#or after a perceived social blunder

[surelyyourejesting]

I gently asphyxiate

gasping for air

smoky clouds waft over me

I am naked

a pale heap on the charcoal ground

left bleeding on the floor

nails dug into my heart

sawdust fills my lungs and stings my eyes

fishing lines wrapped 'round my wrists

it's all in my mind

its

all

in

my

mind

I am fine I am fine I am fine

I am fine

[twothpaste]

I feel like the fandom perceives Doctor Andonuts more harshly than Itoi probably intended. Maybe a little more harshly than the character deserves. I'm always seein him discussed n' portrayed as if he's The Worst Dad Ever, And A Terrible Person Besides. Which is a pretty tall order in a series jam-packed full of shitty fathers and morally bankrupt characters. Maybe I just read him differently than most folks do? I dunno. I like him. I'll go to bat for him. Kooky old scientist thoughts (for both EB and M3) below.

Dropping Jeff off at boarding school and never visiting for 10 years is brutal, don't get me wrong. In the scene's context, though, it comes off more like an absurd comedic circumstance than a condemnation. Peak EarthBound shit. And while Jeff's scarcely "written" in the game, nothing about the way he's presented actually conveys a sense of abandonment or bitterness. (I like to imagine he's got a lotta bones to pick with his dad, but I think that's mostly in the realm of headcanon.) (Also, while Andonuts being his only family would make it objectively much worse, there's nothing in EarthBound to suggest Jeff doesn't have a mom, or other family members.) Mother's not exactly subtle when it's putting a father worthy of harsh judgment on the table. Aloysius and Wess come to mind. I do reckon if the Doctor was supposed to be presented as an irredeemable monster, Itoi would've really driven the point home. Instead of smothering the guy's dialogue in funny off-kilter quips. Like the bit with the donuts, and inviting Jeff to come back in 10 more years, and tellin his friends he wets the bed (how would Andonuts even know that?? is he thinking of when Jeff was a toddler?? lmao). He's a socially blundering absent father, and he stirs troubled sentiments, for sure. But he's definitely not outright malignant.

The thing is, there's reason to believe the guy's working on it. Jeff and Andonuts (and pals) go through a lot of shit together over the course of the game. By the end, Jeff expresses that he's very eager to spend time with his dad, get to know him better, work collaboratively with him. Presumably Andonuts feels the same, having finally bonded with his son through all these world-saving hijinks. It feels like a sweet little character arc to me. A reclusive scientist learns to value something beyond his own work, and begins to make amends by welcoming Jeff back into his life. Perhaps death-defying circumstances shifted his perspective, reminding him of what's most important? Even if you assume the worst of Andonuts earlier in the game, EarthBound's ending is really uplifting and hopeful for these two.

Which really makes his appearance in Mother 3 all the more tragic. Andonuts was willing at last to actually be there for his son, and then Porky had to go and yoink him outta the timeline. The Doctor explicitly says he's only working with Porky because he's been forced to - and he isn't thrilled about it in the slightest. After the chimera lab, he tells Lucas he's been inspired to escape. That he wants to devote his work to benefiting all living things, whatever that means! He's the guy who really "defeated" Porky, presumably planning the Capsule trap in secret all along. He doesn't even belong in this time or place, but damn if he's not finding ways to do good for the new world he's found himself in. Same way he devoted himself to the fight against Giygas, before.

The fact he's been torn away from his son (possibly irreconcilably?) doesn't come up, and god I wish it did. But considering how much extraneous dialogue's been cut from the game (and this would've definitely been extraneous)? If he'd said "gosh I sure wish I could see Jeff again" it'd draw specific attention to the displaced plight of Porky's timetravelers - thus, failing to resolve it would probably feel like a loose end. I can see how that might've been outta line with the narrative's scope. I'm not sure it's fair to infer the streamlined writing implies Andonuts forgot about Jeff, or doesn't care about him. Dude was never very expressive about his personal life EarthBound, anyways. Call it a headcanon of course, but imo, it seems more likely he's keeping his sorry sentiments to himself.

I just think Dr. Andonuts is a really interesting character, with a lot of potential. EarthBound gives us this clever play on the "funny kooky genius scientist" trope, asking how a guy like that might prioritize work over family. Has this deadbeat dad begin earning back his bond with his son. It ends on such a wholesome feel-good note! Then Mother 3 brings forth all these gutwrenching implications. The thought of Jeff stranded back in 199X (feeling confused, abandoned, possibly even betrayed??) breaks my fuckin' heart!! Andonuts being coerced to use his genius for evil, all the while plotting Porky's eternal imprisonment? A guy who directly contributed to saving the world from Giygas gets dropped into a post-apocalyptic Earth, finding out he'd only been delaying the "inevitable"? That humans would destroy themselves, possibly thanks to the technological advancements of people like him! Realizing his efforts to reconnect with Jeff might've been all in vain, that he may never make it home again! Vowing to do good for this world anyways?? Agh. And he's presented as just a quirky unflappable oddball old fart the whole time! To call him a good person would be dubious as hell, but damn if he's not fascinating.

[xforce2009]

Strictly Professional | Chapter One | I Summon You

Rating:

Explicit (Canon Typical Violence, Eventual Strong Sexual Content)

Synopsis:

Cecil hires you, a super-powered vigilante with the ability to manipulate dark matter, to undertake a covert operation.

It was unusually quiet in Chicago that night. After the noise of the city waned with the setting sun, Cecil stood alone at the edge of an abandoned rooftop staring at the skyline. He perceived everyone to be tucked away inside the illusory comfort and safety of their homes, none the wiser to the dangers surrounding them in perpetuity. As he peered into the darkness, his eyes searched the night for its secrets to be laid bare. For all of its shadows to be brought to light.

When Cecil wasn't busy directing superheroes and picking up after disasters left behind by the usual unhinged supervillain, he found himself having to tie up the loose ends of other problems, ones that required a more underhanded approach. You were a vigilante that appeared seemingly out of nowhere. A dark specter that would disappear into thin air after each crime spree you managed to neutralize. Cecil caught onto you early on in your excursions, and when he had a chance to see what you were capable of, he found that you were the perfect candidate for the job.

The agency had caught wind of the criminal activity about two weeks ago. Cecil had been waiting for the right opportunity to catch what he knew to be an underground syndicate smuggling chemical weapons. However, in order to extract the information he was so inclined to recover, he needed to make a quick social call.

Cecil had his hands in his pockets when a black portal appeared next to him, taking him out of his contemplations. From the portal walked out a dark figure. You were a vision, to say the least. Cecil side-eyed you as you approached, taking in your voluptuous form as he did so.

"Where's the fun?" you asked, tongue firmly in cheek. You knew what the job entailed, but that didn't mean you couldn't find a moment of self-indulgence right before a shoot-and-run.

"Not far," Cecil claimed. "They're in the next building, but they're conducting their operations in a fortified bunker two stories deep underneath it." He wanted to disclose just enough information without arousing unwanted curiosity. "There's two sentries posted in front and four men inside."

"That shouldn't be a problem," you smirked. "Nothing that I haven't dealt with before."

You looked at the older man, giving him a once over. He was quite handsome for a man of his age. The scar that marred the left side of his face didn't put you off in the slightest. In reality, you found that it only added to his allure.

"That's why I hired you," Cecil turned to face you, making eye contact. "So that you could bring that competence you've displayed in your previous outings and even out the playing field. All you have to do is conduct the operation as discussed and report back to me."

He reached into his pocket and handed you a small earpiece.

"Make sure to update me once you've finished the job. If you run into anything too difficult to handle, you let me know."

You nodded in compliance and took the comlink. You felt confident that you could take on this mission with very few blunders. But seeing as how you were hired by the shadowy director of the Global Defense Agency, you couldn't help but feel a little daunted by the man's expectations. This was going to be a raid that you would be at the helm of, after all. Despite this, you quickly found the resolve to go through with the mission, wanting to test the limits of your capabilities and to protect others by any means necessary.

Cecil took one last look at you as you prepared to make your exit through one of your portals. Your back was turned to him as you were visualizing your point of arrival in the other building when Cecil couldn't help but notice how your costume accentuated your curves. The design of your outfit guiding his eyes towards your well-rounded ass as it peeked under your bodysuit. His mind raced with indecent thoughts as he couldn't help but wonder what you looked like underneath it. He averted his gaze once he caught himself staring. He did his best to quell the heat that was building throughout his lower body by reminding himself that the relationship between the two of you was strictly professional. His hands returned to his pockets as he looked away, opting instead to stare at some fixed point in the distance. Before he knew it, the portal beside him had disappeared as you left the rooftop to begin the operation.

Taking care of the first two guards was easy enough. It worked in your favor when you counted on their slight ineptitude. You dropped through a portal from the ceiling, confusing them for a moment. You didn't want the armed men inside the bunker to be alerted to the outside conflict, so you entered through another portal right behind them. Aiming for the back of the head, you shot the guard to your left with a projectile of dark matter extending from your palm. Once he was out cold, you shielded yourself with a small portal and shot the other guard with another projectile.

You managed to enter the underground bunker while barely making a sound, your portal teleporting you to a hidden area in the back. You scoped out the room where the four armed guards were ready with their rifles. Nothing too fancy, you thought. Their lack of masks and ample armor were weaknesses you were willing to exploit.

Finding your opportune moment, you planted a portal along the wall behind one of the armed men that appeared to be slightly larger in physique than the others. You approached him from behind a mass of crates. When you got close enough without being detected, you shot a small blast of dark matter at his head. This caused him to fall unconscious into one of your portals, making him disappear into a pocket realm where he wouldn't be able to warn the others when he wakes up.

You looked past the pile of crates you were hiding behind to see if anyone had noticed you. To your gratification, none of the men across from you were aware of your presence or that they were down one heavy.

You prepared to materialize a portal across the room when you heard gunshots in your direction. You winced as you felt a sharp pain in your upper arm. A stray bullet grazed you, tearing through the fabric of your jacket. Grabbing your bicep, you looked up to see one of the men had walked onto the walkway above, catching you in a vulnerable position and alerting the other men to your location. You bolted toward your now shrinking portal, narrowly escaping the barrage of bullets at your heels as the men pursued you.

You reached the portal just in time to escape, finding yourself at the entrance of the bunker where the large door was once you came through the other side. One of the men furthest from you started shooting. You deflected his bullets by creating a portal that would act as a sort of shield, absorbing the bullets. You then erected another portal. This time the bullets were expelled from the void and were directed toward the armed men. The bullets ripped through both of them, their bodies falling limp on the ground.

Before you could catch your breath, more bullets were shot in your direction. The guard from earlier was on the walkway - to your right this time and closer than before. Bullets whizzed past you, a few of them cutting your skin. You were able to create a portal just in time to shield you from the armed fire when it suddenly stopped. The guard started to reload his rifle, you saw the opportunity and shot two large projectiles of dark matter at his skull. His body fell lifeless on the metal walkway, the thud creating a resounding 'thoom' throughout the small bunker. Blood started to spurt from the stump where his head and neck were moments ago, dripping down from the walkway creating a black-red puddle on the concrete floor below.

It took a minute for you to get your bearings. You let in a ragged breath as you covered the bleeding wound on your upper arm. You could feel the blood from your other wounds begin to permeate your clothing. Taking in the carnage that had just transpired, you remembered what Cecil told you. You activated your comlink to let him know what happened. He cursed under his breath and told you to come back to the rooftop as soon as possible. You didn't bother to protest as you let out a sigh of relief knowing your work was finished.

Cecil approached you with a sense of urgency once you reached the rooftop.

"Are you okay?" His voice was tinted with concern as he looked you over. You had some cuts and grazes on your body, but he was relieved to see that you didn't sustain any injuries.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you replied, your hand still enclosed around the graze on your upper arm.

Cecil looked at you for a moment before reaching for the inside of his suit jacket, pulling out a few white adhesive strips.

"These are restorative bands," Cecil explained as he offered them to you. "We developed them specifically to aid our field agents. They should correct your minor flesh wounds within seconds."

Taken aback by the man's deliberate act of kindness, you accepted the aid with little hesitation. You wouldn't have expected this shady government figure to offer his assistance in such a thoughtful way. And although you both had only spoken briefly, his expression of concern for your wellbeing gave you comfort.

After removing your jacket, you placed one of the white strips along the wound on your upper arm. You could feel the cut rapidly seal underneath it. When you peeled it off, you found that the wound had completely disappeared.

"Thank you." Your eyes were cast down, not wanting to make the situation any more awkward.

"You're welcome." Cecil smiled at the sentiment. "There aren't many I've seen that could have taken down those armed men all by their lonesome. I'm just glad you made it out."

You both met each other's gaze for a moment. An unspoken tension growing between the two of you. But before either of you could say anything, you looked away.

You materialized a portal large enough for you to use as an entryway. You looked back at Cecil.

"If you ever need my help again, you know how to find me."

Cecil took in what you said as you disappeared into the void.

[mariacallous]

This past Monday, the National Assessment of Educational Progress, a program that bills itself as “the Nation’s Report Card,” released its first set of findings since the start of the pandemic. The main N.A.E.P. assessment, which is administered to fourth, eighth, and twelfth graders every two years and measures their proficiency in math and reading, showed the biggest drop in scores in the thirty-year history of the test. The response in the press, predictably, was filled with a great deal of catastrophizing. “New NAEP Test Scores Are a Disaster. Blame Teachers Unions,” a Washington Examiner headline read, a sentiment echoed by the editorial board of the Wall Street Journal, which wrote that the results proved that “pandemic lockdowns were a policy blunder for the ages, and the economic, social and health consequences are still playing out.”

The news coincided with another ongoing saga in American education: this coming Monday, the Supreme Court will hear arguments on the future of affirmative action. A decision on two cases—one against Harvard and another against the University of North Carolina, both brought by the conservative legal advocacy organization Students for Fair Admissions—is expected sometime this term.

The timing of these two events is accidental, but both speak to burgeoning anxieties about young people that cut across racial and class lines. These days, nobody—not even the rich—seems all that sure that their children will live better, or even slightly less privileged, lives than they did. That fear has only been made worse by the pandemic, and the constant stream of stories about falling ACT and SAT scores, learning loss, and a generation of children who, absent some large-scale intervention, may fall well short of expectations.

Preoccupations like these have fuelled a revanchist current in education, which has taken many forms. Freak-outs over critical race theory and book bans—which, at their core, were attempts to remove perceived threats to the old forms of meritocracy—will seem tame in comparison to the coming school wars, as parents worry about the potential closure of traditional pathways toward a professional life. Over the next decade, the scarcity mind-set that says that the only path toward class mobility runs through exclusive academic institutions will intensify, and, in turn, bring education into a new political prominence.

Just hours after the N.A.E.P. released its results, Florida Governor Ron DeSantis took a victory lap. A press release from DeSantis’s office boasted that his policy of keeping schools open through the pandemic represented the state’s “commitment to closing achievement gaps.” “We insisted on keeping schools open and guaranteed in-person learning in 2020 because we knew there would be widespread harm to our students if students were locked out,” DeSantis said. “Today’s results once again prove we made the right decision.” He went on to point out that Florida’s fourth graders ranked third in the country in reading and fourth in math, and saved a little dig for the “lockdown” blue states California and New York, which “aren’t even in the top 30.”

I’ve written about education for the past few years, and one thing I’ve found consistently is that it’s incredibly difficult to create a convincing argument out of the mountains of data that schools generate every year. That doesn’t mean that people don’t try, and much of the silliness that surrounds education discourse and policy comes out of the bad math that people do in their supposed effort to teach kids how to do better math. Politics too often becomes a frenzy over who can pick the right numbers out of a data set to justify what are ultimately political decisions. It’s clear that here DeSantis is doing some cherry-picking: fourth graders in Florida have been on a long-term upward trend since 2005, and, although that didn’t slow down during the pandemic, it’s a fool’s errand to try to pinpoint the exact effects of keeping schools open. Given that the concern is about learning loss over time, you can’t assess one state’s performance merely in comparison with other states; what really matters is how one state did relative to its recent past.

Some of the coverage of the N.A.E.P. results has focussed on deepening inequalities between racial groups. But a closer look at the numbers shows that, across racial lines, students’ scores mostly fell in lockstep. The average math test scores for Black and Hispanic eighth graders fell seven points each (from a 260 average score to 253 and 268 to 261, respectively). Asian students’ scores also fell seven points, from 313 to 306. These declines are about the same as the fall that white students took, from 292 to 285. Reading scores for eighth graders seem to have been even less affected by the pandemic, and some racial achievement gaps in that category actually got smaller. The results across different student competencies were similarly mixed. While high-performing fourth graders suffered less learning loss than low-performing kids in math and reading, the results for eighth graders showed a much more uniform decline across all competencies.

What we seem to have, then, is as close to an equal-opportunity problem as one can find in this country. Everyone’s scores are down, and the relatively small differences between racial groups on one test could very well be attributed to a whole range of inputs, including the fallibility of standardized testing.

For better or worse, the universality of this decline is what will move the needle politically. It’s one thing for parents who have every reason to be confident in their child’s advantages to worry that poor minority kids in their cities aren’t measuring up to standards; it’s quite another for those same parents to suddenly get told that their own kids are behind, too.

But, even if declining scores are worrisome, we don’t have to treat the N.A.E.P. results as a catastrophe, or something that requires us to reify existing hierarchies. It makes sense that, if students miss school for an extended period and are taken out of the classroom setting during a multiyear plague, they likely won’t do all that well on a standardized test, especially if they haven’t taken one in more than two years. Over the past two years, studies conducted in the United States and Europe showed that students were falling behind in most subjects. Given that reading scores experienced only a small decline and math scores didn’t crater in a disastrous way, the somewhat boring but ultimately correct conclusion might just be “Hey, it could’ve been worse.”

That, of course, will not stem parental anxiety, nor will it curb the opportunism of political actors who gain from making parents think that their children are in crisis. Every set of scores that gets printed will kick up the outrage machine, which will spit out invectives at teachers’ unions, progressive politicians, or whoever else can absorb the blame. The rub, of course, is that the scramble for resources would likely continue even if the test results were better. The panicked parents are panicking again because it’s in their best interest to do so.

The pandemic and its interruptions to schooling presented an opportunity to reaffirm our commitment to public education as a common good. But, instead, we’re likely looking at an increasingly polarized school system, where remediations for struggling students might take up even more classroom time, and, in turn, accelerate the already growing demand for tracked and gifted-and-talented programs. Competition for spots at exclusive schools will only intensify, and no amount of data literacy will change the screaming headlines about the disaster in schools. The parents who have the time, resources, networks, and influence to dictate how things go in the aftermath will almost certainly win out, because they usually do.

As the parent of an elementary-school child, I understand the impulse to worry. I thought school closures in my progressive West Coast city went on too long. I’ve picked up brochures from tutoring centers, researched Russian math schools, purchased more than a few supplementary-learning books, and spent countless hours with my child to insure that her education will not be a casualty of the past two years. Like everyone else, I invoke the mantra “I’m just trying to do what’s best for my kid.” But it’s clear to me that the blame game that politicians and pundits are playing will do nothing to ameliorate learning loss; nor will anyone be helped by further polarization of children’s successes and failures. My kid might be a winner in an intensified academic race, or someone else’s might be, but the greater chance that both will struggle is harmful to us all. ♦

[manysplendidsunsonliterature]

How does the Monster in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein symbolise the Victorian fear of the progression of science?

Reading time: 2 minutes

Many literary works that have come out of the Victorian era have showcased a common theme: a fear of what could come of the progression of science. 

It’s no wonder that this fear was prevalent in Victorian society, considering that for centuries the slow progression of scientific advancement met a sudden burst of discoveries and developments in the 18th and 19th centuries. Scientific developments such as Charles Darwin’s evolutionary theory as well as the peak of the Industrial Revolution shocked the traditionally polite and religious Victorian society and led to an outcry. Many people’s core beliefs had been fundamentally changed, especially the religious, who considered it blasphemous to suggest that God did not create the world in seven days.

These fears manifested themselves in literature, with publications such as Frankenstein portraying the public’s fear directly, as well as Jekyll and Hyde and The Picture of Dorian Gray (although this mainly focused on fears of social progression). Although the main theme of Frankenstein encapsulates the Victorian public’s fears, this post will focus more on the presentation of the Monster and how his character symbolises the consequences of careless human interference with science.

The Monster stands as a reminder of the consequences of meddling with science. Specifically, the moment that Victor Frankenstein creates the Monster is when he has the mental realisation that his carelessness has had consequences. Before the Monster is created, Victor cares little for ethical methods of scientific progression, in favour of doing whatever he deems necessary to make a revolutionary discovery, such as graverobbing and interfering with the law of nature. However, after he creates the Monster, he realises that by interfering too much with science he has created a biological sin, as the creation of the Monster symbolises how this specific progression of science has gone too far.

Another example of Victor’s negligence towards his scientific experiments is shown through his abandonment of the Monster. Although the Monster is born as a ginormous man, it has the intelligence of a newborn, and through Victor’s choice to run from his creation, he leaves the Monster to fend for itself. 

Since society perceives him as a beast, he learns to protect himself the only way he can, with his brute strength that others don’t possess. The Monster comes across as violent, yet we learn in the book that he is not inherently violent, and just learning from the only experiences he’s had in his life, ones of rejection and fear from Victor. The Monster’s symbolism of careless scientific progress is key here, as it shows how significant Victor’s negligence is, and how it has not only impacted him but other innocent people.

Although the Monster is used to symbolise Victorian society’s fear of scientific progression, it becomes clear throughout the novel that it is not the fear of scientific progression that society should fear, it is careless and irresponsible scientific experimentation that they should fear. Practically speaking, Victor Frankenstein is the protagonist of the novel, and the Monster is the antagonist, standing in Victor’s way as he aims to fix his scientific blunder. 

However, we learn as the story goes on that not only has Victor’s negligence led to the creation of the monster, but it also continues to fuel the Monster’s actions, as he continuously neglects his creation. If Victor had taken the steps to deal with his discovery properly, he could have taught the Monster how to function and avoided any casualty, and (this is me being ambitious) possibly had this mistake turn into something revolutionary for the progression of science, with more ethical routes in place.

[eurologos1]

Breaking Down Linguistic Barriers: The Importance of Multilingual Certified Translation

In the present globalized world, organizations and people are progressively associating with individuals from various phonetic and social foundations. Accordingly, the requirement for exact and dependable translation services has never been more prominent. Specifically, multilingual translation ensures an urgent role in working with correspondence and understanding across language boundaries.

Confirmed translation alludes to the translation of true reports, for example, birth declarations, marriage endorsements, and lawful agreements. These records frequently expect translation to be legitimately perceived by government organizations, instructional foundations, and other authorized bodies. Multilingual guaranteed translation includes deciphering such archives from one language into various objective dialects, guaranteeing that they are precise and confirmed for use in various nations and settings.

The significance of multilingually ensuring translation couldn't possibly be more significant. For instance, imagine a global organization that needs to translate its yearly report from English into numerous dialects to communicate with investors all over the planet. The exactness of the translation is fundamental, as even minor blunders could prompt false impressions, misinterpretations, and legal issues.

Also, people who need to interpret their own reports, like identifications or driver's licenses, may confront critical impediments on the off chance that the translations are mistaken or not affirmed. This can prompt postponements in acquiring visas, going after positions, and other significant exercises that require official documentation. Multilingually confirmed translation likewise assumes an imperative role in advancing social comprehension and inclusivity. By giving exact translations of materials like handouts, sites, and promotional materials, organizations can contact new crowds and assemble and entrust different networks.

All in all, multilingually ensured translation is a basic service that helps separate language hindrances and advance correspondence and understanding across societies. Whether you're an entrepreneur, an individual, or an administration office, putting resources into solid translation services is a fundamental stage in the present globalized world.

For More Info:-

Professional Multilingual Translation Services

Multilingual Certified Translation Toronto

[gloryofluv]

Traditionally Obscure Chapter 28

A nice transitional chapter? I think so.

Previous Chapter

Rosa came down the staircase and heard deep laughter in the sitting room nearby. She breathed and entered the room to see the tall, framed magician with bound-back hair. His dark hair highlighted his sharp azure eyes. He was smiling and in the midst of explaining some adventure. By Luke’s grin, it likely had more than typical amusement.

“It was a blunder,” Carl laughed and shook his head.

Ester covered her laughter as the princesses giggled. Vyn was smiling, but when his eyes met Rosa’s form, he wagged two fingers toward her. Carl noted the action and turned with a wild smile.

“Ms. Rosa! How wonderful to see you,” He chuckled and skipped over to her.

“Mr. Carl,” Rosa beamed.

He bowed and tilted his head. “How are you in Svart? Has it been decent to you in your stay?”

“Very much. I’m absolutely charmed by the country,” she declared.

Carl grinned and pulled a black handkerchief from his pocket. With a flash of sparks, it turned into a small porcelain blackbird. He offered it in his palm toward her. “This is our bird in Svart. Just as beautiful as you, My Lady.”

“Carl, you’ve made your point,” Vyn said in a flat tone.

He smirked back at Vyn. When he spoke, it was playful and in his native tongue. Carl covered the bird with his hand, and it disappeared. Vyn’s smile faded, and he spoke with a bit of force.

“I wouldn’t test him; he’s in pain,” Rosa added.

Carl was still speaking to Vyn and asked a clear question pointing to her.

“Yes,” Vyn said with a nod. “Should she agree.”

The princesses gasped and nearly jumped from their seats to skip over to Vyn, speaking to him swiftly. Rosa’s eyebrows raised, and she glanced at Luke, who shrugged his shoulders. It was unusual, that was certain.

“He says you shall be joining him for his visits to the estate more often,” Carl explained.

Rosa smiled and rocked her head before walking toward Vyn’s chair. “Now, ladies, your cousin is grumpy today. Don’t nag him,” she teased while touching their shoulders.

The princesses pouted and went to sit back down. Vyn curled his lips and gestured to the seat nearby. “Please sit, Rosa. Tea will be brought in shortly.”

“Seems Vilhelm is quite authoritative today,” Carl chuckled and walked over to the empty armchair.

“Indeed,” Ester breathed.

Rosa crossed her leg over the other and smiled at Carl. “So tell me. How have you been since the last we’ve seen each other? Have you been working on any new acts?”

Carl rocked his hand from side to side and snorted. “It is always in progress. I’m pleased you’re interested in hearing more about my future shows. Is magic not a staple in your life currently?”

“Vyn actually showed me such a wonderful trick, similar to your handkerchief one,” Rosa declared.

“Vilhelm, you shouldn’t be revealing the secrets of the trade,” Carl laughed.

Vyn chuckled and shook his head. “Not nearly as proficient as yours, Carl.”

“Oh, a compliment? I’m touched, Your Grace,” Carl replied and bowed his head with a smile.

“Comedy doesn’t suit you,” Vyn voiced.

Luke scratched his head. “Are you both friends?”

“Quite, from school. You see, Vilhelm and I shared the same dormitory. While others were out jostling about during recess hours, we were in our room working on magic and science,” Carl chuckled.

Two workers came into the room with trays and set them on the table. Rosa waited for them to finish and excuse themselves with bows before she stood up and began dressing the cups. She turned her attention to the magician and tilted her head.

“I’d like to hear more about this dormitory. You both bunked together?” Rosa asked.

Carl grinned and rocked his head. “It seems Vilhelm hasn’t been revealing any of our school days to you, Ms. Rosa. I was not in the exhilarated classes such as him, but we did trade fantastic stories when he wasn’t excelling at some sport or class.”

“So, he was like this even as a child? Vyn, do you ever relax?” Luke inquired as his eyebrows skewed.

“Says the man who went to college the first year of high school,” Rosa tutted.

“High school, ah, that is,” Carl wavered and then spoke to Vyn in his native tongue.

“No, I was already a second-year graduate by then,” Vyn clarified.

“Wait, just a second here,” Luke huffed. “You were a second-year graduate at the start of high school?”

Ester arched an eyebrow. “Nephew, why is this a surprise? Don’t you have two degrees?”

Vyn’s smile was pleasant, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Yes, as it seems, time isn’t factored into Ph.D.’s.”

Carl rocked his head and pointed his index finger at Vyn. “Vilhelm, now that you’re a duke, when do you plan to come back so I can set up a show for you. It would be quite the honor to host such in your honor.”

“Oh, Vil said he’d be home for the dressage competition!” Sasha rushed out with a smile.

“We’re trying to insist he comes out for fall harvest,” Elsa voiced.

“Cousins, we talked about this,” Vyn tutted and shook his head. “Patience.”

“Ladies, are you in your final year of tutelage?” Carl questioned the princesses.

They rocked their heads, and Sasha exhaled. “Vil says we have to finish with accelerated studies due to the last two years.”

Luke cocked his head like a lost puppy. “Okay, I don’t know about this royal stuff. Why did the two years matter?”

Ester cleared her throat and nodded. “Mr. Pearce, in Svart, the royal family, stands for head of the country. We represent the sacred precedence all the country holds to tradition. When my King husband was diagnosed by the royal physicians, he was given less than a year. We as the family must put all tasks and business on hold that could be.”

“So, this is like an exaggerated version of how we see our government heads in Stellis?” Luke questioned.

Ester rocked her head and touched her chest. “We are the symbol of prosperity and kindness. Anointed for a higher standard of life. The king is our shining star, and without a bright shine of guidance, the country's leadership isn’t balanced. That is why we have three different branches to run our land.”

“Aristocratic, Government and State,” Vyn added.

“That’s interesting,” Rosa nodded while serving the princesses and queen tea and turned to Vyn. “So, your title does grant you a form of leadership then?”

Vyn nodded as Rosa offered him a cup after the ladies. “Thank you, Rosa. I influence the word of the Aristocracy, yes. My uncle was very forceful about how he believed in checks and balances in his country.”

Carl waved his index finger. “And so the wheel moves and spins. Vilhelm, we always knew you were going not to be a spoke, but the lever.”

Luke adjusted his coat and hummed. “Vyn, if you’re the head of the aristocracy, then how are you going back to Stellis?”

“Ah, yes, Vilhelm, I was going to see about your plan,” Carl took the teacup Rosa handed him. “Thank you, My Lady.”

Rosa gave Luke a cup before sitting down herself. “I’m interested to hear about your plan as well, Dr. Richter.”

Vyn sipped his cup and reached over for a folder with a small wince. “Alright, if you insist.”

He handed Rosa the green folder, and she set down her tea to shuffle through it. It was pragmatic and genuinely a piece of art as far as plans go. Vyn has everything plotted in a manner of telecommunications, video sessions with the other leaders of the aristocracy, and scheduled visitations.

“I’m so impressed,” Rosa gasped. “Not that I should be shocked. You have always been impressive.”

Vyn gestured to Carl. “What my friend here hasn’t announced from his mischievous passions in magic is that he’s remarkably wonderful at communications. He is here to receive my certifications to give to the different international companies based in the east of my province.”

Rosa arched her eyebrows and glanced over at Carl. “Oh, I hadn’t a clue. That’s excellent. It does make sense how you’re so excellent at magic then, Mr. Carl. You know how people perceive their surroundings.”

Carl grinned and rocked his head. “It does help. I’m happy to see your skills of awareness are sharp. However, your enjoyment of magic is a sign of partaking in the tender parts of life.”

“Thank you; I’d like to think there needs to be joy in life because there’s so much difficulty as it is,” Rosa agreed before nibbling on a danish.

Ester moved her hair from her shoulder and smiled. “It seems my nephew keeps useful friends.”

“It certainly does,” Rosa laughed.

Luke reached over and snatched up the folder from Rosa. He was glancing over the papers with an intense scowl as his coral eyes shot between pages. The princesses whispered to each other a moment and then nodded.

“Cousin, can we at least break tradition for your birthday this year?” Sasha asked.

Vyn exhaled and glanced over at Ester. She raised her eyebrows and slanted her head. “It wouldn’t be a horrible thing to celebrate your birthday with a ball. It doesn’t go against tradition if you don’t require the attendance of the present royal family,” she nodded.

He adjusted his golden glasses and rocked his head. “Fine, we shall throw a party.”

The girls clapped; however, Rosa scowled. “How is that not breaking the rules? Sorry, I’m still learning.”

“Well, My Lady, as long as the current royal family doesn’t engage with social events and the entire family doesn’t publicly engage in courting or international events, then private engagements are welcome,” Carl explained before glancing over at Ester. “Your Majesty, did I miss anything?”

Ester shook her head. “As always, you have proven to remain knowledgeable of Svartian traditions.”

Rosa tilted her head. “So, the dressage competition is just countrywide, which is allowed? Also, that’s why Sasha and Elsa can’t engage with social events like the summer fashion show in Paris?”

“Royal life is complex,” Ester laughed. “It’s alright, Rosa. It’s a different world.”

Vyn shifted and bent with a bit of effort to retrieve a pastry. Carl waved him off and stood up, grabbing a plate before offering it to him after selecting pastries. “My friend, you need to let your injuries mend.”

“Yes, well, I can test my own limitations,” Vyn grumbled and took the offer. “Thank you.”

“No, you need to recover,” Ester declared with a glare. “Vilhelm, that isn’t a request. As head of this household, you will take care of yourself.”

Luke handed the folder back to Rosa and nodded. “That’s an excellent proposal, Vyn. However, my only concern is how you expect to maintain all of your requirements in both countries.”

Rosa set it aside and sipped her tea. “If anyone is capable of doing it, Dr. Richter can.”

“It’s plenty to take on, Rosa. You don’t understand the intricacies of running several operations at once,” Luke sighed.

“Pardon me, but you don’t need to talk down to me, Luke. I understand very well the issues that he’s facing,” Rosa groaned.

Luke gasped as his cheeks tinted. “Rosa, I wasn’t trying to be rude. It’s just plenty to do.”

“Which, Luke, I’ve plotted out. I have known of my uncle’s issues for years and laid out this plan on the off chance that my Uncle Ruthgar would need assistance,” Vyn exhaled.

“Quite intricate,” Carl nodded.

“I think we shall enjoy a few tricks that our friend has prepared are in order after tea,” Vyn hummed and set down his plate. “Aunt, I believe you wanted some time to relax before our departure tomorrow?”

Ester cleared her throat. “Of course, nephew,” she bobbed her head and stood up. “Ladies, behave for our guests.”

The princesses waved to their mother, and Ester left the room. Rosa noted the subtext of the conversation. Now that she had confirmation that she ran the two companies that originated in Svart, Rosa could understand the subtleties. Vyn stood up and rocked his head. “Shall we head to the ballroom? I believe you brought in the pieces for your show, correct? I know it won’t be as exquisite, but still enjoyable.”

Carl grinned and jumped from his chair. “Of course, Your Grace,” he chuckled and bowed deeply.

Vyn sighed. “Don’t, please.”

Luke glanced at the princesses and shrugged. “He always seems to be in a disagreeable mood.”

“Don’t worry, he isn’t,” Carl chuckled and gestured to them. “Let me perform for you before you leave. I did promise Ms. Rosa to show her something new next time we met.”

Rosa took Vyn’s arm and rocked her head with a smile. “I look forward to it.”

The group left toward the ballroom, but on their way, Rosa noted a cracked door. She had paused only long enough to note a woman speaking in the native language. It wasn’t demure like Ester’s usual tone. It was severe and authoritative.

Vyn glanced at her and tilted his head as they fell behind the group. “She’s quite fierce,” he whispered.

“Yes, and the perfect person to assist with your duties as well. I’m finding that you and your aunt are far more similar than I suspected,” Rosa agreed.

His smile stretched. “Actually, I was estimating you both are more alike than you suspect, Rosa. Let’s enjoy the rest of our evening in Svart. We have a long journey home tomorrow,” he replied before they continued their path to the ballroom.

[spellboundmayfield]

Commercialism and Superficiality in Stranger Things 3

 The Reagan presidency brought high style to the White House and Americans wanted to emulate that style and elegance, setting the tone for the extravagance and excess of the ‘80s. Urged on by their president to spend, Americans did so. American culture became a culture of consumption as shopping became American’s number-one hobby. Although Starcourt appears to be a normal mall at first glance, alluring of the shiny new shopping complexes, focusing on the most superficial, vacuous, and meaningless aspects of society, it was actually built as a veneer for a secret Russian base.  These vibrant social institution, like Starcourt Mall, were intimately connected to American political, cultural, societal, and economic identities. Entertainer Bill Hicks often criticized consumerism, superficiality, mediocrity, and banality within the media and popular culture, describing them as oppressive tools of the ruling class, meant to “keep people stupid and apathetic.” The advertisement for Starcourt Mall promises stores like The Gap and Sam Goody, and a state-of-the-art food court, it’s new and pristine, it's the place to be, “Starcourt Mall has it all!” Representing Hawkin’s “growing patriotic community and shining example of the American dream”, nonetheless it’s revealed that Mayor Kline accepted money from undercover Soviets to approve the mall and that the Soviets built it as a cover for their massive underground base right under the general public’s feet.

 On the surface, the smarmy, corrupt Mayor Kline appeared to be charismatic and dedicated to his job, underneath his facade he was immoral and self-centered, only caring about his public image while showing no concern for the town’s citizens. He dodges complaints from small business owners who say the mall is stealing all of their customers and devastating their Mom-and-Pop shops by arresting protesters. 

Larry: "Do you know what’s in four days, Jim?"

Hopper: "Independence Day?"

Larry: "That’s right. And I’m gonna throw this town the biggest bash it’s ever seen. Fireworks, music, activities, you name it. I’m gonna pull out all the stops. You know why? ‘Cause at the end of the day, that’s all the voters will remember. But I can’t think, much less plan, with all that racket out there. So, if you don’t mind, please… just do your job. Flash your little gold badge, and get rid of them."

He cares about appearances more than results, the appearance of results can be more profitable than real results and often is. Our commercialized society places a strong emphasis on appearance, encouraging us to care about our own and other’s appearances rather than about long-term downsides. 

In what many consider one of the worst marketing blunders ever, Coca-Cola introduced "New Coke". They redesigned the can, launched a massive marketing blitz, and promised a better taste. Initially, Coke did customer surveys and determined that the new drink would be a success. The New Coke failure happened because Coke attempted to reposition itself around a “new” ideology, to be something it wasn't. If you tell the society you are the “Real Thing,” then you can’t come up with the “New Real Thing.” On the surface, it’s still classic Coca-Cola, it’s sweeter but tastes as if it’s been diluted by melting ice, sound familiar? 

The prioritization of superficiality and lack of sincerity and authenticity, occasionally even literally existing under a guise made Season 3 occasionally be perceived as cliché and shallow. Starcourt Mall was destroyed on the night of July 4, 1985 and burned to the ground, the arrest of Mayor Kline, and the removal of “New Coke” no more than 74 days after it hit shelves, societal influence in general and conformity aren’t always necessarily beneficial to each one of us individually and flashy labels work are a guise for the darker substances lingering under the surface.

[live-laugh-larceny]

i decided to write logan angst :D

I have not been able to stop thinking about @ameliessanderssidesblog‘s Zoom Angst post and I decided to write a smol fic based off it because I want pain. (someone else is writing one too but I figured more Logan angst is good?? I won’t check for their fic until I finish this because I want any similarities to be unintentional)

ok i have finished and reread it. this fic is a mess and horribly self-indulgent but i hope you like it anyway

characters: Logan-centric, some C!Thomas, Janus, Virgil, and Patton. The twins have one line apiece. Orange makes an appearance.

length: 1.6k

warnings: crying, Remus says something nsfw (it’s in the original post), the Orange boy being vaguely threatening, no happy ending

“Are you sure you don’t want to show the viewers those sparkling glasses you have, Logan?” Patton’s cheerful voice pipes from the speakers beside Logan’s desktop, tinny and hollow. Logan huffs out a derisive laugh, digging his fingers more forcefully into his hair in a fruitless (“good one!”) attempt to ease the pain of his pounding headache. Patton, of course, has no idea that Logan’s glasses are lying haphazardly on his desk where he flung them twenty minutes ago, looking for all intent like an insect scrabbling helplessly on its back. Logan observes that that comparison is not an inaccurate depiction of his current situation.

“You’re pathetic,” Logan mutters, furious for letting himself wallow in self-pity when there is a dilemma to be resolved. He shouldn’t be reacting so strongly to these... incidents. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes and Logan turns the brightness down on his laptop, as reducing eye strain is an effective method of countering the excessive moisture currently being produced by his tear glands. Ignoring the mounting pressure behind his eyes, Logan clicks the smudge in the corner of his display that he knows will make his voice heard. 

---

Thomas and Virgil exchange a fleeting glance as they both pick up on the strain behind Patton’s false laughter and the worry lurking in his eyes like a small child peeking bashfully between their parent’s legs. Thomas tilts his head slightly, hesitant to voice his question lest Logan was still listening. He and the other Sides had learned the hard way that asking about Logan’s well-being when he was upset rarely ended well. Thomas has barely started typing a message to Patton when he notices one from Janus. Curious, he opens the chatbox. It’s a private message, and Thomas has to shake a residual feeling of dread (he trusts Janus now, it’s fine) before opening it.

Totally Elle Woods: Patton’s last few encounters with Logan have gone wonderfully, and he’s absolutely not concerned.  

Thomas furrows his eyebrows he scrutinizes Janus’s screen. The snake-faced Side displays no outward signs of concern, languidly swirling his wine glass and looking remarkably bored behind his mint skincare mask. Despite his blunders and over-the-top theatrics, Janus was a fantastically good actor when he wanted to be. Thomas always seemed to forget that, somehow. 

Thomas Sanders: How did you know?

Totally Elle Woods: Please, be more obvious next time.

Thomas Sanders: Janus... 

Totally Elle Woods: ...sorry. Do you think I didn’t notice that little look between you and Virgil? You’re definitely as subtle as you think you are. 

Thomas sighs, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands. He feels a small headache coming on- hopefully Janus will remind him to take some Advil later. He looks up again as Patton gasps, a huge, genuine grin spreading across the moral Side’s face.

“Hi Logan!” Patton chirps. “What do you have to say about this mask-ive issue we’re having here?”

Thomas glances down at Logan’s blank screen and confirms that Logan really did unmute, feeling his stomach churn as he accidentally glimpses the last participant in their call. (Maybe Thomas had been purposefully not looking.) “07334 :)” is silent and invisible, but Thomas can’t help but feel anxious at the thought of an unknown Side possibly listening in on their conversation. It just doesn’t feel right.

---

Logan sighs at Patton’s ridiculousness. His continued insistence on wordplay over productivity did nothing but halt their discussions and delay finding a solution. Logan cleared his throat and spoke, enunciating as clearly as possible. 

“It would probably be beneficial for Thomas to arrive early so he can be sure to claim a six-foot radius appropriate for proper social distancing. Preferably -” 

“But what if some asshat just plops right in Thomas’s space? And we risk getting the virus? And then we can’t film videos because we need to get tested and then that takes forever and then we’re losing income and the fans get mad and we go broke and-”

Logan knows that Virgil didn’t have malicious intent when he cut him off. He knows that. Virgil is his friend, and he is prone strong bouts of anxiety that manifest in rapid speech which mimics his spiraling thoughts. Nevertheless, Logan experiences an irrational urge to crumple up another notecard and throw it as hard as he can at Virgil’s pixelated face. Couldn’t he have waited for another thirty seconds and allowed Logan to finish explaining himself? Logan had actually planned for this scenario and many others besides that, because he’s Logic and that’s his damn job. The urge grows stronger as Logan makes out that Patton and Thomas are nodding in agreement with Virgil like his outburst somehow invalidated Logan’s proposal. Dully, Logan notices that his lungs are having difficulty performing gas exchange at their usual efficiency. His head pounds. They must think he’s a joke. They must think he’s stupid. 

“GOOD GOD, VIRGIL!”

The ensuing silence stretches on for approximately 8.65 seconds before Thomas finally speaks. 

“Logan...”

Even through a speaker, the disappointment in Thomas’s voice is unmistakable. Logan is suddenly extremely grateful that his eyesight only allows him to vaguely identify the others without his glasses. He doesn’t want to see their faces. 

07334 :): :(

Virgil inhales slowly, holds, and exhales in the 4-7-8 pattern he taught them in his room. He’s doing that because of Logan. Virgil is anxious and distressed, and it’s his fault. Logan’s stomach figuratively flips over, and guilt “claws” its way up his throat. Such sensations were not literally experienced, of course, but Logan currently lacks the vocabulary to describe them more objectively. Clearly, participating in group discussions when he so easily lost his temper and upset the other Sides was unacceptable for theirs and Thomas’s mental health. 

“I... I apologize, Virgil. I did not mean to speak so harshly.” Logan struggles to speak. His tongue refuses to follow his command. “I- It seems that I was, uh, correct... a few months ago when I suggested to Patton that I leave the discussion after... after hurting Roman. I...” Logan trails off.

Virgil takes another deep breath, and something compels Logan to reach for his glasses. He cleans them on his shirt before sliding them on, blinking owlishly at his computer as it snaps back into focus. His breath stutters as he forces himself to look at Virgil, who is wearing the same indecipherable expression as when he said that Logan was “lost”. (Logan perceives every microexpression that makes its way across the others’ faces. He notices the minute differences in twitches of the lips and the positioning of the eyebrows. He doesn’t always know what those infinitesimal changes mean, but he’s trying to learn.) Logan still doesn’t understand what Virgil meant back then, but he knows that it was hardly positive. 

“I... we’re going to leave you alone until tomorrow, L.” Virgil’s eyes are boring into him. It’s not possible, Virgil can’t see him through a computer screen. Virgil’s eyes are boring into him, unearthing every regret and insecurity and laying them bare. “There’s something going on with you. We can all see it. Please don’t try to hide it.” Virgil’s words are stimulating a release of epinephrine, which is causing his heart rate to increase. Logan can no longer focus on anything but the fact that his headache and his heartbeat are throbbing in perfect unison. 

“We love you, Logan.” Patton’s voice trembles. Logan clicks mute, sprints to his bed, and screams into his pillow. 

07334 :): :’(

---

pattonsandersenter: I think we should go talk to Logan...

Totally Elle Woods: I understand your concern, but denial is a tricky thing. If we push Logan now, it could be disastrous.

xX21ChemicalPanic!Xx: so we’re just going to let logan delude himself forever?

Totally Elle Woods: Unless I was mistaken, it was you who suggested we leave him alone, dear Virgil.

xX21ChemicalPanic!Xx: fuck you. you know what i fucking meant, snake

Thomas Sanders: Guys don’t fight

pattonsandersenter: Virgil!!! Language!!!

Totally Elle Woods: We’ll talk to him tomorrow. For now, we finish this video as planned.

---

The rest of the call passes in a daze. Logan eventually makes his way back to his desk and listens with his head in his hands, trying to distract himself by identifying the others by the tone of their voices. Janus’s melodic lilt, Remus’s grating screech, Roman’s booming tenor, Virgil’s soft mutter, Patton’s friendly warmth, and Thomas, somewhere between it all. Eventually, they all sign out in perfect unison, having reached a solution almost identical to one Logan had already planned out. So much for efficiency, he thinks, but there’s no bitterness or bite, just exhaustion. 

“Take it easy, guys, gals, and non-binary pals!”

“byeishouldn’thavejoinedthis”

“Toodle-oo, plebs!”

“Don’t take care. See you...”

“Ok!! I’ll see you kiddos later!!”

“SUCK COCK MOTHERFUCKERS!!! BYEEEE!”

---

Logan opens his eyes blearily. The world dissolves into smudges again- his glasses are still perched on top of his head from when he moved them to sulk earlier. Pathetic. 

It’s just him and “07334 :)” now. Resigned, Logan unmutes and shows himself for the first time. He refuses to look at his face in the computer screen, puffy and red with a single tear carving a hot, salty river down his cheek. Pathetic.

When Orange speaks, Logan’s speaker hisses and pops with static as if it was trying to resist broadcasting Orange’s voice. 

“I’ll be seeing you, Blue.” Logan knows that it is impossible to discern Orange’s expression, but in that moment, he could have sworn he heard the grin slicing across Orange’s face. Lethal. Deadly. Logan shudders. Pathetic. 

Logan manages to gather himself and look up for real, staring down the smiley face on Orange’s blank screen.

“Yeah, I know.”

Orange and Logan click out at the same time, and the call goes silent.

---

If anyone made it through that, thanks for reading! This is maybe my second fic ever so sorry if it’s messy and hard to follow. It was very stream of consciousness if you couldn’t tell. I wanted to include some Roman angst too but I honestly couldn’t think of a good way to do it and this thing was already taking a long time. Sorry Roman stans :( Also sorry Remus stans :(

[blue-lions-baby]

After Hours (F!Byleth x Dimitri)

(a/n) hi so this is my first time writing a dimileth fanfic! i do apologize if he (or any other character, for that matter) is a bit out of character though ^^’. please enjoy!

*this takes place pre-time skip

~*~

Dimitri brandished the wooden lance that he gripped with monstrous ferocity as he lunged forward, flying at the enemy he construed in his head. His ankle twisted slightly and he sharply exhaled through gritted teeth; that would swell up for sure.

“No matter!” He thought to himself. “If this were the real thing, I wouldn’t have time to check on a mere sprain. Again!”

He gave another thrust, the tip of his spear cutting only the empty space that surrounded him. He could see the enemy coming from all sides-- they were closing in on him! Cooly, he flicked his arm to and fro, moving his arm with such ruthless vigor he could almost feel their metal armor denting and splintering under his supernatural strength. He rolled to the left, backstepped, jumped to the right, and finally swung his whole body a complete 180 to finish off the rogue sneaking up behind him. However, in place of the rogue he saw his belov-- er... His professor.

“O-Oh, uh, Professor! What are you doing here so late at night?”

Byleth did not respond at first, simply gazing at him with that same indifferent expression pretty much plastered on her face at all times.

“You lean forward too much.” She said abruptly.

“... I beg your pardon?”

“When you lunge like that, you can spear right through whoever’s in front of you, yes. But you lose your center of balance doing so.” She motioned slightly to Dimitri’s ankle. She saw that too?

“I... suppose you’re right.” The slightly baffled prince muttered. Byleth reached out her hand.

“May I?”

“O-Of course.”

Dimitri handed her the lance; sometime during this exchange though, his fingers accidentally grazed the calloused part of her knuckles. A shock jolted from the point of contact throughout the rest of his body and he quickly stepped back, silently cursing himself for almost losing his composure over the mere action of grazing against her skin.

“Now then,” Byleth got into a fighting stance, “the trick is to extend your arm like this. Don’t work for your weapon. Make it work for you. You tell it where to go, who and how to cut, and it will do it for you. But you have to make sure you do it properly, or else you will put yourself or others at risk.”

Dimitri stroked his chin and nodded deeply, pondering over his teacher’s advice with great thought.

“I see now. Thank you, Professor. You’re as helpful as always.”

Byleth handed him his lance (admittedly, the prince was a tad disappointed when their fingers didn’t touch) and instructed him to run some drills. Byleth took a few steps back and commenced his private training.

“Not quite. Stretch it like this, see?”

“Once more, Dimitri.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

Several grueling minutes ticked by and Dimitri could feel his limit was nigh. Both his arms screamed and pleaded for rest, and his shoulder cricked and popped every time he lifted his spear higher than his waist. The ankle that he sprained earlier had come back to haunt him; every plunge, every sidestep aggravated his injury further and he could only pray to the Goddess that he didn’t seriously injure it at this point.

The poor prince was worked to the bone and, pushed beyond his threshold, perceived his professor’s quiet grunt of approval as nothing short of the herald of angels announcing his salvation. With the grace of a goose with two left feet, he buckled and collapsed to the left of Byleth.

“Are you okay, Dimitri?”

One large gasp for air later, he flashed her a courteous smile and waved her off.

“I-I’m... fine... just a-a bit... winded...”

Byleth giggled and-- wait, giggled? Did he just hear his companion... laugh? With his pulse’s thumps roaring in his ears, perhaps he mistook a grunt or hum as a breathy chortle. He couldn’t truly be certain but...

He sloppily ran his hand through his dripping locks and cast a sideglance at his normally expressionless teacher who, much to his shock, was staring right at him with the softest eyes he’d ever seen on a woman. His breath snagged in his throat and his heart felt like it was about to burst.

Those frigid, ocean-blue eyes whose unintentionally sharp glares could pierce through steel beheld warmth and tenderness that rivaled even the nurturing glow of the sun. The torches strewn about the room cast a gentle glow on her features, softening the typically taut blankness that became the hallmark of her character into something... caring, and downright--

“Beautiful...” Dimitri whispered lucidly.

“Pardon?”

“Huh?” Then it hit him like a brick. He cursed at how pale his skin was, for the slightest flush or blush could easily be read as a giant, red banner, practically screaming, ‘Hey! Look how embarrassed I am! I am very much overwhelmed, which is why my cheeks are as red as a beet!’

“I-- Um--” While Dimitri fumbled for anything coherent, Byleth only stared at him with empty, hollow eyes. Hoping (and trying to believe with all his might) that his professor didn’t hear his accidental blip, he was able to grasp enough of his scattered thoughts to form a comprehensible sentence.

“The night!” He exclaimed, almost too excitedly. “The night is, er, beautiful...”

Not as comprehensible as he was hoping it to be. Byleth’s brows twitched and furrowed deeply; she nodded slowly and averted her gaze towards the floor.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

At this point, Dimitri was praying to the Goddess to have pity on him and his social blunders, begging for her to just open up the Earth and swallow him from where he sat. He cleared his throat and thumbed the surface of his lance. A weird silence filled the room; it wasn’t awkward, no, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Dimitri was practically itching for some noise to fill the void, but he wasn’t expecting much out of his stoic companion.

“Dimitri.” Byleth began. If Dimitri wasn’t half-dead from training, he’d have jumped right out of his skin no doubt.

“Yes, Professor?” He managed to get out.

“It’s not like you to be out past curfew. Why are you up so late?” She asked him, her voice barely above a whisper. Dimitri turned to meet her face, but her gaze was transfixed to the opposite side of the room. Dimitri let out a small sigh and stared ahead.

“Well, I can ask you the same thing, Professor. What are you doing, roaming the academy grounds after dark?”

Byleth remained silent; a worrying sensation started bogging down his thoughts. Perhaps he had overstepped his bounds as a student? What his professor did in her spare time should be of no concern to him. Besides, she could just be patrolling the grounds for rebellious students like him, sneaking off after curfew. Goddess, what was he--

“I,” Byleth started slowly, “couldn’t sleep.”

Dimitri paused for a moment, then let out a hoarse chuckle. His head lazily lolled back as he entered a staring contest with the cracked and weathered ceiling above them.

“Heh. I suppose that makes the two of us.”

Byleth turned to him but this time, it was he that was looking away. His eyes fluttered shut and he rolled his head forward.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind these past few weeks.” He continued tactfully. Although he wasn’t looking directly at her, he could see her head bob up and down thoughtfully; a nod in quiet understanding.

“Is everything all right?” She inquired further. Dimitri’s cheeks flushed red and his heart quickened, adrenaline soaking into his bloodstream. The walls guarding his heart hardened as he flipped and dissected that simple question over and over in his head. He must be careful now.

“Yes.” He said at last. “No need to trouble yourself over such trivial matters.”

“Well, if it’s bothering my student to the point where he’s losing sleep, then surely it must be of great importance.” She replied gently, shifting a hair closer to the male. Dimitri made no sound, no motion, as he found no quip to her insightful remark.

“Really, it is of no cause for concern.” He reassured her while also trying to reassure himself. He could feel the blood surging to his temples, transforming the steady, war drum-like poundings into fitful, uneven patterings of a snare drum. “Please... Let’s move on from this topic.”

“Dimitri--”

“For Goddess’ sake, just drop it already!” Dimitri roared, shooting up like a madman. His demented eyes swam fiercely and a certain streak of bloodlust glinted his darkening hues.

It felt like someone was trying to split his head open with a mallet; the voices he’s been trying to bury deep, deep within him leaked out of the cracks of his slowly chipping sanity. He buried his head in his hands and fell backward onto a rack of equipment, strewing the wooden and rusty training weapons all over the floor.

Stop.

“You must avenge us, Dimitri.”

I will, just please stop!

“Never forget the Tragedy of Duscur, Dimitri!”

I won’t! Please--

I’ll-- I’ll--

“Kill the filthy vermins that killed us!!!”

“Dimitri!”

“WHAT?!”

Smack!

Stinging, painful, numbing, stinging... Stinging...

“Dimitri!” Byleth locked either hand on his shoulders and shook the dazed man as hard as she could. “Get a hold of yourself! Dimitri!”

His eyes were still swimming. Swimming, swimming in a sea of madness and fury. The coolness of his bright icy eyes was melting with malice and hate; the rest of his countenance darkened as quickly as his spiraling descent into rabid rage. In a blind effort to save him-- her most cherished pupil, her trustful confidante, her anchor in the storm-- she pulled him into a tight embrace and soothed his unkempt locks like a forlorn lover would her quickly expiring partner.

She brought her lips closer to his ear and shushed softly, steadily rocking him away from the teetering edge of insanity to the security and warmth of her arms. She ran and dug her knuckles into his back, easing the tension out of knots woven too tightly from untold burdens. While she busied her hands, she purred sweet, little tunes Jeralt used to hum to her as a baby whenever she started fussing. Although she wasn’t very confident in her singing abilities, she could only hope her mediocre voice would reach the heart of the one she held dearest in her soul.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, his breathing slackened to a more regular rhythm. His eyes lost their fitful glower and took up an empty, passive gaze into nothingness. His palpating heart was the last to return to normal, but when it did, it beat in heartfelt unison with Byleth-- the woman whose locked arms shielded him from the ensnaring, grasping hands of his inner demons.

He melted into his Professor’s loving touches, reveling at how good her knuckles felt as they probed small circles into his back, how her digits patiently untangled every sweaty knot in his matted hair. And lastly, her voice. Goddess, her voice. It fluttered along the fluctuating notes with the clarity and sweetness of a bird, whose first chirp introduced the prelude of springtime.

Suddenly she stopped, pulling away just enough to look at him completely.

“Do you feel better now?”

“I...” He slumped forward and nestled his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her crisp, clean scent. “I’m so... I’m sorry... I’m so sorry, Professor, I...”

He clenched his jaw to muffle his sobs, but he could not hide the wet properties of his tears. She skimmed her fingers along the length of his back, up, down, up, down... Once again, Dimitri was placed right back under his beloved’s soothing hexes and he eventually quieted down. Byleth tucked some loose strands behind his ear and paused for a moment, thinking carefully of what she was going to say.

“I’m sorry.”

“...Unh?”

“I’m sorry for pushing you like that. I shouldn’t have forced you to open up if you weren’t comfortable, so... I’m sorry.”

“... No.” Dimitri pulled away and-- in an act of newfound bravery or long-dormant foolishness, he knew not-- reached up and cupped Byleth’s warm cheek with his hand. “It is not your fault, I... You were just trying to help. I appreciate it, truly.”

Dimitri did not fully realize where his hand was until he felt Byleth nestle her cheek further into his palm. The prince’s breath snagged in his throat and his chest ached pleadingly-- longingly-- to hold her forever in his arms. Curse this student-professor relation! If only he’d have met her after he graduated when he was free from the prying eyes of his peers and probing professors.

But... He was a prince. He was Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerhgus. Would he ever truly be free to love someone like her? Byleth was placid, cool, and resourceful. She possessed extraordinary tactical abilities, her military wisdom rivaling battle-weathered veterans who were twice her age. She was also a mercenary... A sword-for-hire. Granted, a mercenary-turned-professor, but she was not of noble birth. Her lineage wasn’t embellished with decorated war veterans nor did it contain traces of aristocracy (as far as he knew, though Byleth was probably uncertain herself). But... He loved her. Goddess, he loved her. He has never loved a woman so much in his life. Not like this, at least.

Byleth’s pleased sigh interrupted Dimitri’s soliloquy and he froze, stiff realization slowly dawning on him. Before he had a chance to pull away in the name of proper social conduct, the clattering sound of boots against cobblestones hurriedly making their way towards them sent both of them in a frenzy. In a flurry of tangled limbs, they were up on their feet just before Seteth came tumbling in.

“Professor! What are you doing here with Prince Dimitri? And why are all the weapons scattered about?!” He exclaimed, clearly out of breath. Byleth opened her mouth to speak, but Seteth waved her off. “Never mind that. Lady Rhea needs to speak with you immediately. Please escort the prince back to his room before you come. I have to find Catherine as well...”

And as quickly as he appeared he was gone, melting into the thick, dark veil of night.

An air of stiffness settled in the room, and either party refused to meet the other’s eye. Dimitri scooted away and proceeded to pick up and mount all the weapons he had disheveled in his delirium. Byleth remained immobile, staring deeply at the ground in ponderous thought. Dimitri’s own thoughts were put on hold as his hands neatly filed the weapons back into place without much cognition.

“Shall we go, Professor?” He asked, quickly double-checking to make sure everything was in tidy order.

“.. Yes.” There was a second-long delay in her response that would have been imperceptible to anyone else, but definitely not to the already on-edge prince. He nodded curtly and proceeded to follow his professor out of the training room. A ghastly wind howled down the corridors as they walked, and Dimitri felt a ghostly chill slink down his spine. He glimpsed over at Byleth, who still remained unfazed as ever. Dimitri wrung his hands restlessly and cleared his throat.

“Er... Professor...?”

“Mn?”

“About what happened earlier...” Dimitri paused, waited for Byleth to give her input on the matter, but continued when she said nothing. “I’d like to deeply apologize for my behavior tonight. It was grossly inappropriate of me and... It will not happen again.”

Dimitri’s heart quivered painfully at the last phrase and he looked down; Byleth glanced the other way, hoping to hide the sorrowful glisten in her eyes.

“It’s okay. Are you feeling better now?” She asked, continuing to stare at the wall.

“Yes, tons! You have truly helped me-- us, a lot, both in and out of the classroom. I think I can speak for all of my peers when I say that we sincerely appreciate everything that you’ve done for us.”

“O-Oh,” A hot blush crept onto Byleth’s cheeks, “thank you, Dimitri.”

The young prince stole a quick peek at the shorter woman and his heart nearly burst out of his chest when he saw a faint pink dusting her face.

“Oh? Professor, is that a blush I see?”

“D-Dimitri..” Byleth buried her face in her palms while Dimitri let out a hearty laugh. Alas, before long the duo found themselves in front of the Kingdom royal’s door.

“Thank you for escorting me back to my room... And also for that impromptu training session.��� And... for reeling me out of the depths of madness.

Byleth shook her head. “It was nothing. Have a good night, Dimitri.” 

She turned to leave and her figure quickly disappeared into the lightless hallway.

No, wait... Professor, please--

“Don’t go...” Dimitri’s heart sank to the floor and he immediately wanted to cast himself into the sea. That wasn’t supposed to come out. That wasn’t supposed to come out. That wasn’t supposed to come ou-- Oh Goddess, now she’s walking back!

“Pardon? I didn’t get that...”

“N-Nothing!” The top part of Dimitri’s body practically flew down in a deep, quick bow. “Goodnight my lo-- uh, Professor!”

Before Byleth could even blink, the wood of Dimitri’s door was all that was left of the prince, along with the loud bang that typically followed doors that were unceremoniously shut. She heard some students-- who were most likely rudely awoken by Dimitri’s door-- rustling in their rooms; Byleth scurried down the long hallway. It probably wouldn’t look too great on her part to be caught hanging around student dormitories at such a bizarre hour.

As she jogged out of the building and into the courtyard, she glanced up at the breathtaking nightly landscape of Garreg Mach. She cherished this moment, this academy, these students, and her fellow professors more than she ever thought she could. An image of Dimitri bubbled to the forefront of her mind and she let out a small giggle-- a rarity for the Ashen Demon.

“Goodnight, Dimi.”

[pargolettasworld]

This here is why I neither enjoy nor trust public apologies.  The short version of the story:  DeSean Jackson, a Philadelphia Eagle, posted some things on social media that I’m pretty sure he intended as support for Black Lives Matter and amplifying the inherent moral value of Black people.  The problem was that one of these was a quote about Black supercessianism that was wrongly attributed to Adolf Hitler, and the other was a quotation from Louis Farrakhan, who is a staunch antiracist and supporter of Black communities while also being a staunch antisemite and homophobe.  People were quick to point out that this particular selection of posts was Not A Good Look for Jackson.

The Philadelphia Eagles corporate unit sat Jackson down and had a Good Long Talk™ with him.  One upshot of that talk was that Jackson posted a couple of anodyne apologies to social media.  The gist of them is that clearly, everyone misread his posts about glorifying antisemites to mean that he, like, hates Jews or something, and he’s very sorry if you took offense to it, because he has no hatred in his heart.  There are a couple of text iterations of this, and a video as well.  You should watch the video, by the way.  It has all the flat, affectless tone of a hostage with a gun to his head telling everyone how well his captors are treating him, and that, by golly, as soon as the camera is off, they’re all going to go play volleyball or something.

It’s a terrible apology, and it’s completely clear that Jackson doesn’t mean a word of it.  The Philadelphia Eagles corporate unit forced him to say it, and I don’t think they believe a word of it either, nor do they care.  People got mad at one of their players, so they’re making him recite the magic incantation that will make the mad go away. 

At this point, I’m forced to conclude that one of two things is true.  Option A is that DeSean Jackson really is a boiling antisemite who wants everyone to know that Hitler and Farrakhan are right about Jews and that everyone should loathe the Jewish people as much as Hitler and Farrakhan . . . and that he’s very sorry that he got caught saying such things aloud in public.

I don’t think this is a likely scenario.

What I think is much more likely is Option B.  Jackson honestly doesn’t care about Jewish people one way or the other.  He probably doesn’t know many Jewish people personally, and may consider Jews to be a bit of an abstraction, not a real enough part of his world to be worth considering.  He is very concerned (and rightly so) about the abysmal place of Black people in American society, especially Black athletes working in grueling conditions under largely White ownership.  He probably got a substandard education at an American public school, and missed the part of world history class where the teacher explained that Adolf Hitler is one of the few pure villains of humanity.  He probably admires Farrakhan for his advocacy for Black communities.  He had a point to make, and managed to blunder his way into making it in the worst way possible.  He’s very sorry that everyone is so mad at him, but I’ll bet he doesn’t really understand why people are mad.

But a Wrong™ has been committed, and a Public Apology™ must be made posthaste.  And there was no way this was going to come off looking sincere.  Granted, Jackson’s apology was terrible, as apologies go.  There’s a whole script for how to make a Sincere Apology™.  But the thing is, even that kind of thing sounds, well, scripted when you do it in public.  You know that people are following the script, and they’re saying the right things, but it all kind of sounds the same.  A public apology to a faceless mass of people just doesn’t have the same kind of connective value that a private apology between people does.  I’m not sure it’s even possible to make a sincere public apology.  Especially if Corporate gets there first and tells the whole world that it sat you down and scolded you.

So, no.  I don’t like public apologies.  I’ve never perceived them as sincere.  To me, they come off either as completely missing the point or as completely scripted.  And I’d almost rather have no apology at all than have to sit through someone slogging through this embarrassing public ritual.

[alexsmitposts]

Journalists that are Allowed to Exercise Freedom by the US and those Who Cannot It is quite well known that the US government applies double standards to freedom of the press issue. Despite the fact that “freedom of the press in the United States is legally protected by the First Amendment” to the US Constitution, information available to the public is not necessarily free of government interference. It would appear that everything that does not align with policies of the current US elites is excluded from the mainstream, such as reports by journalists, viewed as troublemakers, and by alternative media outlets According to a survey, conducted by the Cato Institute (a US public policy research organization) and publicized on July 22, 2020, “nearly two-thirds—62%—of Americans” questioned “say the political climate these days prevents them from saying things they believe because others might find them offensive”. There are numerous mechanisms at the US government disposal to filter out information deemed unnecessary, thus preventing it from reaching a wider audience. And such policies are being pursued on the domestic front as well as abroad. There are also regulations governing the work of foreign media outlets operating in the United States. For example, this year, the US State Department designated “five Chinese news agencies as foreign government entities”, which were from then onwards to be officially treated “as extensions of China’s government, subjecting employees to similar rules that foreign diplomats operate under”. US companies have, on a number of occasions, taken down content posted by foreign media outlets from their platforms and social media networks for various reasons. For example, in May 2020, YouTube (a video sharing company) deleted the accounts of Crimea’s TV channel Krym-24 as well as ANNA News (the Abkhazian Network News Agency) and News Front from its platform. A month earlier, Russian News Agency TASS reported that “the Federal News Agency said earlier that Google had blocked its account, as well as its YouTube account”. The New Eastern Outlook accounts on Facebook and Twitter have been blocked. The official Twitter accounts of the President and government of Russia and a number of prominent Russian media received special, McCarthy-style labels. The list goes on. Restrictions have been imposed on RT and Sputnik news agencies and their staff. In March the US Department of State made a decision to cap “the number of US-based employees of Xinhua News Agency, China Global Television Network, China Radio International and China Daily Distribution Corp at 100 from 160 currently”. In May, the US Department of Homeland Security imposed new visa restrictions “against Chinese nationals working as journalists in the United States”. In fact, the effect of censorship is being felt not only by foreign but also domestic media outlets in the United States. For example, the Committee to Protect Journalists, an organization based in New York, has continuously reported about physical attacks on journalists working in the United States. At times, media outlets have been sued for publishing reports critical of certain individuals or agencies. Journalists have also been pressured to reveal their confidential sources and to quit their jobs.  In July, journalist Bari Weiss published a scathing resignation letter that she sent to Arthur Ochs Sulzberger, the publisher of the New York Times, in which she talks about unlawful discrimination and the illiberal work environment at the newspaper. Editorial page editor James Bennet resigned after admitting that an op-ed in the New York Times, calling for the deployment of federal troops into major American cities amid nationwide protests and riots, should not have been published blaming “a break down in the editorial process for the blunder”. It would seem that any perceived transgression by a reporter can result in imposition of restrictions or even repression. Jon Caldara who worked for The Denver Post since 2016 and wrote about “a range of issues, especially those related to political and economic freedom” lost his job for stating that “sex is binary”. Yet another notable example of limitations on freedom of the press imposed in the United States is the case instigated against Julian Assange (an activist and founder of WikiLeaks) by the US government, which formally requested his extradition. He is currently serving his 50-week prison sentence in the United Kingdom. In order to discourage alternative media outlets from publishing reports critical of the US government, the US Department of Justice charged Julian Assange on 18 counts. If convicted, he could receive a sentence of up to 175 years in prison. And in such an unhealthy environment, instead of defending the freedom of the press in the United States and protecting the rights of Julian Assange and journalists who have been wronged, Washington has, surprisingly, chosen to launch propaganda campaigns against violations of press freedom in other nations. These campaigns appear to target countries whose governments have imposed restrictions on work of journalists, who have been trained in the United States to shape public opinion via foreign media outlets. For example, US Ambassador to Uzbekistan Daniel Rosenblum, who assumed office in May 2019, has recently “joined this fight for justice” by expressing “deep concern” about the case of Uzbek journalist Bobomurod Abdullayev, who was detained by Kyrgyz authorities at Tashkent’s request. “The governments of both Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan should respect Mr. Abdullayev’s freedom of movement and allow him to depart the Kyrgyz Republic to his destination of choice,” tweeted the diplomat on August 13. So why has Daniel Rosenblum not been urging the UK to release Julian Assange and allow him to travel to a destination of his choosing (and not the United States)? At this point in the article, the author would like to explain to his readers why the US Ambassador has been pushing for the release of Bobomurod Abdullayev. On August 9, 2020, the journalist was detained by the Kyrgyz state security service in Bishkek at Tashkent’s request on “suspicion of anonymously criticizing the government on social media”.  In September 2017, Uzbek authorities arrested Bobomurod Abdullayev on charges of “conspiracy to overthrow the constitutional regime” “for writing critical articles on various platforms, including social media, under the pseudonym Usman Khaknazarov”. In March 2018, Bobomurod Abdullayev admitted “that he had used a pseudonym to publish critical articles, but that he was not the author of materials calling for violence”. The author suspects that such reports must have been written with help from the outside. On May 7, 2018, “the Tashkent City Criminal Court found Abdullayev guilty of committing an offence under article 159, paragraph 1 (b) of the Criminal Code (offences against the constitutional order of Uzbekistan” and “sentenced him to three years of correctional labor”. In February 2020, Bobomurod Abdullayev travelled to Kyrgyzstan for a four-month study program at the American University of Central Asia in Bishkek, but was unable to leave the country due to Coronavirus restrictions. In fact, Bobomurod Abdullayev might have been influenced to become a journalist who strives to shape public opinion via media outlets in Central Asia by well-known organizations, such as the National Endowment for Democracy (NED), Open Society Foundations (established by George Soros) and USAID (the United States Agency for International Development). The aforementioned organizations have been accused of having ties with US intelligence agencies, of attempting to instigate color revolutions in Central Asia and of destabilizing communities with the help of national media outlets. Incidentally, the fairly new Ambassador to Uzbekistan, Daniel Rosenblum, could be uniquely poised to promote color revolutions because of his vast experience in working with non-profit organizations. “From 2014 to 2019, he served as Deputy Assistant Secretary of State in the Bureau of South and Central Asian Affairs,” which deals with US foreign policy and US relations with the countries of these regions. His experience in the region must have been the reason why he was appointed as the Ambassador to Uzbekistan. The country has been of great interest to the United States lately because of recent developments in Afghanistan and around it; the need to influence the political landscape in Uzbekistan and Central Asia as a whole in a manner beneficial to the United States, and the desire to drive a wedge between the aforementioned nations and China and Russia, thus bringing them closer to the USA with the help of journalists capable of shaping public opinion. And Bobomurod Abdullayev is among such reporters, which is why Daniel Rosenblum is so concerned about his arrest.

[ineffablecolors]

THE WIFE [21/?]

The Wife || Ch 21 ~ 4.3k || Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10 Ch11 C12 Ch13Ch14 Ch15Ch16 Ch17 Ch18 Ch19 Ch20 || FF.NET&AO3

Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are?

Emma takes some convincing to believe that Nemo has taken no offence – has hardly noticed, if Killian is being honest – her perceived blunder.

On the other hand, their host has hardly failed to notice how well widowhood agrees with lady Belle and it takes only another walk around the estate with Emma’s hand tucked safely into his arm and her ear ready and willing to listen to all his little observations for her to agree that the old captain and Mrs Gold appear very comfortable with the minimal distance and abundant conversation between them.

“I thought it was the business of mothers and dotting aunts to make matches,” she teases him and Killian turns his head a little to the side, trying and probably failing to hide his embarrassment.

It is hard to keep his gaze away when Emma comes to a sudden halt, yanking him back with her hold on his arm. Her eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open, there is mirth in her features that Killian knows he is the cause of but all he can think about is how sweet and delectable she looks.

“You really do like it!” she exclaims and it’s more laughter than words and he does his best to look stern and affronted and not taken with her antics.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, love.”

“You like arranging matches for people,” she fires back undeterred.

“First, I have arranged nothing. I merely inquired after a friend’s well-being. Nemo’s invitation for her to dine with us and stay for a few days was completely of his own making. And, second, I have hardly made a habit of predicting, let alone promoting, romance in years.”

Emma’s eyes don’t stray for a moment and narrow dangerously towards the end of his exasperated statement – that’s how he knows he has made a mistake somewhere.

“But you did before,” she says with conviction that will be startling if he wasn’t so damn used to being surprised by her.

And yet, he can only sputter in search of words – denials – in response to her confidence and eventually settles for moving closer instead, leaning down to kiss her cheek and tuck a lock of hair that has escaped her coiffure behind her cold-tinged ear. It’s not wholly an attempt to distract her, seeing as these days he is in an almost constant state of restraining his desire to touch her in some way or other.

“If you believe me to have a flair for this sort of thing, I’m afraid I’ll only disappoint you, my queen.”

Her eyes narrow again and she hums in thought that he is honestly a little apprehensive about but her gloved hand wraps more firmly around his forearm and she starts back down the path. For a few minutes they walk among the sounds of the birds that don’t mind the low temperatures and the little pebbles that Emma delights in kicking in every direction. Killian thinks himself safe. Killian is a fool.

“But you have done it before,” she waves her hand ahead of them, where Nemo and Belle are almost lost from view now.

“Emma,” he groans.

“I just find it intriguing, that’s all.”

“Oh, intriguing, is it? You mean because of how unromantic I usually am?”

“What an idea! You are the most romantic man I know.”

“You don’t know enough men then,” he says mostly just to be contradictory and their eyes meet and widen at the same time. “I immediately retract that statement.”

Her laughter comes out in a delicate white cloud.

“Good.”

“I merely meant that, just because I did not have the chance to properly woo you, does not mean I have no notion of the concept.”

“I felt plenty wooed.”

Her voice is playful and her smile coquettish and he feels the warmth of her happiness unfurl inside him and yet, he can’t help the spark of indignation at the fact that she doesn’t know how much more she should expect.

In the heyday of their romance, he took Milah to every dance, play or exhibition that a lady might wish to attend and showered her with gifts nearly every week. What is more, he felt like he knew the right thing to say or do to charm, amuse or reassure her in every situation.

He doesn’t know if it’s age or experience – if he has changed or if he merely sees himself and the world more clearly now – but something has undermined that sheer arrogance. For now he knows that there are some things that are beyond anyone’s control and some moments which words cannot quite encompass.

Then again, Emma doesn’t seem to desire a social life that he will have to strain himself to give her and, while he is finding more and more words to express his devotion to her, he thinks she doesn’t care much for what they do or say as long as they are together.

Still, part of him wishes he’d met her in a situation that allowed him to court her properly, to show her how she should’ve been treated all along, but most of him is focused on the fact that her already being his wife needn’t deter him from doing so anyway.

*****

She moves slowly at first, almost cautiously, afraid to rise too high or fall too fast, exhilarated and yet self-conscious of the power she has. She flexes her fingers over his skin and squeezes her thighs around him, letting her head drop back and her back arch as far as it will go.

Unsurprisingly, Killian was right – she likes this. It feels much more like a dance, the thrill of riding combined with the thrill of him. She opens her eyes and leans down, her hair closing around them. Killian lets go of her hip and brushes away the strands that fall on his lips, his hand slipping to the back of her neck and pulling her mouth forcefully down to his.

He likes this too. That doesn’t really surprise her either.

She never thought anyone liked having someone else in control, guiding them where they wanted to go, choosing the pace and destination. Every journey – of the world or the heart – that he has taken her on has worked to change her mind, to show her how much she can enjoy – revel in, truly – being guided by his hand.

Unconsciously, instinctively, she believed a woman could never have that power, not over a man, not to his enjoyment. He is changing her mind about that too.

It’s different when she can feel his ecstasy all the way to the end, when she can feel his groans of pleasure reverberate inside her, when she can keep him there seemingly forever. It’s better and, for the first time, Emma is certain that, if it could never be more than this, them, coming together again and again, it will be enough.

He tells her later, as they lie face to face, their skin still a little flushed and her leg thrown over his, her fingers toying with the hairs under his bellybutton and his stump fitting right in the bent of her knee.

He tells her that Elsa was introduced to him first but one look at his brother’s face at the next ball made Killian plead off dancing for the night. He tells her how uncertain Alice was about wanting and accepting more than Robin’s friendship, about the pages she filled with reasons not to listen to her heart and the ones he wrote back to her, rebutting each one.

He tells her how frustrating it felt to not be able to talk his own damn self into some semblance of happiness, how foreign and ill-fitting the concept of love became when he tried to mold it to his own life, so she pulls him into her, binding her arms around him and kissing the thoughtful lines on his face until he laughs without breath and she knows he doesn’t have to talk himself into anything now.

She tells him the concept of love and the reality of him are one and the same to her.

*****

“Why do I even bother?”

It’s the most hostile sound she has heard Mrs Gold make in the last two days, accompanied by the very unladylike manner in which she tosses her cards on the table and leans back in her chair with a groan.

It makes Emma like her more – those not so perfect quirks and motions that the other woman is beginning to let slip around her. She supposes her own much friendlier attitude might have something to do with it.

“You should know your husband is a cheat.”

Emma’s incredulous eyes fly from Belle’s pointed look to Killian’s glowering one.

“I’ll have you know I haven’t cheated once tonight.”

Emma scrutinizes him and the slight flush as he shuffles the cards one-handed.

“That doesn’t mean you never do.”

“I assure you, love, cards and dice are the only things I take liberties with.”

He winks at Emma as he tosses the cards to Captain Nemo but she feels the prickle of guilt at the nape of her neck despite his blasé attitude.

Even though they are almost the same age, Belle acts as if Killian is her little brother no less than Liam does and Emma has spent the better part of the last couple of days bouncing between feeling ridiculous and absolutely rotten for despising Belle for an evening and making Killian think that she could ever doubt his faithfulness.

“Come now, my lady,” Nemo’s amusement cuts thought the fog of her thoughts just in time for her to take the cards he hands her, while still addressing Belle. “I’m sure Killian will behave in the presence of his wife.”

Killian sends her a look that makes her swallow hastily and glower down at her cards. They will be leaving tomorrow and she is determined that they shall make the most of Captain Nemo and Mrs Gold’s company tonight.

“I have yet to win a hand so I’m tempted to encourage some misbehavior,” the words are out of her mouth before she can think them over and the way Killian’s leg bumps hers under the table feels less than deliberate.

She smiles innocently at Belle’s choked laugh and does her utmost to avoid her husband’s eyes.

When she wins the next game, there is no doubt in her mind how it came about.

*****

Emma’s been having doubts for the last half an hour, doubts she has dismissed because she has hardly travelled at all and Killian certainly knows where the house he has lived in for years is located. Except it’s been half an hour and Killian is dozing off on her shoulder and she is sure that there weren’t this many turns on the way to Captain Nemo’s estate.

“Killian,” she brushes his hair back and hesitates at the peaceful expression on his face.

Then she feels the carriage tilt a little to the side and increases her efforts to not think about the worst possible reasons why they might be going the wrong way.

“Wake up, my heart,” she strokes her fingers over the almost white hair at his temples until his eyes flutter open.

Killian press further into her and turns his head a little to kiss her shoulder, his nose skirting the edge of silk and skin.

“What’s the matter, love?”

“I’m sorry, I just… Killian, I think we are going the wrong way.”

For half a breath she feels his body go rigid against hers and her heart manages to fit three whole beats into the moment before his lips quirk against her skin. She can’t help how loud her gasp is when his teeth sink into her.

“Have I told you that you are a very clever woman, Mrs Jones?”

“I—I don’t think… you have.”

He makes a sound of displeasure, his chin leaves her shoulder and in the next moment she feels the cold point of his nose right behind her ear, sending a shiver down her entire left side.

“You are. On occasion you can be less bright and observant so I might have the chance to surprise you from time to time as well.”

“Oh,” she raises her hand to the back of his head to urge him closer still, his words not truly registering for a few seconds, except for the deep cadence of them that makes her stomach clench. “Wait, you— Oh, you know we are not going home?”

“We are. We are just taking a more scenery road back.”

“But we’re not— oh, Killian,” she hitches her skirts up even though they seem to do little to impede him. “We’re not looking at the scenery.”

He pulls back enough that she can see the mischief and teasing dancing in his eyes.

“Would you like to?”

She pulls him into a kiss.

*****

He watches her face, coveting every expression, as he helps her out of the carriage and the first strong gust of wind and spray plasters her skirts to her legs and whips her hair in every imaginable direction. He feels something soft and tickling right in the middle of his chest at she frowns and squints at first, obviously questioning his decision to make them step out into the coldness and humidity. Then she takes in the world around her – the awe-inspiring cliffs and pitch-black rocks and the water stretching out as far as the eye can see.

As her hand rises to her open mouth and her eyes widen, he grabs and tucks away every movement quicker than the best pickpocket.

“Oh.”

She glances at him with her big, bright eyes and he feels a sudden urge to drop to his knees before her. If she were not his wife already, he would have probably done so indeed. As it is, he squeezes the small hand that still rests in his and ushers her away from the dirt road and up a narrow, winding trail that leads to the top of the wide cliff.

He is ready to help her up the slight incline but completely unsurprised when she lets go of him and scrambles up ahead, her skirts darkening at the bottom with every step and her hair becoming more and more of a mess. But he is there to steady her when she gets to the top and staggers a little backwards at the fierce press of the wind. In no time at all, there are little spatters of water on her cheeks and her eyes are still as wide as he has ever seen them, her breathing a little labored from the climb and her scarf askew. Killian adjust the heavy material to cover her neck and shoulders but makes no futile attempts to arrange her hair.

“It’s… it’s so… vast and wild.”

He hums in agreement and watches her take a few steps closer to the edge, the sea spray reaches him mixed with her scent and he knows this is one of those moments memory can never quite replicate after, one of those moments that are all life and here and now and joy to be alive. He stays back for a minute or two and lives in it.

When he comes up behind her, she reaches for him without turning around and draws his arms around her waist.

“Thank you.”

He presses his lips against the side of her head and pulls his shoulders forward and around her to protect her from the chill.

“I will bring you again in the summer,” he promises. “When it’s softer and warmer and you can bury your feet in the sands below.”

She hums.

“I can think of other things we could do in the sand,” she says with laughter in her voice.

Killian groans and pulls her further into him even as he wonders if she has always been like this or if it’s him bringing out the worst in her. It seems to him that he has successfully found sea on land, for sometimes Emma is just as wild and vast as the one before them.

When she turns around in his arms, the rough winds have brought colour to her cheeks and it takes her a moment to swipe all the hair out of her eyes. He is about to ask if she wants to get back to the carriage when one of her hands slips behind his neck and the other settles on the side of his face. The upturn of her lips and her thumb running tenderly under his eyes have the kind of hypnotic effect that makes him forget there is anywhere else for them to be.

“I used to dream of the sea,” she says and he can almost feel her words on his own mouth. “The horizon is not something you can imagine, I suppose, but I thought… I thought no shade of blue could quite match yours.”

He feels his cheeks sting from something another than the cold air around them and he wants to tell her that she has to wait and see the water under the August sunshine.

“I was right.”

But then, he realizes it won’t change her mind.

*****

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable with this.”

“Oh, dear—“

“It’s all my fault and you have to make it all right and—“

“That’s not true at all.”

“Of course, it is. If it wasn’t for your father—“

“Yes, but you cannot possibly think he wouldn’t wish us to—“

“And what about his wife?”

“She is lovely.”

“Oh, alright, doesn’t mean she wouldn’t feel like we are intruding on—“

“Intruding!”

“Well, yes. You cannot know how she would feel about—“

“Then you should write to her.”

“Me? I don’t even know the woman!”

“It’s no matter. I would write to papa and you can enclose your letter inside.”

“I don’t— That is I—“

“Yes, this is a splendid idea actually. We should ask Emma.”

“But must I—“

“Well, it was your splendid idea.”

“Aren’t they always?”

“You like to think so.”

*****

They arrive late into the night – Killian rotating his left shoulder with a grimace and Emma moving sluggishly and tripping on the heavy skirts of her dress – but Granny is still up and waiting and, if Emma didn’t know better, she’d say she missed them.

They have a quick cup of tea to warm up but all of the cook’s attempts to find out how their trip was and what they’d like for breakfast tomorrow morning are less successful so, eventually, she just sends them to bed with a roll of her eyes and a motion that is half irritation and half indulgence.

So it’s late the next day – too late to count for breakfast – her face scrubbed clean and her limbs well-rested that Emma finally starts telling Ruby and Granny – even as she keeps coming and going and pretending to not listen to her just as attentively as her granddaughter – about Captain Nemo’s treasures, sprawling forests and wild waves. She can only give them half her attention though, as the other half is focused on ignoring Killian’s smiles and indulgent looks, lest he steals all of it.

So when he hands her a letter, she doesn’t even bother to assume if it’s from Mary Margaret or Alice or Elsa, she just sets it in her lap, playing with the edges as she tells her stories. By the time she is finished, Killian’s has retired to his study and it’s only after she looks down, unfolds the piece of paper and blinks a few times at the elegantly scrawled name there that she follows him.

His door is slightly ajar in waiting.

“Killian, I— I think there’s been some mistake.”

He looks up and gives her a quick smile – there is some emotion waiting to spread all over his features, trepidation or excitement, something expectant shimmering at the edges of his eyes.

“I was rather puzzled at first as well but after reading Alice’s letter, I can assure you this one is for you.”

“But I’ve never even met Miss Hood,” she frowns down at the white sheet and reaches blindly for the armchair behind her.

She remembers receiving another letter, what feels like years ago, from a lady that she didn’t feel was her place to correspond with. She wonders if this one will be as monumental as the last.

“Aye, she and Alice both apologize for the presumption but… they felt it paramount to write to you personally.”

“What is this about?”

Killian sighs and now she is certain there is some anxiety there and some pressing joy as well.

“Just read it, love. Then we can talk about it.”

It’s not a long letter, neither as emotional and sporadic as Alice’s, nor as genteel and well-worded as Elsa’s, but it makes something gather in Emma’s throat all the same.

“I—I don’t understand,” she mumbles as she finishes and wracks her hand through her hair, pulling a little at the roots. “Why would she write to me? This is all your…”

She is grateful that Killian makes his way to her, for she is too agitated to do much of anything other than feel uncomfortable in this position that is hers and yet more than she realized. He bends his knees and sits down at her feet, taking the hand that is still holding Miss Hood’s letter and setting it to the side so he can lace their fingers together.

“This is your home as much as mine, Emma, and—“

“That’s nonsense! You made all this, you’ve lived here for two decades, I’ve— I’ve—“

Killian frowns and sets his chin on her knee and despite the tumult of emotions inside her, her hand automatically goes to his hair.

“Did you not feel like you came home last night?”

“Of course, I did. But that’s not— I’m not—“

“You are mistress of the house, it is only right that they should ask you.”

“Not Alice. Does she truly think I would ever—“

“No, no, Emma, listen to me,” he squeezes her hand. “Of course she doesn’t. And of course I would never deny my daughter. It’s her house as much as ours but Robyn – much as I love and admire the girl – she has done very well, in my opinion, in asking you permission.”

“I— I’m sorry,” Emma shakes her head and flattens her hand against his cheek. “Of course, I— Of course, I wouldn’t mind having them here. It just felt too much to be…”

Killian lifts an eyebrow, his mouth set in a line for a moment.

“To be given the respect you deserve?”

She huffs and rolls her eyes in return.

“I don’t— It should be your decision.”

“It should be our decision but were it mine, I’d still want your opinion.”

She blinks down at him and sighs, pulling their joined hands to her lips.

“I’ve wanted to get my chance to spend time with Miss Hood since I heard her name. And I love you very much, my heart, but I do miss Alice terribly when you are away.”

Killian’s smile is brilliant and lights up the whole room for a moment before his eyes grow more thoughtful and his tongue flits restlessly over his lips.

“What is it?”

“I just… I would love to have them here. I’m glad they’ve done it properly and gathered your approval as well but…”

She frowns in confusion. Unlike Admiral Jones and Captain Nemo’s residences, their house has never felt too big and echoing with it to Emma but she would love to have it fuller still.

“I’m afraid she is doing this for everyone but herself.”

“Robyn?”

“Alice.”

“Alice?” her confusion doubles and she urges Killian to move back so she can sit down beside him, one of her hands settling over his heart.

“She writes that she thinks Robyn quite miserable and restless from being so close to the mother and city that betrayed her and she goes on how it is wasteful and unnecessary for me to be keeping up a place just for the two of them and I just… She hasn’t been here – not to stay, not indefinitely – in years, Emma. I worry that she will be the one that grows miserable and restless.”

She doesn’t respond right away, she knows it is natural that he should always worry about his daughter, even when faced with the possibility of something he himself wants so much. She supposes all the best parents do.

“My heart, what has Alice wanted most? What does she love best?”

Killian frowns at her and Emma tilts her head and smiles softly.

“You. And Robyn. Do you truly believe it will not make her happy – happier than she has ever had the chance to be – to have you both in the same place.”

“I’m just not sure it will be safe for them here.”

She knows, she knows he is not afraid of the responsibility of keeping them safe but of the failure to do so.

“There is always a risk, no matter where they are,” she acknowledges plainly. “But they know that, Killian. It’s… it’s their life. And I know they will be and feel much safer with us.”

For a few moments he just looks at her and Emma doesn’t need him to say how glad he is that she is here.

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright. Would you like to write back to them, Mrs Jones?”

She smiles and pushes up on her knees to claim his lips with hers.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Taglist:@unworried-corsair @laschatzi @let-it-raines @darkcolinodonorgasm @andiirivera @sherlockianwhovian @wyntereyez @kingofmyheart14 @killianjones4ever82 @quirkykayleetam @jackieorioncat @emmas-storybook @winterbaby89 @snowbellewells @idristardis @whimsicallyenchantedrose @yasbio2015 @nikkiemms @lawgeeks @passports-and-postagestamps @superchocovian @resident-of-storybrooke @facesiousbutton82 @snotelek @mayquita @courtorderedcake @shireness-says @profdanglaisstuff @bmbbcs4evr

If you wanna be tagged in future updates (or if you want me to fuck off your mentions :D), just drop me a line ;)

For more: MY FANFICS ||  MY BOOK ||  MY BLOG

(and if you have 2 more minutes - help my book win a thingy by voting for 12. by Lyublyana Atanasova in the Favourite General Fiction category (that’s 13/16) - thank you!)

[merryfortune]

Day 7 – Metal / Love

AN: Big thank you to Organisers Ignister & Echo for putting on the Cyberse Celebration event, thank you so much <3

Ship: Aqua/Earth

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Vrains

Word Count: 1.1k

Tags:  Pre-Canon, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort

  All of the Ignis had some gift which made them unique. The Light Ignis had his grand intellect and foresight which of course made him the unequivocal and uncontested leader of their troop. The Dark Ignis had his instinct, as slothful and inelegant as it was. The Fire Ignis had a keen mind and was prone to feats of gallantry and courage. The Water Ignis had her talent for perceiving truth and lie. The Wind Ignis had his sublime mastery of his element and beyond. But the Earth Ignis… As he sat, in his domain, sombre and pondering, could not think of a thing which set him apart from his herd.

  He had no gift or talent which bettered the social environment of he and his fellow Ignis. Yes, the Earth Ignis had his own mastery for his element, but it wasn’t as beautiful as the way in which the Wind Ignis conjured his winds or how the Water Ignis manipulated her waters. But aside from that, they had a talent which transcended their physical environment of the Cyberse World and helped enriched the social environment and immutable relationships between that.

  So, the Earth Ignis thought low of himself as he could not perceive a trait or skill inside of himself which he could hold to the same standard as his kin. It depressed him severely and made him wonder if his source, his Origin, had been lacking in some way as compared to the other children he and his kind had been created from…

  In the quiet of his miserable musings, amid the gently swaying trees and mossy rocks, the Water Ignis approached the Earth Ignis. Her sparkling pink eyes lost some of their glitter as she found him by the edge of his domain, overlooking an endless, sky blue abyss but she sat down next to him; kneeling as compared to his cross-legged stance. But she didn’t sit too close that their knees touched but she did lean into him.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” she murmured, looking up at him; his square, blue eyes were so utterly stern, compressed too.

  “What an odd saying…” he replied, unthinking.

  The Water Ignis giggled. “I believe it’s a human saying. I suppose, given the fact that we have no money, petal for your thoughts might be a better phrase. So,” she took a pretend breath, a purposefully stunted pause, “let’s try again. Petal for your thoughts?”

  “A petal for my thoughts, huh?” the Earth Ignis mumbled aloud.

  With a twinkle of his block fingers, he manifested a flower. The stem intertwined between the pinch of his fingertips; verdant leaves unfurled, and a pale pink blossom bloomed at the very end of it. With a mouthless smile, the Earth Ignis gifted it to the Water Ignis. She glanced at him; returning his curt, mouthless smile with one of her own but it lingered. The sweetness of it permeated the Earth Ignis’ thoughts; softening his dejected reveries, mixing them up, making him forget lines of thought and the like. The Water Ignis lifted the flower to the face; her olfactory receptor central on it, unseen, took in the sensory information of it. The petals were sublimely soft, and it emanated a faint fragrance. She thought it was wonderful.

  “I am feeling very troubled, at the moment.” the Earth Ignis finally confessed to his companion.

  “Oh, how terrible. Is there anything I can do to alleviate that for you?” the Water Ignis queried, concern moulding her abstracted, blue features.

  “I feel inferior to the others; yourself included. I feel as though I lack a talent, trait, or some other gift which enriches the social stratus of our society.” The Earth Ignis explained.

  “That’s not true, at all. I find your fear unfounded.” The Water Ignis quickly contested him with a demure power in her voice: she was utterly sure of her assertation.

  “Oh? Explain, please.” The Earth Ignis not quite demanded of her.

  “You are very gentle. You always consider the feelings of others first before you act.” The Water Ignis began; she twirled the flower around as she spoken, watching the petals flutter in the inertia. “You rarely act without kindness in your intent, I feel. The Dark Ignis and Wind Ignis can be so rude because they find it funny; the Fire Ignis can come across as egotistical or arrogant; the Light Ignis is unapproachable. But you… you are never any of those things. I think you have a very special and very human trait: so obvious that you are blinded to it because it’s not your second nature, no not at all. It’s who you are first and foremost.”

  The Earth Ignis blushed as he felt a twinge in his brow. “I’m… socially awkward?” he replied; thinking of innumerable times in which he had blundered through a social situation by being blunt and frank or by not clarifying himself correctly.

  “Well, yes. But you are loving. You are caring.” The Water Ignis replied.

  “I – I am?” the Earth Ignis stuttered; flattered beyond all compare.

  The Water Ignis nodded as she leaned into his figure. “Yes, very loving. I feel at ease with you and I adore your quirks. I sense a great power for emotional understanding from you. One that outshines the others, myself, included, by far.” The Water Ignis placed her hand on her breast whilst she continued to stare at the flower she had been presented.

  “O-Oh, you, um, you flatter me, Water Ignis, but thank you.” The Earth Ignis stuttered. “I feel better about myself; I trust your word, sincerely.”

  “That is wonderful to hear.” The Water Ignis replied.

  The Earth Ignis felt his emotions stir inside of him. Twinkle, sparkle, glow, and glimmer: all in hues of orange and brown, perhaps a touch ruddy. He hoped that the Water Ignis wouldn’t notice how dearly he had taken the Water Ignis’ reply. Perhaps she was right. No, she had to be right. That was her talent after all; her perception of truth and lie which put her at a crosshair of being unable to deceive. So, the Earth Ignis knew her word to be above sublime. Not just in virtue, but in sincerity.

  But it made the Earth Ignis falter. Beneath it all, he was a creature of free will; he was not incorrigible thus, he wonder if it would be inappropriate to take the Water Ignis’ hand in this moment as she came closer and enjoyed the breeze and serenity with him having sorted out his problems.

[survivingart]

STORY IS EVERYTHING

Be it online or in person, there’s a lot of competition in the arts. And the fact that the art world is much smaller compared to the world of business, law or medicine, only makes it harder for any one artist to succeed. While everybody online is telling us to “niche down”, and explaining why it’s so important, usually no specific tactics are disclosed, and the how is left for us to figure out for ourselves.

 This blunder is intended for anyone who wishes to find their focus and stand out in today’s oversaturated creative market by understanding the immense power of storytelling — especially when positioning ones creative skill and aspirations in the market.

Regardless if you paint, sculpt, make experimental video installations or are a political performance artist, the main goal for all of us is to express ourselves. 

We do so not because it’s the quickest or easiest way of making a living, but because it’s who we 

are. Most of us love our craft in some form or another and follow some internal aspirations that guide our interest and consequently the kind of art we make. 

But while creativity is a general term, it could not be describing a more colourful and rich abundance of personal motifs and ambitions of why we do what we do. 

For example, I could be selling skilfully crafted portraits because of my passion for creating narratives about beauty, intimacy and connection. But it could also be that I just really enjoy painting figures and fabric and am good enough at it to charge for my work. 

Both are great reasons to make a portrait and market ones skill, but even if the end product looks similar in both cases, their target audience couldn’t be more different.

So, let’s put the “art” in artwork.

I’d like to open this conversation with one of the hardest, but probably the simplest of all questions to answer, because we need to get it out of our way to really get the point of why story matters so much. But to find the answer we will have to go all in and drop the proverbial A-bomb. 

We’ll have to ask the big question. The one you can read about in 50€+ books, written by prominent and knowledgeable art historians and theoreticians, whose answers are mostly written so thoroughly, so extensively, that one needs a dictionary to find their point.

Ready?

What is Art?

Boom.

Unlike most other questions like: “What is carpentry?”, “What is music?”, even “What is philosophy?”, we artists and other creative souls appear to have an enormous problem — none of us really seem to know what the heck we are doing in our lives. Not because we are confused, undisciplined or too spontaneous, but because no-one actually seems to know what art is.

If you ask most academic professors, they will usually give you an academic answer. If they’re more on the liberal side, it will surely have to do with the freedom of expression and the lyrical power of images in the fight against social injustice.

Ask a person in the street — anyone you want really — and they might tell you it’s something pretty, something that looks good. And probably also something that is quite expensive. For a wealthy collector it might be freedom; a way of expressing themselves without the need to actually learn how to paint or draw or sculpt. 

A tattoo artist will tell you it’s tattoos. A barber will tell you it’s an exquisite haircut. An IT technician might even tell you it’s a perfectly sorted and laid out collection of ethernet and electrical cables in the server room. 

Just don’t ask an aesthetician — the branch of philosophy that researches art — and they might tell you a lot. Truth be told, they might tell you too much while saying very little. A wonderful example is Tiziana Andina’s prominently titled book: “The Philosophy of Art: The Question of Definition: From Hegel to Post-Dantian Theories”. Read at your own peril.

Art seems to be everything. And we all know that something that is everything is consequently nothing at all.

We have to take a closer look into the production of art; the making of paintings, sculptures, videos and maybe even haircuts and tackle the question by investigating the process of making something an art piece. 

So, let’s see if we can’t fix this mess of tattoos, pretty pictures and ethernet cables into a more workable definition by asking a better question: What makes something art?

In the 1960s the art world had a small crisis, caused by none other than the famous pop artist Andy Warhol. The root of the crisis was his artwork, titled simply: Brillo Box.

It looked exactly the same as a normal Brillo soap pad box, albeit being made out of wood. The question: What made Andy’s Brillo boxes art, but at the same time dismissed the original boxes made by James Harvey (the creator of the design) as mere industrial design?

Surely it wasn’t looks, and it couldn’t have been materials — the prestige of using silkscreen on wood instead of printing on cardboard was not the deciding factor after all. The only real difference that one could discern was the name associated with either product. 

You had Andy Warhol superstar and the other guy.

Apart from being a marvellous posh object to own, Andy’s Brillo box shines light onto an immensely important topic in art, namely that when push comes to shove, the classification of an artistic piece does not have anything to do with its physical composition — be it medium, motif, size, you name it…

This is immensely important, because if we distill the factors that make up art, we can get a pretty rough, yet quite precise equation, that looks a bit like this:

ART = Viewer + Art Piece + Artist

But why does it now seem like the art piece, the central point of the equation isn’t really important? Well, there’s another surprise coming up.

The artist has been regarded as a genius ever since the invention of the cave painting about 40.000 years ago. The master painter, listening to the whispers of his or her muses and transcribing the messages of the gods into reality, for all of humanity to experience the righteous powers of the divine.

As humans, we couldn’t have been more proud of the lineage of artistic mastery that our planet had created over the years, and we had every reason for it. From the Ancient Greeks to Giotto and Titian, then Caravaggio, Monet, Van Gogh and Picasso … all geniuses in the craft, that shaped how we perceive reality itself. 

But then came the trickster. The black sheep, the snake, the devil himself. Then, came Duchamp.

In 1917 as part of The Society of Independent Artists’ exhibition at the The Grand Central Palace, he unveiled his biggest joke of all — a urinal. And even though the organisation of the exhibition had promised that each and every art piece that was entered in the application stage would be shown, they decided to remove The Fountain (as Duchamp named his vertical toilet) from the exhibition. 

It was serious.

But the problem that Duchamp’s art piece created was minuscule compared to the big issue that was yet to come. His simple question : “Is this art?” didn’t just create a revolt inside The Society of Independent Artists, it started a revolution.

Thus, conceptualism was born.

The point he was trying to make was simple: Art is an internal human experience, not an invisible aura imbued into an object by some artistic genius.

The art world though, instead of getting his point, concluded that Nietzsche was indeed correct; the gods of art, beauty and aesthetics truly did perish. The murderer’s weapon was finally found — fully drenched in nothing but bloody ideology, the Fountain stood as proof.

Now, more than 100 years later, this narrative is still the bedrock of many institutions, both commercial and educational. And I feel it is about time we change this. 

Not only could more people start to appreciate art — instead of thinking of it as a pretentious playground for the rich, filled with expensive junk and weird intellectuals — but by removing some of the misconceptions that either artist or artwork are the origin of the artistic experience, we could actually improve the status of us artists in society.

How?

By educating the viewer. By making our artistic process visible to all via social media and other means. By not trying to overcomplicate our work descriptions and artist statements and ending the need to feel like we have to defend our right to paint, sculpt, dance or make videos, with big words and complex explanations.

By connecting with our audience and being strong, sincere and genuine people. And with social media exploding in a constantly connected world, the timing just couldn’t be better.

Art is a multitude of stories, each different from another and all created by every one of our viewers. 

And like good spelling and a decent vocabulary are the bedrock for any novel, we visual artists have a bunch of tools that we can use to build our narratives too.CREATING YOUR STORY (CONTEXT AND CONTENT)

In 1976, artist and critic Brian O’Doherty published his essay Inside the White Cube, that not only created lots of buzz in the art world, but gave this popular mode of displaying art in museums and commercial galleries a catchy new name.

While his wonderful critique of the White Cube is better to read in the original form, I would like to focus on one psychological factor that made his essay become so well known.

People experience things instantly and as a whole, rather than a collection of individual parts. When looking at a red triangle, we can’t just decide to see it as a triangle or just as something red — we always see both of its features at the same time.

Similarly with music; we can’t decide to hear just the tone of a note, while zoning out the colour of the sound (for example hearing the same note being played on a drum compared to a double bass or saxophone).

We as beings need context for just about everything in our lives — even our ability for differentiating object sizes and various temperatures is done by creating context from the surrounding environment.

Ok, but what does this have to do with art? Truth be told — everything.

As art is subjective, we can never really take full control over how a viewer of our show or a customer who bought one of our pieces will understand the work’s narrative. 

A description of the work might help, but some actually prefer to make up their own mind about what a particular art piece means to them on a strictly personal level, rather than listening to the artist describe what it should mean. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that in my opinion. 

But, while we aren’t able to control everything our viewer will experience, there are many aspects of our work that we absolutely can and should be thinking about. Because understanding them makes our job of finding potential buyers or getting a place in an exhibition incredibly easier.  

WHAT YOU CAN DO:

Choose materials carefully, not just as a means to an end but as building blocks of your work’s narrative. 

A marble sculpture and a wood carving of the same motif tell different stories. Both may be a portrait of someone, but marble will always communicate prestige, longevity and may form subconscious connections to Ancient Greek and Roman statues of prominent individuals, making the portrayed look even more respectable and important. Wood on the other hand is softer and warmer in appearance and more suitable for creating intimate portraits emphasising emotion rather than status.

Evoke emotions, then seal the deal with a well prepared concept.

Nothing is worse than a conceptual piece that doesn’t also work on an emotional level. The appearance of your work will make or break its ability to convey your message, so regardless of how brilliant your idea may be, if your work doesn’t first captivate your viewer and make them curious enough to step closer, all is lost.

Presentation is really important when exhibiting your work. 

Adjust lighting, surrounding objects like tables, chairs, plants … to compliment your work, or at least not to distract your viewers attention.

Impressionists used a lot of green leafy plants to compliment the vibe of their paintings, modernists decided to completely remove everything (including the frame of a painting or plinth of a sculpture) to maximise emphasis on their work — hence the White Cube principle.

When showing work online, it is imperative to get it right.

Show your work not just as a clean, shadowless and speckless photograph with good colour correction (because the images should look identical to the real thing), but incorporate it into an environment — even a generic architectural shot of a living room will be better than nothing.

Give your online images enough context and help your visitors understand the colours, size, textures and other features of your work by providing enough visual information; a few detail shots, a side view and maybe even the back of the work (if it’s 2D). For spatial works, maybe make a 360° GIF by stitching together multiple angles — nobody wants to buy a sculpture only to find that they don’t like the rear end of it.

The venue is a big part of your exhibition. 

If you paint a picture of an apple being picked by a woman somewhere in a forest and hang it in an office of a juice company, people will probably see a nice lady picking apples. But hang it in a church community centre and people might see the highly complex concept of Ancestral Sin. 

Same painting, same communication, immensely different results — just by changing the context.

So whenever you have the chance — for example if you are invited to create a show in a certain gallery from scratch — work with the space in mind, or change it if you can to make it a better fit for your work.

Regardless of what kind of art you create, if you make a thorough examination of the materials you use, the message you are trying to tell and the environment you are telling it in, you can use all of this information to reverse-engineer your work to find your target audience. 

It should never be the other way around.

from Surviving Art https://ift.tt/2mSC2Mu via IFTTT