky a night. Whooo boy. Do Not Recommend.

Got a nice stay in the underworld though and trudged up a lot of shit. Now I'm sitting here with my ears ringing because I finally hit the personal limit on Monsters and my brain is overclocked enough I can finally see shit at 4 angles at the same time. I am a god damned quantum supercomputer of emotions right now.

Faith and faithlessness are the same thing. Have faith, trust the future, don't expect anything, don't plan your now for your future. Sounds sadly like live in the moment type bullshit, but life is weird and people are complex. Shifting drifting clueless animals that want to be safe but don't want to get stuck in anothers arms even when there is one whose arms are so safe.

The damage runs deep... and two people with damage running that deep. Hmm. How much healing can falling do? The other just puts a bandage over a puncture wound and both try to ignore it, but then the blood gets pumping, the heart pounds and poisons surge to the surface. It's neither one's fault really. Life is a trial of knives and we don't always have time or concern to tend the wounds properly. There's always something else that needs to be taken care of first.

Divorce is a helluva drug. It is maddening, the freedom to finally to be yourself is line having the lineart stripped off, there is a terrifying infinity in front of you and the only thing to do for awhile is melt. Let the slings and arrows just pierce and sink in. Anyone else tries to push the sludge of you into a shape might get hurt when they find the arrows. I want to go absolutely feral in a way. In a way the whole COVID mess is keeping me under lock and key so I'm just prowling around the empty house like I always have been, but now there's some sense... of purpose.

I'm raging against any depression, the executive dysfunction is going to have a talking to. The sense of self is going to be found in stripping this house down to bare walls and making a blank canvas. Bring everything down, ruin it all, start again.

My self is emptiness, it always has been. I can be anything, but I should be wary of ever wanting to be something. (My career options are AWESOME). But this is a different emptiness than before. Before I pulled the trigger and splattered the brains of the marriage across the floor I was just a void, and inky black pit of nothingness. Somehow, having the Shadow rise up and finally start getting along with the rest of me, the emptiness isn't.... void. It's just nascent possibility and that shouldn't scare me.

It does, of course, terrify me. First time in 40 years being legitimately alone is terrifying, should have done this kinda thing when I was 20, but... I was an idiot back then (60 year old me laughs from the future). But I think I can get a grip on the concept that "I" don't exist, but I'm real... ever changing ever dynamic, not who I was while I was married, but a mix of the me before, a angry beast now, and something yet unseen in the future.

[absynthe--minded]

opinions on the recent russingon meta? tbh i love russingon, i love black fingon headcanons, but i do agree that it's a little weird when fingon gets totally sidelined in fics as just Maedhros' Emotional Growth or the Black Nanny. i mean, russingon really lends itself to hurt/comfort, which is fine, but i think ppl sometimes neglect fingon's arc. thoughts as a russingon writer? (no accusations, love your work, but wanted your perspective on other ppls russingon works)

(Wow this got long, lol.

Full disclosure - I haven’t read the recent Russingon meta, or offered any substantial response to it. Quite a lot of people I know have, but I’ve not had the time and my brain hasn’t been cooperating with me to read large chunks of text over the last couple of days. I have opinions on your ask as I’m seeing it now, and that’s what I’ll be responding to. I’m also not black, though I’m not white either - my ethnic group is one that has troubling stereotypes associated with it of caring for white people/acting as sage dispensers of advice/etc, but I can’t speak to the breadth and depth of the black experience when it comes to being a ‘black nanny’ in fiction, and I’m not going to try to.)

So, Fingon being a cardboard cutout/emotional support animal for Maedhros and Fingon being perceived as black by large portions of the fandom are two things that arose completely independently of one another. Fingon being Maedhros’s support animal is a trope as old as Russingon itself, and possibly is as old as the published Silm itself. I’ve read Russingon fics that were almost as old as I am, Russingon fics published last week, Russingon fics that vilified the Nolofinwëans, and Russingon fics from the turn of the 21st century when the Fëanorians were seen as uncomplicated villains. Fingon being a cardboard cutout is ubiquitous through all of them. It doesn’t matter how old the fic is, it’s basically guaranteed.

The reason for this is that Maedhros is far and away the most popular character in the Silmarillion, and his pain and angst and mental strife and trauma are front and center in many writers’ lists of priorities. If it’s not Fingon propping him up, it’s Maglor, or another brother, or an OC - this is a very common genre of Silm fic and it’s not limited to Russingon.

But.

This is my least favorite Russingon trope and it’s the entire reason I’m writing Blessed Hands and why all my Russingon fics are at least majority-Fingon POV. I can’t fucking stand it, and it completely kills my interest in a story. I’m super picky with my Russingon fics because of this trope, and because of its ubiquity, and I’ve talked about it on my blog many times before. For me to love a Russingon fic, it has to be about how they anchor and support one another, and how their mutual and equal investment in their relationship is the foundation of their lives. This trope’s not nearly as common as it used to be, thank Eru, but it’s still around, and I cannot talk enough about how I Hate It, lol. It’s also old enough and omnipresent enough that the majority of fics feature it, and - interestingly - the majority of fics also feature white Fingon.

Alongside this, Black Fingon arose out of a non-Russingon intracommunity discussion among the artists of the Silm fandom, in about 2013. I saw this play out in real time on my dash, and so while I can’t source posts reliably, I can promise this is as accurate as I can make it.

The paradigm shift came as a result of content creators realizing that several of their number weren’t white, and quite a few people in the fandom weren’t white, and yet 100% of art and fics featured white elves with zero real diversity (and a number of very troubling, somewhat stereotypical older illustrations of Men as the only significant examples of people of color in Middle-Earth). There was concern as to why this was being accepted as the norm when there was ample opportunity for representing both one’s own ethnicity and other people of color (and a lot of concern about unexamined racism in white artists who found themselves unable, for various reasons, to picture heroic elves as anything but fair-skinned) and the general consensus was that we had more consistent information from HoME draft to HoME draft about hair color than skin tone, so why were we all picturing our heroes as white?

Fingon in particular was headcanoned as black due to a discovery by a fan (whose URL escapes me, sadly) who I’m certain was black themself. There’s a passage in The Peoples of Middle-Earth describing Fingon as wearing his hair in plaits braided through with gold, and this fan made the comparison to hairstyles worn by IRL black people. The idea was that he was the most uncomplicatedly brave, heroic, and noble person in the Silm, and look, he could be a man of color! There was also a sort of gentleman’s agreement to refrain from making explicit connections beyond that to real human ethnic groups/cultures/races. The logic behind this was that if the generic Eurofantasy aesthetic was kept, white artists would be encouraged to draw diverse elves without concern for cultural appropriation, as well as steering racists away from caricature and the ability to twist a well-meaning effort into a stereotypical attack.

When these ideas first emerged, there was a lot of resistance. Arguments were made that those of us who advocated for diverse elves and specifically black Fingon were discreetly accusing other artists of being racist, or were acting purposefully holier-than-thou, or just wanted to start drama. There were some people who claimed we’d attack anyone who didn’t agree with us that elves were brown. This was an exhausting mess to deal with and it was a major part of my disillusionment with discussing racism in the Tolkien fandom - the majority of voices were reasonable people but the minority was loud and obnoxious. I bring this up to say that diverse elves were genuinely progressive and forward-looking in 2013, even when it was more or less explicitly stated that they had no real ties to existing human races and they had no change to their characters.

Black Fingon, agreed upon outside the Russingon fandom, and Fingon the cardboard cutout, the most reliably present version of Fingon in Russingon fic, sort of ran into one another. No real change was ever made to Finno’s character upon making him black - this would have been seen at the time as unnecessary because his character was just fine as-is, and the whole point was that he could be exactly as he’d been before and be black or brown, that men of color had the exact same range of emotion and depth of character that he did when he was perceived as white. 

The problem is that there hasn’t been much examination of the idea that Fingon being a black man who exists to prop up a white man is uh. Really racist and kind of fraught.

All I have to say really is that this wasn’t a conscious decision by anyone to be racist - the opposite, actually. As I mentioned above I can’t speak for black people, or for other BIPOC, but my opinion is that it’s an unfortunate and unconscious choice that has nothing to do with Fingon’s race and everything to do with the fact that his character has been seriously neglected for decades now. It opens the door to a lot of really frustrating tropes and plotlines that smack fans of color in the face with how bigoted they are, and it’s something that I’m glad is being discussed, if only because I’ve been trying to push for a reevaluation of Fingon’s personality and general role for a long time now (though of course I’m also glad that this is actually getting acknowledged as a harmful thing real people now are at risk of doing).

My solution? Same as ever - “write Fingon like a real person with interests and desires and goals of his own, and treat his family like they matter, and flesh out the world he lives in. Listen to people of color if you’re white, educate yourself regardless, and learn to avoid harmful tropes.” If that becomes the fandom norm? I’ll be a happy Absynthe.

[prydon]

oh i adore ur writing, do u take prompts by any chance? if u do, would u ever consider writing a fic inspired by the recent drunk juno and smitten peter art? thank u, have a nice day 💞

thank you for liking my writing!!! :D tbh i haven’t considered myself enough of a fic writer to take prompts in years, but i loved that art and i love writing jupeter so much that i just had to give this a go.

so here you go! inspired by this WONDERFUL art by @honeyjarr. you can read it on ao3 here or down below! 

set post-man in glass but pre jupeter being in an established relationship. CWs for alcohol consumption, brief reference to sarah steel being sarah steel, minor injuries, and non-explicit talking/joking about sex.

----

Nureyev had never seen Juno Steel drunk before.

For all his insistence that he was ‘getting drunker by the second’ back in his apartment on that fated night when Nureyev had gifted him a name and kiss, Nureyev knew he had been far from truly drunk, then. Juno was a broad man, and one with a long history of drinking. Unlike Nureyev, he held his liquor well.

Now, on board the Carte Blanche, he had been trying to cut down on his alcohol consumption. It was part of his recovery, part of leaving behind the mess of poor coping mechanisms and bad decisions that used to make up Detective Juno Steel.

So when Buddy had pulled out the bottle, it was only with assurance from Jet and Juno that they were both okay with it- and when Juno had asked her to pour him a glass, he did so with the promise that he wasn’t using the alcohol to deal with any bad feelings that ought to be handled another way.

“Rita and I used to get drunk sometimes and watch the lowest-rated streams we could find,” he said. “It was…fun.”

Rita nodded enthusiastically. “Mistah Steel would always start yelling and throwing popcorn at the screen!”

“Very well, then,” Buddy said. “I trust your judgement, Juno.”

Nureyev kept one eye on Juno as he sipped his own drink, curious. What kind of a drunk was Juno? Sobbing? Angry? …Handsy?

He folded his hope for the latter away.

Nureyev seldom ever drank, and never on the job. It was too risky. Drinking meant losing your inhibitions, losing control over your emotions, and if there was anything that Nureyev desperately didn’t want to lose, it was that. His persona was perfectly crafted. He couldn’t risk letting a bottle of wine or liquor crumble it.

He was already tipsy after his first glass, which was embarrassing. He intended to stop there- to perhaps ask for a refill, but only pretend to sip it before surreptitiously dumping it. As soon as the second one was poured, however, he found himself actually drinking it.

Something about these people made him feel safe enough to allow some loss of inhibition. That realization terrified him, but he kept drinking nonetheless.

Juno had almost finished his third glass, and only now seemed to be feeling the effects of it. He was talking more loudly than he had been before, and his eyes were slightly unfocused. He shot Nureyev a glance and the thief took another sip, mostly just to hide the blush that was creeping up his face courtesy of both the alcohol and the sight of Juno, who was looking handsomely disheveled with his hair mussed and his sweater slipped down around his shoulders.

After Jet excused himself to bed early, they somehow ended up in a game of Never Have I Ever, which Nureyev had never heard of but Juno insisted was a staple among schoolkids in Oldtown.

“All right!” Rita said. “Never have I ever…done it in a public place.”

Nureyev raised an eyebrow. “If by ‘it’, you mean sexual intercourse…” He took a drink, and then nearly spat it back out when he saw Juno drink, too.

“What?” Juno said innocently. “You drank.”

“You’re both gross,” Vespa growled at them.

“Really? In all your life, you’ve never once given in to the heat of the moment?” Nureyev asked, trying to distract himself from his own brain, which was currently insistent on conjuring up artist’s interpretations of Juno on a park bench, or in a theater, or-

“It’s private! You do it inside!”

“Sometimes you just don’t have many options!” Juno protested.

“Ugh, whatever. Here, I’ll go next…”

Nureyev was very, very bad at the game, as it turned out. What could he say: he was an adventurous man, and one who’d lived a rich life. He wasn’t going to apologize for that. It didn’t hurt that Juno was drinking almost as often as he was, either. He carefully filed away all of the lady’s responses to the various statements, mentally marking some as being in desperate need of further follow up.

Juno Steel had never swum in the ocean.

Juno Steel had set a cop car on fire.

Juno Steel had participated in a foursome.

It was all very important information. Nureyev only hoped he’d actually remember it tomorrow. That was seeming less and less likely, the tipsier he got. He tried to take small sips throughout the game, but by the time it had ended, he knew he was gone. He’d regret letting that happen once he was sober, of course, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I think that’s enough for this evening,” Buddy said after a while, seeming to sense that both Nureyev and Juno were looking rather worse for the wear.

“One more!” Rita insisted. “Never have I ever…almost fallen out a window ‘cause I was chasing after a love letter.”

“Rita!” Juno exclaimed. “I told you that in confidence! Plus, that doesn’t count. It’s targeting! That’s…against the rules!”

“There ain’t no rules, Mistah Steel!”

“Ugh, fine,” Juno said, and drank.

Nureyev couldn’t help being curious, and even- ridiculously- jealous. Who had written Juno a love letter? Who had Juno cared so much about that even he, acrophobic as he was, had been willing to nearly jump out a window to save a note from them?

By all means, it could have happened decades ago. There was no reason to be envious. Nureyev had realized that he was prone to envy when it came to Juno Steel, however, and the alcohol was likely just heightening the emotion.

“Mistah Ransom’s got a funny look on his face,” Rita commented.

“Yeah, ‘cause he knows it was his letter,” Juno grumbled.

“Really!? Mistah Steel, you never told me that!”

“…Didn’t come up.”

Nureyev froze, feeling something warm spread through him. Ah. “You…kept my note? I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t have it anymore. It got lost somewhere along the way. It’s been…a hectic past few months,” Juno said, sounding genuinely upset by the loss. Then he frowned. “What, Ransom, did you really not realize Rita was talking about your note?”

“I…”

A wide smile spread over Juno’s face. “Oh, my god. Your expression a moment ago…were you jealous of yourself!?”

Nureyev felt himself turn beet red. “N- no.”

“You were!”

Juno burst out laughing. Unlike his usual laughs, which on the rare occasions that they surfaced were quiet and restrained, almost as though he didn’t believe he was deserving of laughter, this one was loud and unburdened. It was a full body laugh, and it lit Juno up so beautifully that Nureyev could almost forget that it was at was at his expense.

Nureyev could guess, then, what kind of drunk Juno was. He was the kind whose current predominate emotion, whatever it was, was exacerbated by the alcohol. When he was sad, he’d end up crying into his drinks. When he was angry, there would be yelling and picking fights.

Right now, Juno was happy.

Even just the flickering, uncertain smiles he had shot Nureyev during their mission to retrieve the map had been enough to nearly bowl the thief over, and now here he was. Smiling a smile big enough to cut the moon in half.

“You know, one time Benzaiten won an award for having the Galaxy’s Best Smile. Can you believe that?!”

Nureyev had never known Juno’s brother, of course, and all he knew of him now came from those little glimpses that Juno gave him when he felt safe enough to voice them. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Benzaiten had deserved the accolade, though, if he had indeed had the same smile as Juno.

Juno definitely had the best smile in the entire galaxy. In all the galaxies, surely. And it made Nureyev feel emotions of an enormity that he had never before experienced. He wanted to live in that smile. He wanted to make a home in it. He wanted to lean forward, grab Juno by the face, and kiss him in front of everyone. He wanted to feel that smile against his lips.

It took every ounce of self restraint he had not to do so, and he gripped his glass, begging the last sober vestiges of himself to keep him from acting on any ridiculous notions.

He didn’t kiss Juno, thankfully.

He did do something else, though.

Crack.

“Oh. Dear,” he said. “These things aren’t very sturdy, are they?”

Before he could even realize what was happening, his glass had shattered to pieces in his hand, and his nice clothes that had surely cost the person he’d stolen them from several thousand creds were drenched in alcohol and littered with shards of glass.

“Nur- Ransom!” Juno exclaimed, immediately concerned, and in the moment all that Nureyev could think was how sad he was that the smile had vanished from the lady’s face. “What the hell happened?!”

“I believe I broke the glass.”

“Christ! Do you have the grip strength of a goddamn metal vice?” Juno’s voice sounded shocked and more than a little bit impressed. Nureyev couldn’t help feeling rather pleased about the latter. Then, suddenly, the ex-detective was back to looking concerned. “Ransom, you’re bleeding.”

He looked down at his hand. “Ah.”

“We- we need to get this cleaned up. Get you cleaned up,” Juno said. He swayed slightly as he made his way to Nureyev’s side to worriedly inspect his hand. If his drunkenness had been boosting his happiness before, it was now boosting his anxiety and fear.

“I’m all right,” Nureyev insisted. “Just a cut. Barely even hurts.” He didn’t want Juno to worry. He just wanted to see that smile again.

Vespa let out a long groan. “Ugggggggh. You two are the worst. I’ll go grab the nearest first aid kit. Ransom, Steel can get you your bandaid. I’m going to bed. You got this, Steel?”

Juno nodded. “I’ve patched myself up enough times to know how.”

“Great.”

She was back in a moment with the kit, handing it off to Juno before dragging Buddy off to bed.

“Good night, darlings,” Buddy said as she was pulled away. “Rita, I think you’d best leave them be, too.”

Rita frowned. “But what if they need my- Oooooooh. Okay.” She waved and winked comedically aggressively at Juno. “G’night, Mistah Steel and Mistah Ransom! Mistah Ransom, I hope you feel better soon!”

“Good night, Rita,” Nureyev said, feeling vaguely lightheaded. It wasn’t from the wound- that wasn’t nearly bad enough to warrant such a response. If he had to guess, it was from Juno being so close that he could feel his breath. From the soft, reverent way he was currently cleaning the cuts on Nureyev’s hands.

Juno looked up to watch Rita go. “What was that about?”

“No idea.”

Juno’s next words were softer and slightly slurred. “…Are you mad at me?”

Nureyev stared at him, completely lost. “What? Why would I be mad at you?”

“I was…I was laughing at you. Then you broke the glass. Did you break it because you were mad? Ma did that sometimes. I- I shouldn’t have laughed. Shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry-”

“Hush, Juno,” Nureyev said. “I’m not angry in the slightest. Really, it was rather funny. And I’m touched that you went that far just to rescue my note.”

“Then…why?”

“Why did I break the glass? I suppose I underestimated my own strength.”

“Why were you gripping it so hard, though?!”

What could he tell Juno? He studied his hand, not wanting to admit the truth. He couldn’t very well say, I found your smile so beautiful that if I hadn’t held onto something as hard as I could, I would have surely lunged forward and kissed you right there.

He looked up to find Juno staring at him, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“I…did not mean to say that out loud,” Nureyev said. “Apologies, Juno. I seem to be rather drunk.”

“You don’t say.” Juno snorted. A glimmer of a smile reappeared on his face, to Nureyev’s delight. “That’s really why, though? You wanted to kiss me?”

“Well, yes,” Nureyev said, flustered. “You have a very…nice smile.”

“Well, I’m not stopping you.”  

Juno suddenly looked embarrassed, almost shy. Hopeful, too.

Nureyev had lost the ability to think coherent thoughts.

“Oh. Okay,” he stammered.

He gently took Juno’s face in his freshly bandaged hand as he’d imagined doing not much earlier, and pulled him into a deep kiss. The lady’s lips were as soft and warm as always. They still tasted like drink, but also something so purely Juno that Nureyev was certain he could have gotten drunk on that taste alone.

He shifted, moving closer. Juno mirrored his actions, shuffling across the carpet to reach him, and then-

“Ow!”

Juno swore and broke away, to Nureyev’s dismay. It took him a moment to figure out what was wrong: there was still broken glass on the carpet.

“Are you all right?” Nureyev asked.

“Mm. Just pricked me. We should really get this cleaned up.” He hesitated. “On second thought, picking up glass while drunk might not be a good idea. Let’s just…mark it off so no one steps on it and then go to bed. We can deal with it in the morning.”

They did just that. Nureyev hated that even though Juno had drunk much more than him, he was the one leaning on Juno for balance as they walked back to his room. He couldn’t stop thinking about that smile. He wondered what it would take to make Juno smile like that while sober, and decided that whatever it was, he was going to figure it out.

When they reached the door to Nureyev’s room, Juno paused.

“Make sure you drink some water before you go to sleep,” he said. “And don’t use your right hand more than you have to, so it can heal.”

“I know, I know.”

There was an awkward but companionable silence for a moment. Nureyev wanted more than anything to invite Juno into his room to stay the night, but he knew he shouldn’t. They weren’t there yet, and besides, that wasn’t a step that he wanted to take while under the influence.

“I can’t believe you really broke a glass because of me,” Juno said finally, smirking.

“Oh, shush. It’s your own fault. If you hadn’t…looked like that, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, I’m so sorry. In the future I’ll refrain from ‘looking like that’.”

“Please don’t,” Nureyev said immediately.

“…Okay. Then I won’t.”

Nureyev moved to open his door, then hesitated, chewing his lip. “Juno…there’s something I need to ask you.”

Juno immediately knit his brow, his shoulders tensing. “What is it?”

“About the time you had sex in a public place-”

The ex-detective groaned loudly and gave him a good-natured shove. “I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Could you at least tell me about the foursome, then?”

“No! God, I am never playing Never Have I Ever with you guys again. Good night, Nureyev.”

Nureyev grinned. “Good night, my dear.”

[iamanartichoke]

Thank you for the tag, @teadrinkingwolfgirl!

2020 Creator Wrap

Rules: it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 5 (or so) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought to the world in 2020. tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

So, this is pretty embarrassing, insofar as I have not created much of anything this year and therefore have little to link to. So there are 2 links and 1 excerpt of a WIP. 

A Graveyard of Stars. I am actually really proud of this one. It’s the first (and only, so far) attempt I’ve made at writing Endgame!Thor, whose depression and nervous breakdown have made him a very different Thor from the one I am used to writing. I like to think I did an okay job, but more than that, it was really a great writing exercise bc I enjoyed really just exploring what I could do with the character. 10/10, would create again. 

The Sea at the End of a Cliff. A perpetual work in progress, but in my defense, I do have a plan. It’s just the “being motivated to write it” part I’m struggling with. This had a few updates this year and some pretty significant plot developments (addressing Brunn’s alcoholism, which I have been trying to do; Loki and Brunn breaking up, bc love isn’t always enough (and also angst); Dagny developing more as an OC and building a friendship with Loki; Loki and Tony developing their friendship; Loki and Thor perpetually being Loki and Thor). So even though it’s not much, I think I can still count it as a win. 

And my current work-in-progress, which started as a seed of an idea that wouldn’t leave me alone and which is a little bit complicated, plot-wise, which I’m trying to work out. My original goal was for it to be 10k, but it might end up 15k. Since I can’t link it yet, here’s an excerpt (which is a continuation of the snippet I posted recently and still needs a lot of polishing but whatever):

“I wouldn’t worry, brother,” Thor says, when Loki gives voice to his concerns - not just the long voyage to Earth but what, exactly, Thor intends to do there once they arrive. Certainly, there is no love lost for Loki. It is in all of their best interests for Loki to be long gone before the Statesman ever breaches Earth’s atmosphere. 

“I have a feeling everything’s going to work out fine,” Thor adds. 

They are standing at the huge window in Thor’s quarters, beyond which lies the vast openness of the stars. Loki glances from the window to Thor, and then back again, a flicker of a smile crossing his features. There is absolutely no reason to believe that everything is going to work out fine - and, in fact, ample reason to believe that exactly the opposite - but just for a moment, Thor’s optimism is a touch endearing. 

Instead of responding outright, Loki just inches a bit closer and nudges Thor’s shoulder with his own. It takes both of them by surprise; neither can remember the last time Loki had reached out and willingly touched Thor first. “You can be quite stupid,” Loki says, before Thor can voice it. 

Thor’s eyebrows draw together. “Why?” 

“Not everything will magically work out. It’s naive to believe that. You’re king now. Naivete is dangerous.” 

“I prefer optimistic, not naive.” Thor lifts his shoulders a bit. “We’ve just gone through Ragnarok, Loki. The end of everything. How can you blame me for wanting to believe it’ll get better from here?” 

“I don’t blame you; I just think it’s short-sighted.” 

“Stupid, you mean,” Thor supplies flatly. 

“Yes.” 

A muscle moves in Thor’s jaw, which makes Loki step away again, re-establishing the space that he’d closed a moment ago. “I suppose you think you know better? After all, you have been ruler of Asgard the past four years. Or were you too busy drinking wine and attending the theatre to concern yourself with the rest of the Nine Realms?” 

Loki hunches his shoulders, refusing to meet Thor’s gaze. He had started this conversation, but Thor’s tone grates on him now and he wishes that he’d said nothing at all. “Forget it,” he snaps. “I’ll keep my concerns to myself from now on.” 

“You be sure to do that.” Thor turns away; he stalks over to the liquor shelf and busies himself with pouring a drink. Loki watches, an odd sensation creeping over him, like he wants to crawl out of his skin. Perhaps Loki had been too blunt in calling Thor stupid, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Thor has barely stepped foot on Asgard in the last four years - it is Loki who kept the realm afloat while Thor gallavanted around the galaxy doing norns knew what. 

Of course Loki enjoyed leisure time; any king would. That did not mean he’d shirked his responsibilities toward the throne. 

Stolen throne, a tiny voice nags him, a voice Loki resolutely ignores. It’s semantics anyway. 

“What,” Thor asks, when he realizes that Loki is just staring at him. 

Loki blinks and shakes his head. He intends to say nothing; instead, what comes out is, “I just wish you listened to me.” 

“You don’t have all the answers, brother, even if you like to pretend you do,” Thor counters. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he sets down his half-empty glass. “I’m sorry. I value your opinion.” 

Loki snorts. 

“I do,” Thor insists. His gaze flickers over Loki and something in it softens. “I want you to be here with me, making decisions with me, helping me rebuild Asgard. It’s just that I hate it when you call me stupid. Always have.” 

Loki feels his shoulders slump a bit. “You’re not stupid,” he grants, “but you do stupid things. You act first, and think later. Our situation is so precarious now, I just …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I just worry.” 

“I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about the good of Asgard,” Thor responds, picking up his glass again. He takes a long swallow, so he doesn’t see the stricken look that surely crosses Loki’s face, if the way Loki’s heart drops without warning is any indication. 

Would I have come back if I didn’t? he wants to ask - but, Thor will likely just dismiss Loki’s actions as manipulative in some way, even if he had not yet figured out how. It is what always happens. 

Instead of giving voice to his hurt, Loki just shrugs. His features have recovered by the time Thor looks at him again.

My goal for January is to finish this fic, so we’ll see how it goes. But, there we are for my 2020 creations! Tagging @thelightofthingshopedfor @ms-aqua-marvella @wnnbdarklord @illwynd @lazy-cat-corner @writernotwaiting + anyone else who wants to! 

[imasimpforstevengrant]

Why do we like this clown so much?

Change the "we" for "I" and you get an usual tag I use whenever I post my content in Tumblr. And it sounds funny at first but whenever you start diving into that phrase, the deeper it becomes. So, I finally have decided to share my thoughts about this strange but wholesome attraction to this deeply flawed character. It's not something I usually do since I don't know how to write down my feelings properly and also in english so please forgive any typos (I'm from Chile so don't be surprised lol).

So...Why do we like this clown so much?

Why was it that a character precisely designed to scare and to disgust the fuck out of us ended up unchaining a series of feelings that shouldn't have taken place in a beginning?

Let's take a look at the background: Joaquin Phoenix was cast as Arthur Fleck/Joker in 2018. The first image of him as the aforementioned character revealed a deeply disturbed man. We knew the plot. A man driven to insanity after a brutal history of abuse, creating concern in people if the upcoming film would inspire real life violence. Incel violence and mass shootings, more specifically.

(the image in question)

As 2019 arrives, the two trailers generated so much hype that media needed to fuel its concern about it. Since it wasn't your typical comic book film, media basically bombed our minds making us believe this film was going to be a total disaster, an excuse to cause harm to others among other nonsense, as if the film would justify everything Arthur would do in the film, eventually. As the release date is closer, the film receives thunderous applause and unanimous praise from critics. At this, fans rejoiced and expressed impatience to watch the film.

October 5th.

People left the theaters amazed, shocked and genuinely moved by the inhuman treatment Arthur received in the film. The fear media tried so desperately to infuse in us with all the incel bullshit and such turned out to awake one of the most positive, best feelings in humans:

E M P A T H Y

The word that so gloriously cleared away any dark thoughts or actions not only proves media was wrong but it turned out to ridicule it in way nobody will forget: Hundreds of people advocating for mental illness, calling out to the kindness that could change a person's bad day and questioning how politicians and rich people are indifferent to social problems proved how much as a society we have changed in comparison with the one shown in the film.

However, since we are on Tumblr, I'll get straight to the point and try to explain why the fuck does this clown has us dying out of love and compassion (and lust).

I. Background.

As nurturing as we women are for a biological matter, we see a man deprived of a good job, is on seven different medications, working like a slave to sustain his ill mother, putting aside his own health and well-being to look for her, struggling to make his dream of being a comedian despite everyone stepping on him, underpaid and treated like a freak for a disorder he did not ask to suffer, which makes it impossible to be indifferent to all the horrible ordeal that eventually will reach the limit of what he can tolerate without going insane. It is impossible to not say or think, at least, that someone (even if it's just one person) should stand for him just as it is impossible not to feel the need to throw ourselves at him to shield him from people who hurt him or simply offer him our shoulder whenever he has had a bad day, specially when he learns he was sexually assaulted by his step father.

This horrid behaviour terrifies newer generations because they get a taste of what being a social outcast was like more than thirty years ago in comparison with today, where there's more acceptance and treatment for mentally ill people like Arthur. We see in him someone who could have been saved with a proper education and emotional support instead of descending into madness as a criminal. Others simply saw themselves being treated like him at some point in their lives and couldn't help but put themselves in his shoes.

II. Personality.

TRUTH BE TOLD:

There's something called "attraction by proximity". It is the explanation to the eventual love you feel whenever someone doesn't catch your eye at first terms of physical attraction but his/her personality does attract you. This happens to be the base of this situation. His shyness, introverted nature, tenderness and innocent desire to make people laugh and put on a happy face awake some kind of tenderness we cannot resist. This combined with the gloomy background increases our understanding (but not justifying) of the bad decisions he'll eventually take during the course of the film. This traces a line of harsh, almost hurtful contrast of the violence he shows later on the film. Once again, it is not justified in any way but it is certainly understandable.

III. Appearance.

Arthur Fleck is unconventionally attractive.

This happens to be a plus for most women. He is out of the male beauty standards (no abs, not too muscly or particularly tall), which makes him even more unique. It is precisely the fact that he's not a model one of the reasons women love him. He could easily be your man next door or your colleague or the guy you always see but never dare to talk for fear to bother him Because it's about proximity. Arthur looks like your common neighbour. He's not meant to be your typical desirable male protagonist at all.

... And yet.

Jesus Christ, he's so fucking hot I can't even---

It's not about how beautiful his green eyes are, his long slender fingers, his hair or his smile only. It's the charm behind it.

Another "magnet point" is the way he dresses. I know he's impoverished and his wardrobe tend to be repetitive but it is so unpretentious, so simple that is hard to not fall for. The modesty of the shirts, ironed trousers reminds us of a mature man deeply withdrawn into himself, love starved and longing to be seen and loved by others, like a war veteran who still fights the most important war: with himself. Is someone who needs to be listened and understood.

AND OF COURSE WHAT'S NOT TO LIKE ABOUT IT?

He's also brought back the old gentleman outfit, white shirts, red/yellow vest, red suit and elegant dancing moves and the retro style of the film boosts this attractiveness.

People keep comparing him with the previous interpretation of Joker (Leto's) whose costume appealed to young women with a tattooed, gangster, mumble rapper crazy-guy wannabe which didn't connect with the audiences (young people in general). This supposedly was to match or even have a sexy, tormented and desirable villain like Marvel's Loki. We all know how that story ended but it's the link for the next point below.

IV. Transformation

This is a particularly strong point considering how much we loved to watch the process of this weak, powerless, forgotten caterpillar into a beautiful and visible butterfly that will gracefully stir its wings for everyone to see its colours.

When Arthur transitions to the Joker, it's so cathartic to see taking revenge on those who wronged him (even when we're not supposed to root for him) like seeing his shyness fading away into a vivid confidence when dancing half naked in the bathroom, or witnessing him making way to make his name known to people in Murray Franklin's Show:

Adding to this newly gained confidence, there's another turn on: the way he walks.

At the beginning, his pace is hunched and limping, displaying his submission to violence, which makes the viewer more satisfied to see his broken yet beautiful soul turning the past pain of his existence into art: he lets music guide his moves as a way to tell the world he's a new man by cutting most of the sick, evil roots that harmed him, that he's invincible, that no one can stop him. Watching this cathartic display of euphoria was the most iconic scene in the film, following his speech at the TV and the inevitable meltdown that caused Murray's death.

Going to further appreciation, even his clown make up is beautiful. Why? Simple. The combination of colours, shapes and the intimidating glare just embellishes even more the character.

The dark blue triangles in his expressive eyes makes the light green colour to highlight, specially in dark backgrounds, giving the impression he's piercing your soul whenever he stares directly at the camera. Same can be said about the red smile and emerald green hair. They boost an already intimidating look.

The cold and warm colours paint a picture of a man full of intense emotions, mirroring it in a simple yet masterful artistic way.

Another interesting point is the way Joker dresses. Usually we had almost every single live adaption of this character in purple coat, hat, etc. But this particular version is not following any comic, which gives more freedom to creativity and once again, out of the standards of what we could have expected.

Red is a colour related to passion, action, love, strength, motivation and excitement. As for yellow, it indicates freshness, happiness and enlightenment and finally, green. Green is renewal, growth and regeneration. Colours that represent a new stage in his life, a mirthful chapter at last. We finally get to see our battered, always humiliated protagonist (or hero) descending into madness, but finally free from his repressed man who held his soul captive like a bird to fly away, to never come back. An insanity that despite being his downfall, turned out to be his ticket to freedom as he walks to the light in Arkham Asylum dancing at the end.

Ladies and gentlemen: behold the film nobody asked... But the film we fucking deserved.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk

❤️💚💛

[rokutouxei]

together through the fog

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | 2518

Born frailer than your average pureblood vampire, she's doomed to need fresh human blood—not just rouge—to survive. Drinking from them will cost more than just blood: and she doesn't want to make them pay that price, especially not the one she loves the most. What decisions are you free to make when you don't really have a choice—and how is Theo going to convince her that staying a little longer isn't so bad if he's with her? 

chapter 2 of 3

“A gallery?”

“Yes, a gallery,” she says, once more, not blinking. “Are you even listening to me, Theo?”

It’s been two weeks since his last visit to her at the mansion. He would have preferred to come a little more often, but he is not the boss of his work most days. He blinks and shakes his head side-to-side as if shaking himself awake.

“No, I am listening. Setting up a gallery to host artists is one thing, but making a permanent exhibition?” he asks again. He doesn’t dare to finish with the rest of the unsaid sentence of it’s as if you’re dying and giving your collection away. He knows that’s what it means.

Especially with what Sebastian told him last week.

“Sir Theodorus, I don’t think I have the right—”

“That makes it even more suspicious, do you realize that?”

He had just asked the butler whether or not the lady of the house was entirely alright—if she was harboring any sort of secret ills, or a lament that Theo ought to know about. The butler cringed at having been caught, carefully wringing his hands behind his back.

“The miss... is rather ill, but she refuses to seek treatment.”

“…Refuse? Why would she?”

“Sir, that’s entirely out of my bounds to say now,” Sebastian insists, shaking his head. “But if I may—please do what you can to convince her. You might be the only one who has the ability to do so.”

The Comtesse, however, was unnerved by his statement, simply going back to her usual cup of tea, which seemed a little… more red than usual. “A permanent exhibition makes a statement. That is what we want, isn’t it?”

“We want the artists to get the credit they deserve, not the Academie to come after your neck,” Theo emphasizes. “Aristocrat or not, there’s a high chance that you will still be targeted for setting up an exhibit like that.”

“Then let them do it,” she insists. “If they have nothing better to do, I can entertain them for a little bit.”

-

Even if it is not aligned to his wishes—and he knows that beneath it, there is a hidden thing going on—Theo does not argue about her setting up the gallery as she desired. After all, she had already purchased the building by the time she contacted him, and regardless of his help, she would be setting up the exhibit as she pleased. He wasn’t the only art dealer she knew, after all.

It was a lonely day, the day they hauled the paintings out of the mansion and into the carriages that would bring them to the gallery. He requested to be there even if he didn’t have to, and he watched as the workers they hired hauled armfuls of Monets and Rembrandts and—of course—even van Goghs. He joined her in walking along the hallways of the mansion looking for any missed pieces. She had decided to strip the mansion’s walls empty of any paintings, save for those that were family heirloom.

They find an imitation of Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog still hanging in her bedroom, which she kindly asks him to take down without much emotion.

It was as if she was going away somewhere else, somewhere far away, and she did not have the heart to bring the paintings with her, so they would have to part right here.

Theo does not like the sinking feeling of it in his gut.

“This isn’t an original, isn’t it?” he remarks, even if he already knew. She nods as he comes down the chair to set the painting down on the floor, lightly dusting the frame. “It seemed to be of your liking.”

“I grew up around romantic paintings, Theo,” she answers. “The style might not be a direct copy of Friedrich’s, but the essence is still there. And that’s the point—it’s the essence that always counts.”

“Perhaps an original Friedrich would be to your tastes as well,” he offers, as he hauls the painting up into his arms to carry it downstairs. “There’s an exhibition to be held downtown in a few days. Maybe you would like to accompany me.”

She nods. “Mm, an authentic Friedrich would enrich this collection, wouldn’t it?” When she brushes past him on her way out of the door, Theo can see how pale she’s become, much paler than she regularly is. He remembers Sebastian’s words. Feels a sense of dread rise up. “Consider it done then. Won’t you fetch me up here on the day?”

“In three days,” he says. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

-

The exhibit is a quiet place to be. Friedrich’s paintings have always held that sense of solitude and sadness that was out of favor—in comparison to the beautiful sunlit fields and landscapes—and even now, fifty and so years after his death, no matter how strong his work is in terms of composition, he remains largely not that well-known.

The exhibit gallery is a good place to be alone.

She’s wearing a somber, dark blue dress whose subtle golden accents match with her earrings. She has always worn around her that subdued kind of beauty, but today, she looks even more toned-down than usual. Every minute of the trip to the city he had expected her to cough up a lung, or maybe faint, or something that will assure him: yes, something is wrong. Yes, you must do something. No, you can’t just keep watching.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she holds her posture up like any respectable Victorian woman would do and looks at the paintings with wide-open eyes. Some of these she’s seen before, for sure, but she always looks at them with a wonder Theo cannot put into words. She looks 16 again, he muses, at that gallery where they first met, wondering about art, looking for someone to talk to.

Except they aren’t that young anymore.

“Theo, what do you feel about death?”

They are standing in front of the original version of Wanderer above a Sea of Fog, out of earshot from the rest of the visitors to the exhibit, when the question is asked. Theo instantly turns to her with a kind of fear, but her face is placid; calm; like she had instead asked what the weather was, or what was the color of her dress.

“Inevitable,” is what he decides to answer, looking back up at the painting when she just patiently waits for him to speak. “Its inevitability is comforting.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re always striving to be better than the next person, but death—death will strike us all equally in the end,” he explains. “At the end of the day, it is all insignificant. The world is vast. All that matters is we do what we can, for the things we hold important.”

She nods quietly.

Theo feels like he ought to say something. Pull something out of his pocket about Friedrich, twist it on his tongue until it sounds about him but is, in truth, about her. Something about understanding the depth of loneliness in the vast abandoned spaces of his paintings and yet seeing it in a beautiful light. Something about reframing the solitude into one that is beautiful instead of frightening. Something about the acceptance of it.

But every train of thought brings him back to the very human fear of death. That while it is comforting, one does not necessarily want to look it in the eye so soon. He does not want to talk to her about death. He wants to talk to her about staying.

“Theo, I know you know, so you don’t need to hide it.”

When he snaps back to reality she is no longer looking at the painting, but at him, a gentle smile on her face.

“Then we can skip the questions and I can ask you why you’re not getting treatment.”

“That’s… not your question to ask,” she tries to say, but—

“I’m your friend,” he answers back. “Let me be concerned.”

The truth is that she does want to tell him—always had—but it’s always been a matter of knowing where to begin. There is too much to say, too much to parse, too much to nuance… and if doing those meant hurting him, why ever would she tell him?

But what now that not doing it would also hurt him?

“I’ve always wanted to be human,” she begins. “To live even if life is one tragedy after another. To accept that the world might… really never go in or favor. But I wasn’t born into that.” she looks down at her feet. “This death, this frailness… this is the closest I can get to that. I want to understand what it’s like.”

“What more do you have to know?” he asks. “I heard. You’ve been ill for years. No human in their right mind would accept being ill for so long without some attempt at recovery.”

“I am not human,” she insists. “Besides, I made a choice.”

“What choice?”

“About—” She catches herself and then softly laughs, turning to him with a smile. “How much did Sebastian tell you?”

“Enough—is what I thought, but it seems like not quite,” he answers.

Quiet. There’s a guilt that gnaws in her belly for not having been honest with him all this time. For not telling him outright. About this. About her. About everything. But she knows she only did that for his own sake. She just didn’t want to hurt him.

“Friedrich comforts me because his paintings understand what my life has been like,” she says, instead. “He knows what it’s like to know this loneliness.”

And I don’t want you to know what that’s like, her mind finishes. She wishes, deep in her heart, that Theo can hear the unfinished bits of her sentences.

“I see Friedrich a little differently.”

“Oh?” she looks up at him curiously. “Tell me about it then.”

“I don’t know how much you know about the artist himself,” he begins, “but Friedrich was alone at a young age. He was seven when his mother died. Several of his siblings died soon after. One was said to have died after an attempt of rescuing him from death.”

A kind of somber smile fills her face. “That explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

“He preferred painting landscapes, as you can tell. He forayed with portraiture and even watercolor as well, but—he eventually turned to oil and landscapes. And he unearthed something in them.” Theo pulls his gaze away from her, onto the rest of the paintings hanging on the walls of the gallery. “His contemporaries painted landscapes as well, not just him. Hackert, von Dillis. But his is different.”

“They are,” she agrees, looking up at the View of the Baltic from the other side of the room. “His landscapes are lonelier.”

Theo nods. “Indeed. But that’s only because he did not fear the loneliness that would come out of the images that were drawn. He did not shy away from that solitude, the harshness of nature. The deep sky in Winter Landscape. The shadows of the forest in The Chasseur in the Forest.”

“Why would he fear loneliness when he’s known it for so long?”

“This one,” Theo says, pointing up at the painting in front of them, “is it lonely?”

She blinks. “A single human looking down at the jagged cliffs below? It is.”

And Theo smiles. Smiles so openly she feels herself stutter inwardly because of it. “To me, it isn’t.” He focuses his sea-blue eyes onto the painting in front of them, in all its oil and canvas glory. “To me, it’s… reflective. Empowering. One man, standing over the rest of eternity, symbolized in the jagged cliffs in front of him. There is so much out there—so much to fear, but he stands there, walking stick in hand, facing the fog as if saying: come at me. I am not afraid of you.”

She is quiet. How does one respond to something like that anyway? An opening of his heart she didn’t expect him to do, and in a way that has left her breathless.

He finally turns to her after what seems like an infinite length of silence. “I don’t know what you think being human means. But to me—the human—this is what it means. The recklessness. The hardheadedness. And even if the dark knocks all of the fight out of a person—they will punch right back, even if it is all they can do to acknowledge the darkness.” Then, quietly, a wordless bid of support, he offers his arm for her to take. “I think you ought to consider that option too.”

She laughs quietly, sliding her arm around his. “You want me to punch it away? Let’s see what that will do.”

“There’s no knowing until you try, mademoiselle,” he says, half-sarcastically, as the both of them make their way out of the gallery.

-

She tells him they should part at the gallery’s doorstep but he insists to send her back home, and he is in the carriage before she can even say no. They spend the next half hour quiet on the way back to the mansion. Theo feels like he ought to say something more. He does not have anything more to say.

There’s no convincing a dead man out of their grave.

When they get to the door, she asks Sebastian to escort Theo out of the mansion. When the butler doesn’t, she makes a soft comment about disliking disobedient men—but then lets Theo stay anyway, following her all the way to right at the doorway of her room, where she shuts the door behind her.

For a long, quiet moment, they stay there. Theo, with his forehead against the door from the outside, and her, back against the door as she sits on the floor, exhausted, body heaving with pain, head spinning. She doesn’t have much longer. She never did. The opening of her gallery is in one more week. What if she doesn’t make it till then? Will she be able to leave it in Theo’s hands? Perhaps she ought to give him money, or perhaps—

“The artists would want to see you,” he says, from outside the door. Her heart falls flat to the ground. Theo knows where it hits.

She takes a deep breath and answers back—as clearly as she can when her voice is already shaking. “Please give them my greetings.”

And then, he bangs his fist one time against the door; but on her side it feels hollow, empty. Will she even make it through the night at this rate? “You have to get the treatment you need.”

But to her, the “truth” is what she believes in, what she promised herself she would get, and so—“Theo, it’s not worth it. Please leave me.”

He calls out her name in the weakest of voices and she says—

“Please.”

[part0714]

A Revelation little by little

So here I am, 38 years old with 3 kids having panic attacks almost every day. I’m on 5 different medications and I’m still a hot mess. What is a girl to do? Maybe write.

I just want to stop having panic attacks. They are a bit a hindrance when taking care of a family. I tried to look back to see where it all went wrong. As I looked back in time, I have realized that I haven’t stopped long enough in life to even realize how far I have come, how different I am from the person I was 20 years ago.  So here I am. Me : who am I? The last thing I remember of that person inside was a college girl whose biggest concern was if my tan looked good, if I was in perfect shape, if my make up and hair was on point.

Now?

Make up? Me:what’s that brush for? Spray? There’s a spray now? You spray stuff on your face? Contouring? Are we all make up artists now? These days all I know is how to put lotion on my face. That’s it.

In shape? Now, my goal isn’t to be perfectly pretty. It’s to be healthy enough to not die from high cholesterol.

And there’s the tan. The color of my skin never even occurs to me anymore. Let’s accomplish the basics first.

So, now that I’ve covered who I was then. Who am I now? Cue panic attack.

I am 38. I am on medications to prevent seizures, anxiety (clearly not working), insomnia and migraines(not really working wither) and also medication for adult acne.

I have 3 kids. It would be so simple to end at that. But no. One has sickle cell. It has been countless trips to hospital, transfusions, surgery, sickness and pain. There’s no way to relax and forget about it as she needs medications daily along with temperature checks and a constant reminder to hydrate.

Then there’s my other two. Perfectly healthy. No. Hold up. Wait a minute.WAS perfectly heathy. My oldest (almost 14) who loves soccer, and in my eyes the star of the team has turned yellow.

Yellow? Yes. Out of nowhere. Girl straight up turned yellow.That started months ago. Now it’s a waiting game. Tests after tests. Still no answers. Her liver and spleen are swollen and now she’s stuck on the bench while we wait to figure out how to fix her. After a liver biopsy, we are one step closer. 

So far my youngest is still still hanging in there with no problems other than being an energetic boy.

I recently made a TIKTOK about my worries. That went wrong. I got a comment “hopefully You’re not making your kids sick.” That cut deep. I try so hard to not JUST keep them healthy, but I try to have them in sports, art, or something that enhances their growth to create strength, joy, and to be overall proud of themselves.

BUT, the “Karen” wasn’t wrong. How could that not cross people’s mind? I now have 2 out of 3 kids with serious health problems. It hurts my heart that they are children going through such things. Their health should be the least of a kids worry and concern. Not only does watching them go through this hurt, but now I can’t vent without people presuming I am the cause of their problems.

AND THERE IT IS! A revelation. Maybe only a piece of my stress. I have felt that it was my fault. Sickle cell is genetic. We sought counseling before getting pregnant. What we didn’t know was the Dr. we saw was ignorant. So , there I was watching my little girl vomit and almost pass out while nurses ran to her. She was getting some blood exchanged to be able to have surgery. That was the moment I thought, ““This is my fault.”

I cried 

It was my fault this sweet child has to go through this. It’s genetic. In my logical mind I know it’s not my fault, but it feels like I am. Well I think that’s enough “growing for today.” See you next time

[blackfemmecharacterdependency]

16. Faith in Grace

She had been working on her artwork again. The first time she got interested in it was whenever she was in the institution. Prior to that, whenever she wanted art, she had gotten it from The Apex, namely 808. So, that was who she “turned to,” while making her therapeutic artwork. She became a muse of sorts, even if it had only been for a time, and even if Grace didn’t even realize it at the time. 

Whenever she was locked up, she had been asked about her goals. It was a really bizarre question and it took her and her psychiatrist a long time to even get her to the point of comprehending just what the woman was asking. Basically, she wanted to know what Grace wanted out of her treatment, her life, and herself. At the time, all Grace wanted was to take care of her Apex family. So, her goal was, “To go home,” and whatever that entailed was what she was willing to do.

Her parents were there frequently, having every possible visit that they could have with her. She was awkward every time, barely remembering the days when she wanted their attention so much that she had literally risked her entire life just to be noticed. She felt so stupid now. The only way for her to NOT feel stupid was to try to forget that girl ever existed. Whoever she was when she was 10 and left these people, she certainly was not by the time she was 18, and that kid had been beaten to death, as far as she was concerned. She wasn’t trying to ever revive her. RIP to Grace Monroe, but I’m different.

Still, she felt for the Monroes. She herself had personally lost two kids, right before her own eyes, and several others out of sight. She knew that it was hard for them, maybe even as hard, if not harder for them as it was for her, looking at them. She tried not to be angry with them for never finding her, for giving up, moving on, and letting her rot away on the streets. She blamed them for having to watch herself burn and to come through the fire as someone whose face seemed unfamiliar to herself and whose hands were so drenched in blood that she seriously wondered if they would ever be clean. But… getting along with these, now, complete strangers was part of the proof that she was growing, and ready for release. It took her a couple of years to convince anybody - her parents, her doctors, hell, herself that she was capable of doing anything besides play acting as a person and getting violently angry when nobody was convinced.

Her doctor asked, “What do you think keeps you from showing your real feelings?”

“Showing my real feelings is why I’m HERE and not with my family.”

“Your family comes to see you all of the time and you never seem to really want to engage with them.”

“Ugh. Not the Monroes. The Apex!”

“Do you want to talk more about them?” 

Grace had been avoiding it. She worried that no matter WHAT this woman said, the police would storm through the abandoned train or the warehouse and take all of them away, separate them and never let them see each other again. But, maybe if she was careful, and didn’t give away any clues, that wouldn’t happen. She DID want to talk about them. She thought about them every waking moment. “They were my kids. I was their leader. I’m responsible for them, and now, 747 has to take care of them. He’s good for a few days, maybe, and it’s a really big maybe, a few weeks… But, for how long I’ve been away from them… For all I know, 152 has to take care of them… and I don’t know if he has the stomach. Maybe 1K will step in. Just maybe… but… I’m not there, so I can’t know for sure. Somebody could be murdering one of them right now, for all I know. Every time I try to sleep, I see their blood spilling. I wake up with it on my hands…” She hugged herself, crying now. “There was nothing left of Hazel to even hold. It wasn’t like with Todd. Todd’s face was gone, but I got to hug him, to apologize. Hazel was… there were remains, but it was like… saying goodbye to… to… wreckage. Human wreckage. Other people killed them, but MY hands were supposed to be holding theirs. They weren’t supposed to die. They weren’t supposed to have to hurt that way.”

“There are a lot of things that happen that feel like they aren’t supposed to.Some can argue that nothing is supposed to happen. That things happen as a result of millions of other threads and that none of them can be foreseen by those that they happen to. You say that you were meant to protect these kids, but you couldn’t have been there for each and every one of them every moment of every day. One of the most human things in the world is to expect more of ourselves than humanly possible, and those expectations are magnified in childhood. Whenever you consider all of the chronic trauma you were going through, and add all of these elements into your development, you should treat yourself with the same gentleness that you intend to treat your kids. If you could give them anything at all right now, what would it be?”

“I can’t give them anything…” Grace said, helplessly.

“Imagine it this way… If you had all the power in the world, all the money, all the access to everything good and right, what would you do for them?”

“Oh! I would put them up in nice places to live - with warm beds and complete meals. They wouldn’t have to steal or break into somewhere for that. They’d have it everyday. Food, clothing, shelter… That seems like the kind of stuff that should be free to all kids, no matter who they are. So, I’d probably see who I can talk to about making it so that it’s illegal not to feed and clothe and shelter kids. I mean… They say it IS illegal, but it's not /illegal/ illegal. Like, sure, if you’re not giving that stuff to your kid and somebody calls the kiddie people on you and they come in and see that the kids don’t have it, after they’ve told you a few times to get your act together, they’ll take the kids and put them somewhere where they’ll have the stuff, but it’s like cheap stuff and in a place with a bunch of strangers and stuff. And if the parents CAN’T give the kids that stuff… They shouldn’t have to go live in a kiddie prison. Lot of those Apex kids came from group homes and stuff because their parents lost them. From how they explain the system to me, it didn’t sound like programs were really there to help them at all - just to maybe stop people from hurting them, IF anybody even noticed. Some of the kids… nobody did notice and they left home on their own, wound up getting taken. That's not fair. There should never be remedial action for taking care of kids. From the moment that they’re born, whether or not their parents can afford it, they should be given everything that they need.”

“You want your kids to have needs. Is there anything else?”

“Of course! There’s loads else. They get sick and we try to figure out the meds. I’d make sure that they can see real doctors and get real meds. Make sure that they get real help for ailments and stuff. And then there’s the ones that still have dreams. They still wanna do cool stuff with their lives one day. 808 wanted to be an artist and go to France. I’d make sure that she got to do that, and stuff like that. I don’t know! There’s like a thousand kids! I can’t tell you every single thing that they need in one little sitting!”

“That’s okay. To sum it up, it sounds to me that if you had nothing holding you back, what you would be willing to give them all is everything that they need to live their best lives and in addition to that, the things that would make them happy.”

“Yeah,” Grace said. ‘ Obviously,’ she thought.

“I want to challenge you to do something.”

“I love a challenge.”

“I want to challenge you to give everything that you have the power to give, and give all of that to yourself.”

“What.”

“Everything that you need? Accept it. Everything that you want? Embrace it. Take the power and the resources that being here allows you and treat yourself, with those, like you would one of your kids.”

Grace struggled with this. Sure, she had been known to be very self absorbed and even egotistical to a huge degree, but the fact of the matter was that her kids were her responsibility… But… She guessed… Now, SHE was her responsibility. What the hell did she even “want,” now. Books.

Grace had always been an avid reader, and whenever she was kidnapped, that didn’t go away. Sure, it was a couple of years before she was able to read regularly, but she would definitely always gather up books from those book donation bins when she was at the warehouse and she stole so many books over the years from stores, stands, and even the library, that she could confidently say that she read everyday for at least the past 6 years. It was the only way that she had to do things. She had been a little behind on the Internet, since she wasn’t really allowed on it by herself whenever she was taken, and by the time she was the leader, they were able to get into public libraries whenever something serious came up and they didn’t know what to do (and if you’re wondering, the reason that they didn’t think to look up their parents or things like that was because Grace was the oldest… and it definitely didn’t occur to her that you could find people on that thing. She wasn’t even fully cognizant of what social media even was). The concept of “You can find anything on the internet,” in her mind meant articles about what to do when a kid is allergic to beestings and has been stung, or pictures of turtles and cats, She felt so STUPID now…

Reading was a good escape for a while, but after a few weeks, she began to lose focus a lot, or rather, she would be focusing on a lot of different things. The fact that she was nurturing herself while her kids were still out there alone, every kid’s face, what they must be thinking after having seen her pummel Bugle with a bat.. “Reading isn’t working!” she complained. Nobody had told her that she had to read, nor that reading would “work” to help her with her feelings. She had desired to read. 

So, the psychiatrist confirmed, “Would you like to try another activity besides reading?”

She nodded, aggressively and nodded her head. That was when her parents paid for art classes. She was able to have one on one, supervised lessons and they of course, chose the finest that they could afford, for the situation… and they doubled the pay. Grace didn’t love learning, but new experiences brought her joy.

She was trying to recreate symbols that 808 had created in her graffiti and doodles. She would try to remember how the girl had drawn names together, or made a pattern out of their numbers, or even the general structure of how she made faces. She couldn’t… but she had begun drawing now, getting why it had been so effective in taming 808. It wasn’t that it was necessarily calming - in fact, for Grace, drawing often had an opposite effect of calm, but it was… distracting.

She didn’t think about all of the different things that her brain would rush through whenever she was set on trying to create something. She drew odd pictures of Hazel being a turtle, transforming, or hiding out in her shell, waiting for the dangers to go away before she peeked out. She drew her as a girl, enjoying life with the Apex, being happy and perfect. She drew her as an angel. She wondered… Did she make it to some other place, or was her legacy simply a cautionary tale for street kids? ‘Don’t trust strangers or run away from home. You might wind up in a gang and get crushed by a train.’ Or was there more to life, and if there was, what was out there?

Grace had never thought about that before. Her first 10 years were all about appearance and reputation. Growing up seeing her mother on magazine covers, many of which were immortalized in frames in their home, she aimed for beauty and poise. Her mother’s walk always reminded her of a melody, as the woman was performing, even when there was not a camera in sight. Her walk was a strut down the runway and her speech was a charming interlude to an neverending ball, filled to capacity with important people.

In the home, Grace realized that she couldn’t remember how her mother looked. She had forgotten her father’s face ages ago, but she would steal mirrors whenever she was younger and if she looked in one, for a while, she would see her mother. They had the same face. As she grew up, she still looked into mirrors, but her mother’s face had faded. Her own face had faded. Did she ever look like the woman that she used to call “Mom?” Did she always look like this girl in the mirror? 

  A thing about the latter numbers - they came a little bit later and a little more stretched apart. The couple of years that the first 500 were brought in, they’d come from a variety of places and situations. Any addict with a jones might have traded their kid for cash, any gang member trying to get street cred might have handed over some unattended kid that they found in the park to a steward in exchange for a weapon or something to sell and build on. The first 500 had been more organized of an operation, as far as secrecy and hiding, but it had been kind of erratic and messy in handling business. The first 500 had been hard to figure out how to feed and house and keep under control. 

But, the first 500 had gotten this little bit of information from the stewards about the first 100. 

According to the stewards, the first 100 were hard to control and hard to hide, so they had taken all of the ones that they couldn’t control and disfigured them. Harder to fight back when you only had one hand. Harder to talk back when you didn’t have a tongue. Harder to run away when your legs had been broken. Of course, they were too young to know that damaging kids in such a way made them virtually useless, so the fear of being cut or broken was enough for many of them. For those it wasn't, there were the vanishing tales. The first 100, even the ones who had been good and smart, along with those disfigured and virtually useless had to be sold off quick for a pending raid. They were sold to some foreign business man and what happened to them beyond that was up to the steward telling the tale’s discretion.

Grace had heard that those with any use were put to work and that the useless ones were locked in a freezer and used as meat to feed the worker children. It was a scary thought whenever she first heard it. But. As she got older, she thought it was inspirational. Either you have use and you use your skills to further things, or you’re useless and will be discarded, replaced, or eaten. It made her mindful of figuring out what good the kids were for (much like the steward who took the money and ran told her) - with her gifts, she was worth more to the stewards than some of the other kids. 

So, whenever kids came in, any after 500, when it was a slow business of getting new kids and more of an industry of maintaining the child slaves that they had, Grace was usually the one trying to assess them and appraise them. She would take those with value under her wings and keep them close, and help them navigate. The ones that she didn’t do this with, she tried not to think about how hard their journey might be… where they might wind up… in the belly of a beast or at the bottom of the river. Alexandria was one of those kids… not the ones that she took under her wing… one of the ones she expected to wind up in the river. 

First off, she didn’t pay attention. She didn’t listen. She didn’t assimilate or adjust. She was always trying to run away. The stories of getting maimed didn’t scare her. The thought of being eaten didn’t move her. But, the idea of spending the rest of her life in the warehouse, unable to draw and paint and make things beautiful or feel things that she enjoyed… 808 preferred the idea of death. She also preferred the practice of self preservation. It befuddled the others. 

Because before her, both things weren’t optional. Who chooses both themselves and death? Who chooses not to listen, but also to protect themselves? Who would come to a place like this and try to both make the best of it, and also to do everything in their power to make it difficult? 808. That was who. 

“What do we make of the new girl?” Xander wondered.

“She’s really scared,” Heath said. “She’s like 747 was. We need to help her.”

Grace shook her head, “I don’t think she can be helped. She’s gonna be fish food before too long, and I don’t want her to drag any of you down with her whenever she gets tossed out.”

“You thought the same things about 7,” Heath reminded her. Xander gasped. “And now, he’s the most helpful kid here.”

Grace shrugged her shoulders. “You’re free to check. If it turns out that I’m wrong, I’ll eat crow. But, I’m positive, that girl is not one of us.” She wondered how 808 was, when they were apart, more than anybody else. She was Xander’s girlfriend, so maybe she was helping him to hold things together out there. But, what if she wasn’t? What if something happened to her, or to them, or to him? Were they gonna see Hazel and Todd again? Were they gonna just be dead and gone and haunting her dreams for the rest of her life?

“When people die, do they go to a good place?” She asked, drawing sketches of the Apex, in her own developing style. 

“There are a lot of different perspectives about it.” 

“What’s yours?”

“It isn’t actually something that is professional to discuss with you, but I assure you, whatever your perspective is, I wouldn’t judge you or try to lean you in a different direction, so long as your perspective isn’t harming anyone.”

“Do they have books about it?”

“Millions of them.”

“I need some. Do we have some in the library?”

“We have various subjects. Next library visit, we can ask them for something that you might be looking for.”

Grace began to study religion and philosophy a lot. She began to research psychology and sociology in her busy time. She began to take proper classes again and try to revisit her love of foreign languages and dance. She started… relaxing into the idea that she might be able to do more to help the Apex if she was better, herself, and if she didn’t get better as a person, then she would put her street smarts to work and get better as a hustler, so she could get the hell out of there and back to her family. 

A few key things happened whenever she was into her studies and training herself to act like a normal person… She began to attend mass at the chapel - this institution was affiliated with a hospital, affiliated with a church. She hadn’t ever in her life thought about rebirth or resurrection or restoration. She had never thought about salvation. But, it sounded interesting. Not the parts about self sacrifice and worshiping God… but the parts about repenting from old ways, and becoming a new creature, a new person, washed clean and living with purpose. That all sounded like nice stuff and the chaplain was pretty sweet, so she liked to use this, too, as a distraction.

The other thing was that she was given, by this sweet chaplain, a comprehensive book of saints. She began drawing her friends as saints, each and every one of them, but never herself. Something didn’t feel right about that. Somebody else had to declare you a saint. A church or whatever, but like… for her own artwork, anybody she chose could be a saint, who would stop her? 

“Joan of Arc killed people!” she said, excitedly. “She led troops! She was a soldier, a fighter, a leader. She was fighting for her people, against oppressors… against monsters…” 

“You seem to be enjoying your book. Do you identify with or maybe even look up to Joan of Arc?”

“I identify!” She cheered. “But, what’s even more interesting… She flipped through the pages, which had been tagged, and notated, the whole book through, is that she claimed to have been counselled by Catherine of Alexandria, who, while not a warrior in her day was a leader, a scholar, and one badass bitch. She was so eloquent and confident and fearless. Imagine that - not fearing death, for what you believe in? And IF, IF she DID counsel Joan of Arc, she also believed in retribution. She believed in battle. She believed in bloodshed, if it was right…”

Her life was changed. She didn’t get any visits from saints, or have any visions, but she suddenly felt like she knew who she was, who she had to become, and what she needed to do. No… it didn’t occur to her to start killing aggressors or to avenge the Apex… that was already inside of her, and she had killed before and wasn’t hesitant of doing so again. What this did was give her faith in something that she wasn’t sure that she really had before… herself. A woman on a mission with a belief, a brain and bravery could change the world and make history, and she was such a woman. After she was released, she changed her name and started this new life, this uncertain mission. 

First and foremost, she would lead the Apex to society, get their needs met - food, clothing, shelter, healthcare, etc. She would not have called herself a saint, but she did change her name to St. Catherine, so… yeah, she would… a little bit. Who was going to stop her?

It made her think of 808, though. She wasn’t around whenever Grace went looking for them. She had moved on. The last Sunny knew of, Tuba had offered her a place, but she promised to get word to her that Grace was back. Grace went to find her, to apologize to Tuba, and explain why she felt she had to do what she did, to look at Bugle, but she felt no need to apologize to her. She wouldn’t have comprehended it anyway. 808 had a tattoo, by then. Grace didn’t know what it was supposed to be, at first, but noticed it was a lit ball bomb. Cute. She was only 16, but Grace imagined that she probably did that to herself. Tuba was far more understanding than expected. She had already heard the full story, What Bugle had done to Hazel… it was understandable how Grace had reacted. But, whenever she invited 808 to come along with her, because she knew of a place where they could have all their needs met and be free, Alexandria laughed in her face, “Grace… I AM free. I’m the free-est that I’ve ever been. No thanks to you. You, who left us and went and got yourself all cleaned up and fancy.” She picked up one of Grace’s locs, “My, how your hair has grown…”

Grace sighed and pulled something out of her backpack, “I was thinking about what you said that you wanted to do. You wanted to go be an artist, in France…” I’ve been looking into it and I found an art school in France. You can make a portfolio and we can…”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She looked at Alexandria’s expression. She looked furious. She looked like she wanted to hurt her. “You vanished for a year, got yourself taken care of, and you think that you get to just come back here and just dangle some childhood dream of mine in my face and what, I’ll just throw my arms around you and take you back? You never wanted me anyway. You never felt like I was one of you. Why are you here?”

Grace twisted the printout in her hands, “I… was wrong. You were one of us. You were always somebody that I leaned on, 808…”

“ I NEVER reclaimed my number, you just always insisted that I do!

Nobody calls me that shit anymore!” She hissed. 

“Alexandria,” Grace said. She looked down at the ground. The thought that she wouldn’t be received with love by everybody never crossed her mind. She presumed that they all would be just as happy to see her as she was to get back to them, and it had been a long, LONG time since she hadn’t seen 808 as one of them. Alexandria… “If you ever changed your mind about the school, I have a scholarship with your name on it.” She extended the papers and Alexandria snatched them from her hand and tossed them aside. “ I thought about you a lot whenever I was in there. I took some art classes to try to get as good as you, but it didn’t pan out,” she laughed nervously, sadly. Alexandria softened, She wasn’t sure WHY she was so mad at Grace. Grace had always held her close to her side, even though she had a feeling that she didn’t like her as much as the others, she trusted her and seeing Grace sad caused a very visceral reaction inside of her. Grace pulled out a rolled up canvas and handed it to her, “My best work… It’s you, but as Joan of Arc.” Alexandria accepted that a little more gently than she did the papers, and as Grace walked away, she unrolled it and cried, for the first time in a while, definitely since Grace hadn’t been around, but maybe longer than that, much longer.

“Grace!” The woman turned and Alexandria rolled the artwork back up, “It’s beautiful. It’s really nice. Your style is amazing.” Grace bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders, but her eyes looked a little less sad, and Alexandria felt such a rush, from just that one moment of effecting Grace Monroe. SHE had moved Grace. She… mattered to her… She watched her go and cried harder. She never did make it to that art school, but she was able to take the scholarship money and open her tattoo shop whenever she finished her apprenticeship, so… she… did in a way feel like she owed Grace, whenever she next called upon her, and the way that Grace would light up when she saw her and treat her like an equal, some of the time… it was better than dopamine. It was… enough to keep her in that web that Grace spun, whether she intended to or not. 

It was why, even though she knew Grace was upset with them all, it gave her butterflies to know that Grace wanted her to check on her, to come see about her. She wouldn’t do it, Grace was too upset and she didn’t want to have to face her after what she had done… but she did love that feeling it gave her when she knew that Grace cared. That she mattered to Grace. 

That simp O was right about it that night. She… had an effect on people, on Alexandria. She wouldn’t go by to see her, but she did send her a piece of artwork with a fancy scripted note that read, “I’m sorry,” on the top

Grace unrolled the canvas and saw the image of herself, painted as a saint. Catherine of Alexandria, and it read: Grace St. Catherine. Grace opened the card and written in Alexandria’s handwriting was a question, “Did you know that Catherine mentored Joan of Arc?” and on the back, “Of course you did. Show off.” But, Grace read it in Alexandria’s voice and knew just the smartass inflection that sent it from a pissy declaration into a show of her jaded affection. She turned to Simon and said, “Alexandria finally checked in with me! Look at what she made me!” She was very excited and awestruck. “She’s so talented. So talented. Always was.” Simon had to listen to her gush about how Alexandria and Xander used to splice their names together when they tagged places, how they were Xan and Xan and called their ship name Xannax and other… things… that he not only didn’t care about but hated to hear. He didn’t like them. He would get along with them for her benefit, but those were not his allies. He definitely would use them for what he needed - to get all of this Date Night shit out of the way and in the read view mirror, so that he could FINALLY have Grace all to himself and she wouldn;t have to worry about this mission that almost got her killed for a bunch of ingrates who not only would rip the two of them apart if they could, would resort to trickery to do so, and the worst sin in his mind… leave her to die…

“I made you something too!” he interrupted, jealous and frustrated by all of this tenfold forgiveness that she granted them. To his extreme pleasure, her smile grew and her face brightened. “Well, I’m in the process of it, but I think it’s gonna be great. I think you’ll love it.” 

She smiled softly and booped his nose, “I’m sure I will,” she said. She had taken the hint. He was feeling some kind of way about her excitement over Alexandria’s gift. She didn’t think it was necessarily jealousy so much as the fact that Alexandria had done him a huge disservice by creating that fake art that sent him back down this downward spiral, and that was one of the main reasons why Grace wasn’t going to fault him too much for his… possessive ways right now. They had a lot of other things that they could focus on and work through. He was trying to live without her and thanks to her own, he had failed at that. She wasn’t going to forget that when dealing with him, nor could she forget that they were the reason that they had been apart in the first place. 49 whole days, according to Simon. It felt longer - to both of them, but he felt at least entitled to that much time for him to have her to himself  without them, and she was in no condition to entertain, anyway, so she found that not only agreeable, but a relief. His intensity whenever she spoke too fondly about her friends was troubling, but at the time, she didn’t feel like she was in any position to articulate her unease without disrespecting this huge life change that he was going through. She had been a murderer for years. Simon had only just done this and it was on the heels of a long, lonely winter. She just… didn’t have the heart to address some shit like that right now. Anyways, Valentine’s Day was soon approaching… technically, it had almost been a year since they noticed each other. It should be a good one. She was going through her own things too, but… she wanted to focus on the good things.

17. Where the Heart Is

[knifeonmars]

Capsule Reviews, February 2021

Here's some things I've been reading.

The Curse of Brimstone 

DC's New Age of Heroes books, emerging from the beginning of Scott Snyder's creative-flameout-as-crossover-event Metal, mostly constituted riffs on Marvel heroes like the Fantastic Four (in The Terrifics) or the Hulk (in Damage). The Curse of Brimstone is a riff on Ghost Rider. It's... uneven. The first volume is generally pretty good, and when Phillip Tan is drawing it, as he does the first three and a half issues, it's gorgeous and unique, when he departs though, the quality takes a nose dive. None of the replacement artists, including the great Denis Cowan, can quite fill his shoes, and the story gets old fast. Guy makes a deal with the devil (or rather, a devil-like inhabitant of the "Dark Multiverse" as a not horribly handled tie-in to the conceits of Metal), realizes it's a raw deal, and rebels. The characters are flat, lots of time is spent with the main character's sister haranguing him to not use his powers (it is, in my humble opinion, something of a cardinal sin to have a character whose primary role is telling other characters to stop doing interesting things), too many potboiler "I know you're still in there!/I can feel this power consuming me!" exchanges, a couple of underwhelming guest spots (including a genuinely pointless appearance by the old, white, boring Doctor Fate) too many flashbacks, and not enough of the action. There's potential in the classic demonic hero rebelling plotline and its link to the liminal spaces of the DC universe, forgotten towns and economic depression, but the wheels come off this series pretty much as soon as Tan leaves. The really disappointing this is that the series is clearly built as an artistic showcase, so after Tan's shockingly early departure, the main appeal of the series is gone and there's nothing left but the playing out of an obviously threadbare story.

Star Wars - Boba Fett: Death, Lies, and Treachery

I don't care much about Star Wars these days, and I think that most of the old Expanded Universe was, as evidenced by Crimson Empire, pretty bad. Death, Lies, and Treachery, is that rare Star Wars EU comic which is actually good. John Wagner writes and he's in full-on 2000 AD mode, writing Boba Fett as a slightly more unpleasant Johnny Alpha (who is like a mercenary Judge Dredd, for those unfamiliar) right on down to the appearance of a funny alien sidekick for one of the characters. The main attraction is Cam Kennedy's art though, along with his inimitable colors: this might be the best looking Star Wars comic ever. The designs are all weird and chunky, with an almost kitbashed feeling that captures the lived in aesthetic of classic Star Wars, and the colors are one of a kind. Natural, neutral white light does not exist in this comic, everything is always bathed at all times in lurid greens or yellows, occasionally reds, and it looks incredible. In terms of "Expanded Universe" material for Star Wars, this hits the sweet spot of looking and feeling of a piece, but exploring the edges of the concept with a unique voice. It's great. I read this digitally, but I'd consider it a must-buy in print if I ever get the chance at a deal.

Zaroff

Zaroff is a French comic (novel? novella?). It's like 90 pages and it delivers exactly on its premise of "Die Hard starring the bad guy from The Most Dangerous Game." It's pretty good. Count Zaroff, he of the habitual hunting of humans, turns out to have killed a mafia don at some point, and after miraculously escaping his own seeming death at the end of the original story, finds himself hunted by the irate associates of this gangster, who have brought along Zaroff's sister and her kids to spice things up. Zaroff not only finds himself the hunt, but he also has to protect his estranged family as they struggle to survive. Nothing about this book or its twists and turns is likely to surprise you, but I don't think being surprised is always necessary for quality. Zaroff delivers on pulpy, early-20th century jungle action, is gorgeously rendered, and the fact that Zaroff himself is an unrepentant villain adds just enough of an unexpected element to the proceedings and character dynamics that it doesn't feel rote. There's a couple of points, ones typical of Eurocomics, which spark a slight sour note, such as some "period appropriate" racism and flashes of the male gaze, but for the most part these are relatively contained. It's good.

Batman: Gothic

Long before Grant Morrison did their Bat-epic, they wrote Batman: Gothic, an entirely different, but then again maybe not so different, kind of thing. It starts off with what must be called a riff on Fritz Lang's film, M, only where that story ends with a crew of gangsters deciding they cannot pass moral judgment on a deranged child-murderer, in Morrison's story they go ahead and kill him, only for the killer to return years later to rather horribly murder all of them as a warmup for a grandiose scheme involving unleashing a weaponized form of the bubonic plague on Gotham City as an offering to Satan. Along the way it turns out that said villain, one Mr. Whisper, is a former schoolmaster of Bruce Wayne's, who terrified the young Batman in the days before his parent's deaths. It's an earlier Morrison story and it shows. Certain elements presage their later Batman work; Mr. Whisper as a satanic enemy recalls the later Doctor Hurt, and the cathedral Mr. Whisper built to harvest souls recalls what writers like Morrison, Milligan, and Snyder would do concerning Gotham as a whole years later.The art, by Klaus Janson, is spectacular. If you're familiar at all with his work collaborating with Frank Miller you'll see him continuing in a similar vein and it's all quite good, even when he stretches beyond the street milieu which most readers might know him from. There's one particular sequence where Janson renders a needlessly complicated Rube Goldberg machine in motion that manages to work despite being static images. The writing by Morrison though, is not their finest. The M riff doesn't last as long as it could, and Mr. Whisper's turn in the latter half of the story from delicious creepy wraith to a cackling mass murderer who puts Batman in an easily escaped death trap feels like something of a letdown from the promise of the first half of the book. Gothic is good, but not, in my opinion, great. It's certainly worth checking out for Morrison fans however, and I imagine that someone well-versed in his latter Batman stuff might be able to find some real resonance between the two.

Green Arrow: The Longbow Hunters

For a long, long time, Longbow Hunters was THE Green Arrow story. It is to Green Arrow as TDKR is to Batman, deliberately so. Mike Grell wrote and drew the reinvention of the character from his role as the Justice League's resident limousine liberal to a gritty urban vigilante operating in Seattle over the course of these three issues, which he'd follow up with a subsequent ongoing. Going back to it, it certainly merits its reputation, but its far from timeless. Grell's art is unimpeachable absolutely incredible, with great splashes and spreads, subtle colors, and really great figure work. The narrative is almost so 80's it hurts though, revolving around West Coast serial killers, cocaine, the CIA and the Iran-Contra scandal, and the Yakuza, and it's hard to look back at some of this stuff without smirking. The story begins with a teenager strung out on tainted coke sprinting through a window in a scene that's right out of Reefer Madness. In the cold light of a day 30+ years later, parts of it look more than a little silly. The 80's-ness of it all doesn't stop with that stuff though, even the superhero elements smack of it. Green Arrow realizes that he's lost a step and has be to be shown a way forward by an Asian woman skilled in the martial arts (recalling Vic Sage's reinvention in the pages of The Question), and Black Canary gets captured and torture off-panel for the sake of showing that this is real crime now, not the superhero silliness they've dealt with before. The treatment of Black Canary here is pretty markedly heinous, it's a classic fridging and Grell's claims that he didn't intentionally imply sexual assault in his depiction of her torture is probably true, but still feels more than a little weak considering how he chose to render it.The final analysis is that this book is good, but it exists strictly in the frame of the 1980's. If you're a fan of Green Arrow, there are worse books to pick up, or if you're interested in that era of DC Comics it's more than worth it, but as a matter of general interest I wouldn't recommend it very highly.

SHIELD by Steranko

Jim Steranko is sort of the prodigy of the early Marvel years, a young guy who came up through the system, blossomed into an incredible talent, and then left the company, and by and large the industry, behind. He would go on to dabble in publishing, work in other mediums, and generally kick around as the prodigal son of Marvel Comics. This collection, of both his Nick Fury shorts in the pages of Strange Tales and the four issues he drew of the original Nick Fury solo series, charts Steranko's growth as an artist. The book starts off with Steranko working from Jack Kirby's layouts with Stan Lee's dialogue and writing, and Steranko might be the one guy in history for whom working off of Kirby's blueprints is clearly holding him back. The first third or so of this collection really isn't much to write home about, as Steranko is obviously constrained by someone else's style, and at the end of the day those early stories still read as somewhat uninspired pulp compared to the highlights of early Marvel. There are flashes though, of techniques and ideas, which foreshadow what Steranko is capable of, and when he finally takes over as solo writer/artist it's like he's been unleashed. He immediately has Nick Fury tear off his shirt and start throwing guys around over psychedelic effects. He writes out most of Kirby and Lee's frankly uninspired boys' club supporting cast, he makes Fury visibly older, wearier, but also so much cooler. It's the birth of Nick Fury as a distinctly comic book super spy.By the time he finishes wrapping up the previous writers' plotline with Hydra and Baron von Strucker, Steranko is firing on all cylinders. By the time it gets to Steranko's Fury solo series, he's somehow surpassed himself, turning in effects, panel structures, and weird stories which make the earlier installment about a suit-wearing Man from UNCLE knockoff and its strict six-panel layouts look absolutely fossilized.I can't recommend this collection highly enough for any fan of the artform, even if the stories themselves might not be everyone's cup of tear. It's truly incredible to watch Steranko emerge as an artist over the course of this single collection. The book itself has a few problems, it's not the most elegantly designed in its supporting materials and index, but the content of it more than outweighs that. It's great stuff.

[rockshortage]

*Cracks knuckles* Ow. Let's see, how about: A6, 16. B1, 12. C1, 2, 3, 5, 8. D4. E2, 3, 7. F2, 5, 10, 12 (Sorry, but also not sorry) I6. L1, 2, 4, and 9 :)

hoo boy that took a while

A6) Does your OC tend to assume their interpretation of events and reality is correct, or do they question it? I.e., “I’m sure that’s what you said” versus “It’s possible I misheard you.”

Ah, he questions himself a lot. Maybe he wasn’t listening well enough because he was too distracted by being anxious? Maybe he misinterpreted this event, because his background knowledge on it was lacking, he doesn’t know the full story and opinions from all sides, he’s not sure he can form a well educated opinion on this--

A16) Does your OC have to go through their own trials to learn a lesson, or do they listen and learn from observation and lecture? I.e., does your OC listen when someone tries to tell them the importance of budgeting, or do they have to go experience what happens if you don’t budget first?

Hector needs to do it himself for Science, because how else is he to truly know, if not from his own personal experience? Trusting what people tell you is good and all but gathering data yourself is better.

Unless we’re talking about raider politics, in which case there’s not really a good way for Hector to gather data without seriously endangering him and friends, so he’ll just listen to Gage.

B1) Do they believe you have to give respect to get it, or get respect to give it?

Generally, he believes it’s necessary to give people respect before you can expect it in return. He learns that many people do not in fact think the same way. He’ll still want to extend basic courtesy to them even if they’re assholes, unless they disrespect/piss him off to the extremes, or if their actions threaten his position and in turn the well-being of himself and friends.

B12) Your OC orders something to eat and gets their order done in a pretty wrong way, something they can’t just pick off or whatnot to correct, or something major is missing. What do they do?

Have a back and forth about it in his head – ah it’s not so bad it’s still fine, but then again he really wanted it differently… but he doesn’t wanna bother them and be entitled about it, but man… :( Might get close to pointing it out but chances are slim that he’ll actually get someone to correct the order. It’ll be disappointing but he’ll eat it.  

C1) Does your OC have a moral code? If not, how do they base their actions? If so, where does it come from, and how seriously do they take it?

Eeeh, not a super strong one. His baseline are general societal morals and norms, like… help person good, kill person bad. Most of the time he’ll base his actions on what feels right for him and for his friends. He’ll consider: will doing this make me feel bad afterwards? Will it have a negative impact on other people, who don’t deserve it? Is that consequence worth it because it saves my own skin or helps/protects my friends?

C2) Would your OC feel bad if they acted against their morals? If not, would they find a way to excuse themselves for it?

Bringing back the point about sacrificing for the greater good. He’d consider that the morally right thing to do because it impacts fewer people negatively. But making that sacrifice endangers his friends, whose lives for him personally are worth much more than an abstract crowd of people. So he chooses to not do the thing for the greater good and save his friends instead, and yes, he would feel very bad on the one hand, because oh boy. As far as most people are concerned, he did a horrible terrible thing and was extremely selfish and absolutely chose wrong. But on the plus side, and that’s a very big huge plus- he still has his friends. And still having his friends makes him feel less bad than how he would have felt if he didn’t have his friends anymore.

So uh… yes and no.

C3) Is it important for them to be with people (socially, intimately, whatever) whose major ideological tenets align with their own?

More or less. He can’t hang out well with people he completely disagrees with in every way, of course that’s not going to work. But Hector is… how to say… kinda boring when it comes to ideals and opinions and all that stuff. He just doesn’t have very strong ones in general. Which can make him a little bland and potentially spineless, but also pretty agreeable. As long as they don’t constantly shove their great big opinions in his face, they’ll get along well enough.

C5) Do your OC’s morals and rules of common decency go out the window when it comes to those they don’t like, or when it’s inconvenient? Aka, are their morals situational?

I think I kind of answered this in C2. Basic morals do get thrown out the window if friends are threatened, or if he gets pissed off enough. He’d have to be really pissed off though. As well as being post having-grown-a-spine(-at-least-partially). Hurting people bad but being insufferable to Hector also bad so guess what fucker

C8) Is your OC more practical or ideal morally? I.e., do they hold people to high expectations of behavior even if it’s not realistic for the situation, or do they have a more realistic approach and adapt their morality to be more practical?

Again a little tricky because I’m having trouble coming up with a scenario that would help me make up my mind with a definite answer. I’m leaning more towards a practical approach 1) because Hector is more of a realist/pessimist in general, 2) he doesn’t want to like… be overly demanding

D4) Would they like to be immortal? Why, why not? If they are immortal, would they rather not be?

The more he thinks about it the more meaningless life seems to get for someone like him. Solution: don’t think about it! Repress that shit because it’s not like you can do anything about it anyway. Also an involuntary solution but one that helps nonetheless: have shit memory so that you don’t feel like you’ve lived too many lifetimes.

If you were to ask him, the answer you get completely depends on the headspace he’s in at the moment. If he’s just vibing, going about his day and things are going well then yeah! Immortality isn’t so bad. If you catch him on an off day, things aren’t going so well, maybe he just thought about having to deal with losing his friends eventually… then you obviously get the opposite answer.

E2) Which of the nine types of intelligence is your OC strongest in? Weakest? (Linguistic, existential, naturalist, et cetera)

I know I talked about this before and I grouped them from strong to medium to weak but I can’t for the life of me find the post anymore (thanks tumblr for your useless garbage search and tagging features). So I can’t even check if I’m still on the same wavelength with past me :v

From strongest to weakest we have…

Logical-mathematical

Spatial

Linguistic

Bodily-kinesthetic

Musical

Naturalist

Interpersonal

Existential

Intrapersonal

E3) How many languages do they speak?

Three… and a half.

The half language being Swiss German, because I don’t know what the fuck it is even after graduating from language uni

The others: Standard German, English, and French, from strongest to weakest.

E7) Are they a good note-taker? Are they a good test-taker? Do exams make them nervous?

Yes, yes, and yes. He’s very good at taking notes considering most of science is documentation. And even now when he’s not doing a lot of Formal Science things, he still writes in his journal almost daily, summing up events and making notes of important things. He gets nervous with tests with all the self doubt if he really prepared well enough and the unpredictability of the questions that will be asked, but once the pen is in his hand, he just blazes through it.

F2) What’s their ideal home look like? Where is it?

Someplace underground, safe and sturdy like a vault. Industrial aesthetic is welcome and he wants to have plenty of space, but it shouldn’t feel huge and empty. Needs to be homey, even if it might feel a little rustic to the average person. Having it built into a mountain would be sick, so he still has the perfect protection from the sun, but he doesn’t have to crawl out of a hole in the ground like some kind of worm – instead he opens the door and gets the most amazing view immediately.

… and I promise, only after writing the above did I remember that he pretty much lives in a mountain already, just a plastic one. Close enough.

F5) How handy are they? Can they fix appliances, cars, cabinets, et cetera?

Quite handy indeed. He can fix most things, he usually just needs some time to (re-)familiarize himself with the object and its functions. A lot of it also involves trial and error, but he’ll figure it out eventually.

F10) Do they engage in any of the arts? How good do you intend them to be? Would they agree they are?

He’d actually be really good at pen/pencil drawing, what with making technical illustrations and blueprints of Science Stuff, but it’s not a skill that’s applied in an artsy setting. When the goal is to draw for the sake of drawing, evoking emotion, or paint with a brush, that’s probably when shit would fall apart. I can’t remember who the artist was, but it reminds me of this little comic about Paladin Danse – in which he’s extremely good at technical drawings but then he attempts to draw a dog and it just looks…wrong.

Now with music, he’s more likely to engage in it in an artful way. He likes to sing, even if he very rarely does it now that he has people around him more often than not. Before, he’d just be alone in his lonely place and sing and scream to his heart’s content, but now he’s too awkward to do it, because someone might hear him. He is pretty good at it though, considering how much alone time he’s had to practice.

F12) Would they enjoy a theme park?

The rides and junk food? Yes absolutely. But the giant crowd and every little consequence it entails, nope, no thank you, he’ll just leave it be.

You bet he’s gonna go on the rides at nuka world though once they got them back up and working, because the crowd isn’t as big as pre-war and he’s the fucking overboss and can skip lines and restrict access to others however he damn pleases.

I6) Could they eat the same thing they enjoy over and over and not get bored of it quickly?

He can, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. The first month or so at nuka world he almost exclusively lives off of some shitty nutrient bars. In some scenarios, food just exists as sustenance and not as something to be enjoyed.

In a preferable scenario though, it is to be enjoyed. And I think while he would get bored of it after a while, it’d take longer than for the average person. And even then, he’s just happy he can eat something enjoyable at whatever pace he likes instead of having to scarf down Compressed Nutrient

L1) How have your characters changed since you created them?

He stopped existing in a void, which is a pretty damn big change. Now he has a whole world and other characters to interact with, that contribute to shaping and developing his personality.

L2) What do you consider the biggest themes in your character, if any?

Oof, this is hard. Maybe… getting to know yourself? Accepting change, personal growth?

L4) Would you hang out with your OC if you could?

I’m actually not sure sjdfsdnsv

Like yes he is sweet bean who must be protected, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is a weird little old man. I guess if we can just chill listening to music and he can go off about crustaceans or something and we speak The Horrible Language, why the fuck not

L9) How did you come up with your OC?

Masks cool. Me especially like gas masks. Unhinged science characters also cool. Make generic but still sliiiightly unique design and make it a point to not have him be a young pretty boy character despite having immortality. Add lots of weaknesses to compensate for the immortality. Add science personality things and complete the picture with projections of my own personality. Boom, you’ve got yourself the beginnings of a Hector