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jessicalprice · 2 years

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you got your known Minoans and your unknown Minoans (part four)

(reposted, with edits, from Twitter)

(part one, part two, part three on Tumblr)

Where were we? Oh yeah, bagging on Arthur Evans, right?

(You’re going to want to read Parts 1-3, linked above, if you haven’t already or this won’t make much sense.)

Did I mention in this that even though women appear frequently in other types of Minoan art, no composite ivory statuettes that are both definitely female and definitely genuine have been found? Interesting side note. Like the one thing we know about the Minoans is Snake Goddesses, right? Well, that and Bull Jumpers.

It’s hard to overstate the hold Minoan art still has on the Western imagination.

Image: A copy of a translation of the Odyssey, using the Blue Ladies fresco as cover art. Ironic, given that the culture that produced the Odyssey is probably the one that destroyed the Minoans.

Anyway, the problem is there are a ton of these composite ivory Minoan goddess statues floating around, none of them have reliable provenience, and they're what were used to authenticate each other. See the problem?

Some of them are proven forgeries. So a lot of what is "Minoan-looking" in our minds is forgeries, possible forgeries, and "restorations" done by turn-of-the-century artists.

And as we learn more about them, we find out that a lot of the assumptions were very much dictated by Victorian expectations. Those "corsets" or "jackets" Minoan women are depicted as wearing? Actually shifts with skirts tied around them.

There are a lot of problems with the Boston Goddess. She's too skinny, for one. And if, as some have suggested, her hips and butt are so flat because the ivory is significantly worn away, how are the details of her flounces still visible there? The Boston Goddess (or rather, the fragments of her not used in the restoration), the Seattle Boy-God, and the Ashmolean Boy-God have all been carbon tested. The results were intriguing-- 250ish years old for the Ashmolean figure, and 400-500 for the other two. That's deeply weird. Obviously, the ivory is far too new for them to be genuinely Minoan, but it's awfully old for a Victorian forgery.

But in any case, enough about the artifacts themselves. I want to talk about the conclusions Evans drew from them, which have been repeated as fact in a lot of books and textbooks and journals and magazines since.

The Great Goddess and Her Salesman-Priest

Classical goddesses go in and out of fashion. For most of the Renaissance, all the way to the 1800s, writers mentioned Venus and Diana most often, followed by Minerva/Athena and Juno/Hera. Diana was associated primarily with chastity.

In the Romantic era, Venus was still the most popular goddess (although she was now associated with natural surroundings), and Diana was associated with the moon and animals more than chastity. Proserpina/Persephone and Ceres/Demeter also gained prominence (earth/seasons).

So, the Romantics were very much enamored with the idea of Mother Earth/nature as female (go conquest that land in "virgin" America, yo). The concept wasn't new--lots of cultures personify the earth as female--but this was very much a 19th-century European imagining.

Basically a lot of Victorian dudes liked the idea of their porn involving pretty landscapes.

So, along comes a German dude named Friedrich Wilhelm Eduard Gerhard, because everything you say is credible if you're a white dude with four names, who's like "hey maybe all those Greek goddesses were actually ONE goddess, and she was Mother Earth, that tempestuous temptress."

And like as far as I can tell, that was it. That's the Tweet. He had An Idea about how ancient religion might have worked, and everyone nodded sagely and suddenly it was a theory. The Greeks actually believed in one goddess, with a bunch of different faces.

And then, some of those other dudes nodding along sagely to this theory that didn't arise organically from studying the actual writings and artifacts of the time, but from Mother Earth as a concept being trendy in the 1850s, were like, hey, so we know that the Anatolians and Mesopotamians influenced ancient Greek thought, so if the Greeks worshipped a single goddess, the Anatolians and Mesopotamians must have too!

And then they were like, hey, it was probably also true across Europe! Because there's this <checks notes> Swiss judge named JJ who thinks all of human society was once matriarchal and only later evolved into patriarchy so it seems logical that everyone worshipped a goddess.

For those following along at home, no, this is not how logic works, but these dudes were probably drinking a LOT of absinthe.

Goddess Worship Isn’t Love For Women

Now, one might point out, for example, that the ancient Athenians literally had a goddess as their patron deity and still managed to, arguably, utterly despise women more than anyone else in the world at that time, so clearly goddess worship doesn’t automatically equate to matriarchy, but anyway.

But Jessica! (I can hear you saying, o theoretical reader) You're such a shrieking feminist harpy that you put "howling maenad" in your Twitter bio. Why are you objecting to the idea of widespread ancient matriarchy and female-centered monotheism (or duotheism, since there was also a god)?

Well, here's the thing. It's certainly a cool idea. And it even makes a sort of pop-psychology sense. Back in the Stone Age, maybe men hadn't yet figured out that they were involved in the reproductive process and so deferred to women as life-givers.

But that sort of thinking can lead us to dismiss or ignore real history. Women have always led, women have always fought, women have always ruled, and that shouldn't be manwashed away. But that doesn't mean it was normative. And it matters--both for truthfulness and to fully appreciate what the women who managed to lead actually accomplished--if it wasn't normative. It can also make us miss that matriarchy--*real* matriarchy--isn't necessarily the mirror of patriarchy.

When I was in college, in one of my anthropology classes, we had a textbook that said that there was no such thing as matriarchy, except as a theoretical concept. There was matrilineality, and matrilocality, but not matriarchy.

Was it true? Well, here's the thing: if you define matriarchy as we define patriarchy, but just replace "men" with "women" in the description, arguably it is true that matriarchy doesn't exist. To the best of my knowledge, no one’s found evidence of societies where women treat men like men treat women in patriarchal societies.

But there are, and have been, societies where women own the property, societies in which elder women are the primary leaders/authorities, etc. But they don't attempt to exert control over men in the same way men do over women in a lot of patriarchal societies. So it becomes largely a semantic argument. If it isn't an exact analogue to patriarchy, is it matriarchy? Honestly, I've ceased caring all that much about the terminology, and am more interested in how leadership and authority function in those societies.

But anyway, the Romantics weren't feminists. Just because you like the idea of the feminine as emotional and intuitive and nature-y doesn't mean you give a shit about actual women. And as the Victorian Angel In The House would show us, every pedestal has a cage atop it.

The Romantics might profess to revere Mother Nature, but at the end of the day, they revered her as an object: there to be conquered if they wanted to feel manly, there to challenge them if they wanted to feel manly in a different way, there to soothe and inspire them as Muse, and even there to kill them if they were into the idea of la petite mort being la grand mort.

Image: Just a dude really into being penetrated... with arrows.

And Bachofen, our pal JJ the Swiss judge who also had Theories about anthropology, considered humanity's "Demetrian" matriarchal stage just a necessary transitional period on its way to "Apolline" patriarchy, the pinnacle of human evolution.

They dug up a lot of Venus of Willendorf-like figurines (lots of male-looking and animal ones too, but those didn't fit the theory and got ignored) and decided that they represented a single prehistoric Mother Goddess, source of fertility.

I mean here's the thing: when archaeologists find something and they don't know what it is or what it's used for, a popular default category is "ritual object." If you then start forming theories about how religion worked based on your collection of ritual objects, well, you can imagine how that goes.

So this is the milieu into which Arthur Evans was to release his Minoan discoveries. He writes a lot about the "Great Minoan Goddess" and "the matriarchal stage of society, to which the Minoan religious system owes its origin."

I Regret to Introduce You To Jane Harrison...

So along comes Jane Harrison, who is all into JJ's theory about ancient matriarchy as the fullest collection of "ancient facts"--poof! the theory has become fact--and was also very into the idea that all goddesses are actually a single Great Goddess.

If you don't know anything about Jane Harrison, you might be thinking, "oh, good! at last, a woman weighing in on ancient matriarchy. Perhaps we'll get a take that isn't so... patriarchal.”

Allow me to introduce you to Jane Harrison:

"Matriarchy gave women a false sense of magical prestige. With patriarchy came inevitably the facing of a real fact, the fact of the greater natural weakness of women. Man is the stronger, and when he outgrew his belief in the magical potency of woman, proceeded by a pardonable practical logic to despise and enslave her."

...And All These Other Assholes

Another member of these circles was Sir James George Frazer (only three names there, but also has a "Sir" so probably as credible as the four-name dude). Remember him? The Golden Bough? Yeah.

He looooved the idea of a single Great Mother Goddess and attempted to collect and catalogue world myth and folktales and wanted to trace her and her ever-dying younger consort as a universal or near-universal archetype in human consciousness.

You want Joseph Campbells? This is how you get Joseph Campbells. But Joseph Campbell is a rant for another time.

Carl Jung and Marija Gimbutas, incidentally, thought along similar lines and considered it a universal archetype present in all human psyches, and all cultures.

No writing or art about it from a particular culture? No evidence that it’s actually a thing? *hand wave* Whatever.

Part of what was animating all this thought was confidence that human culture was evolutionary--that there was a relatively smooth line of human progress from a primitive past to an enlightened present to a utopian future.

I mean, the Bronze Age collapse might beg to differ. But what do I know? I'm not a white dude with four names and or a "Sir".

Incidentally, this Victorian confidence that human civilization is smoothly evolutionary appears to be literally killing us right now but let's pretend this is all fun archaeology stuff to mute the silent internal screaming.

Oh Wait, I Forgot To Tell You About The Cat

Anyway. All of these assumptions very much influenced how Evans interpreted what he found, and presented it to the public. Female snake handlers, for example, are actually pretty rare in Minoan art (maybe even all forged), but you wouldn't know that from textbooks about it.

It affected how he arranged the things he found when attempting to recreate altar assemblages.

That cross in the assemblage above? They found that and decided that it MUST have religious significance and be the centerpiece of an altar... ...because Christianity, basically.

You know that famous Snake Goddess figurine?

The faience one that isn't a suspected complete fake? You've probably seen her. You can buy earrings of her on Etsy.

That cat on her head?

Yeah, it's a random cat that they found elsewhere and decided to stick on her head.

...because the Anatolian and Mesopotamian goddesses they liked to use as proof of a universal singular Great Mother Goddess were often pictured with lions.

So, you know: cat-hat.

About Those Snakes...

So anyway, snake-handling female figures were actually a relatively rare find in Minoan art, but Evans decided she was their central deity, a manifestation of the Great Mother Goddess whose primary attribute was fertility.

But here's the thing: we don't have any writings we can read from the Minoans. All we have is visuals (mostly "restored" by Victorian artists), and we don't *know* what any of their symbolism meant to them. And even a lot of the visuals aren't helpful.

We know that depicting women with bared breasts (not topless, with a garment framing them, which seems very deliberate) was a thing. We don't know what that means. We don't know if this was reflective of *actual clothes that women wore* or whether it's symbolic (like Artemis wearing a crescent moon in her hair). We don't know what breasts meant, in their visual language.

Minoan art doesn't depict children very often, and doesn't depict nursing mothers at all (unlike Egyptian or mainland Greek art). So do breasts represent fertility in their visual vocabulary? No idea.

Are bared breasts considered erotic? Again, no idea. That assumption was strongly tied to the snakes, which are tied to Christian associations of snakes with sexuality--specifically sexual sin. If the bared-breasts women were actually even originally depicted with snakes.

Ultimately, we don't even know if the statue of a snake-handling woman represents a goddess, a priestess, or a woman representing or symbolizing something else entirely. Frankly, we don't even know what her face actually looked like.

Despite various authors rhapsodizing about the "sternness of her expression" and whatever else, the entire face of this famous statue, and her snakes, were fashioned by Halvor Bagge, a restorer/artist. She might have been holding sheaves of grain, for instance. She might have been smiling gently. She might have looked afraid. We don't know.

We know very little.

Who Better To Say What We Want than Those Who Can’t Speak?

Because the Minoans didn't leave behind any writing we can read, and most of the art we have from them had to be heavily restored by Victorian artists, they provided a perfect blank slate for Victorian men desperate to prove European superiority to project onto.

Now. Archaeologists *aren't* just people who dig up old stuff. Interpreting the past is something we have to do if we want to try to understand it. And there's nothing wrong with putting forth theories. But it becomes a problem when it's not made clear that these are theories, when theories are built upon theories upon theories upon theories, with no clear substantiation for any of it. Theory slides into "fact" very easily.

And it can very easily become circular. Evans used theories about other cultures worshipping a single Great Goddess to guide what he looked for on Crete and how to present what he found, which has looped around to Crete being the center of Great Goddess worship and being used to substantiate the idea of singular Great Goddess worship in some of the same cultures whose practices were used to suggest that Crete might be like they were. Much like ivory statuettes with no provenience were used to substantiate others.

And all of that is then used as evidence of How Human Culture Works. So suddenly The Center Of Ancient Mediterranean Worship is safely in Europe.

When, as far as what can actually be verified, what doesn't come out of the airy, tempestuous realms of Romantic theory, is almost nothing.

We still don't know the Minoans.

Fin.

#archaeology #arthur evans #crete #white supremacist archaeology #snake goddess #art forgery #minoan art #matriarchy #goddess worship #the great goddess #romanticism #minoan #minoans

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luanoalaalatoa · 2 months

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Welcome to Aurora Bay, Luano Alaalatoa! I couldn't help but notice you look an awful lot like Jason Momoa. You must be the forty-five year old landscaper. Word is you're spritely but can also be a bit abrupt and your favorite song is Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin. I also heard you'll be staying in Seabrook Quarter. I'm sure you'll love it! @aurorabayaesthetic

content warnings - parental death.

Basics -

Full name: Luano Judas Alaalatoa

Nickname/s: Lu

Preferred name/s: Lu, Luano

Gender: Man

Pronouns: He/him

Age: Forty-five

Birthday: June 16th

Zodiac: Gemini

Sexuality: Homosexual

Relationship status: Married to Pablo Alaalatoa

Occupation: Independent landscaper

Backstory -

Luano was born in Honolulu, Hawaii, though shortly after his birth, his family moved to San Diego to chase a business opportunity for his mother; while that didn't pan out as planned, their move quickly led to the opening of his father's business.

Luano's childhood was filled with many wonders, but his father and his art store was by far his favourite; as a child Luano spent countless hours in his father’s art store, learning the craft, and filling the walls with artworks of his own.

Once he reached his tweens, he began spending less time with his family. Instead of helping around the store or playing with all of the new stock, Luano was interested in seeing shows with friends, or spending all day in the surf or somewhere else out in the sun where he thrived most.

The family had always been close yet happy to be independent; there was no issue found in Luano going off on his own, particularly not after his hobbies became expensive, leading him to come back to the store to officially start working there.

Luano, the oldest son of two sons and two daughters, was his father's best friend, and he quickly became his most trusted employee, also. It only made sense that Luano took over the store when his father met an untimely death.

Despite art having never been Luano's greatest passion, his family was always his strongest value, and he put his everything into the store in honour of his father.

The store remained Luano's greatest wonder as it was later the reason that he met his future husband Pablo, who opened a store of his own right next to Luano's.

The death of Pablo's mother marked a new chapter in their lives as it encouraged them to move onto new things, after a gruelling period of Pablo caring for his mother while Luano worked more than ever, both of them burning their candles at both ends.

He passed the store down to his nephew - a true artist who had been working alongside him just as he had done with his own father once - and Luano and Pablo moved to Aurora Bay, where Luano was excited to find himself and his own thing.

After around a year of taking odd jobs and helping his husband establish his new store in the town, Luano opened his own private landscaping and gardening business, finding it to be a much better fit, and a job that he was made to do much more than his jobs of previous.

Personality & more -

Luano has always been an outdoors person, someone who feels his best when in the sun or the water or the grass. It only makes sense that he decided on a career that exclusively deals with the outdoors.

Despite art not being his greatest passion, and that being one of the primary reasons why he changed careers, Luano does draw and paint quite a lot. Most of his pieces are landscapes, or nature related, or work related!

He's an avid surfer, and he likes to live a healthy and active lifestyle - something he did a lot less in his youth when he was known to frequent parties most weekends.

He's a pretty friendly person, someone who finds it super easy to interact with others even if they've not met before, but the older he gets the less he pushes himself to make new friends.

#parental death cw #death cw #aurorabay.intro #intro

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consolecadet · 1 year

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I was really not prepared to participate in an art show! I didn't have a bad time, I just had no idea what to expect, and also should have worn much more comfortable shoes.

I got there right on time for the members-only hour, earlier than almost anyone else. They gave me a name tag with a photo of my painting printed in the background. While it was still quiet, multiple members of the art org's staff pulled me aside to introduce themselves and...tell me what they thought of my painting, basically? Got some comments like "A lot of us really liked it" (great), "It might make some people uncomfortable, but it's memorable and intense and that's what makes art valuable" (thanks), "I know it's trite to say this but it is very visceral" (yeah!), and "the teens were in here the other day to judge the youth committee prize and you got a lot of sticky notes next to yours" (cool). I was mostly kind of uncomfortable, but I can see how this sort of thing could quickly become a person's personal cocaine.

An upbeat local media producer with deep mauve eye bags interviewed me and the artist whose painting was next to mine (she had painted a beautiful, slightly abstracted forest landscape of Falmouth, Maine). This was the part I was really unprepared for! Fortunately I've had to explain the painting to people a few times, since I worked on it during Open Hacks around other people...but this was a much artier crowd, and despite technically knowing how, I really don't want to talk about it like "I'm juxtaposing familiar objects with a transgressive concept to blah blah blah etc". He was like "man, my insurance won't approve shit, we gotta nationalize healthcare" which, so right.

The gallery quickly got extremely crowded and, because the sun was blasting in through the enormous picture windows, extremely hot. I wandered around looking at everything. My favorite works were "All Bagged Up", a 3d wall piece of pink expanding foam with bags of candy and toys tacked to it, "Self-Discipline #23", a pair of charcoal self-portraits of the artist wearing a bondage mask, and "Resilience", an mixed media painting with mesmerizing swirls of green and blue iridescent paint.

I had to take some daily meds at 6 and -- I swear this was not on purpose -- spilled all the fucking pills from my pill-shaped pill case onto the floor. On brand, I guess?

KC came partway through and brought me a big bundle of sweet-smelling lilacs from his workplace's backyard. <3

I met someone who recognized me from a FB group I'm in for fat people in the Boston area. She'd painted a self-portrait of her squeezing her waist extremely tightly with a leather belt. She asked to hang out (!) and followed me on Instagram. I followed her back. She has 25k followers and I'm a little intimidated.

Several people found me to say they found my painting relatable, which was nice. One woman told me about her chronic pain and told me, sounding a bit constricted in her throat, that she wished more people would talk about and make art about this stuff. I am really used to people oversharing about very personal topics in the tags on my posts, but it's another thing entirely to experience someone's response to your thoughts or art IRL. Unlike Tumblr, though, nobody said anything unkind to my face!

My feet got so sore. I was so sweaty. I got an honorable mention from the Youth Committee of tweens and teens. Fat positive belt lady got the Youth Committee prize. We...hugged about it?

I felt somewhat out of my depth -- some of the artists priced a lot higher than I would be comfortable charging, some of the art was much more technically advanced than mine, and some of the artists' statements were much more, uh, Art School. I feel I did not schmooze very effectively. But I would try doing this again!

#boring text posts

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capriccio-ffxiv · 1 year

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I am here to offer tribute to your gremlins.

Please infodump about a blorbo of your choice.

( from @the-littlest-kojin )

Let's see, how about I tell the tale of Illyria's name! It's obviously a non-standard name for a roegadyn.

OOC, when I first started playing this game, I was going to straight up remake my Elder Scrolls Online character, Illyria Hlaalu, as a Duskwright Black Mage. But then I saw "ooh Dragoon is an option" and *then* I saw femroes and immediately fell in love.

"Illyria" is just generally a name I think sounds cool and lyrical, though I originally got it from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night (that's one of the ones with the bisexual crossdressing).

Capriccio is an Italian style of art which depicts imaginary landscapes. The word also refers to a lively style of music. I had been reading Susannah Clarke's Piranesi at the time; the title refers to an artist famous for his capriccio works.

Mostly I just think it sounds nice, but I did put a lot of thought into it.

In-universe, Illy's mother is an actress who used to perform on pirate ships. Illy's father is half Ishgardian, half Wildwood, and a carpenter and a musician. They met when her mom's acting troupe visited Gridania, and her father was so in love he stowed away on her ship. They eventually returned to Gridania where her mother founded a theater troupe.

Illy and her brother, Arden, are both named for locations in Illy's mom's favorite comedies (Twelfth Night and As You Like It) (Shakespeare totally exists in Eorzea; Emet-Selch quotes the Tempest a bunch!) For multiple reasons, her father decided to give them a different, unique last name, so he picked Capriccio in reference to the music style.

Bonus: my alt, Ryuu Tenshi, is named after my cringe weaboo Mary Sue from when I was 14~15. In universe she gave herself the name because she was basically an Eorzean weaboo when she was a teen (she got better). The name stuck though. Her real name is Lucienne Serafinaux.

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lunzoic · 2 years

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Review of Scarlet/Violet so far (NO SPOILERS for the story or specific new mons, just general gameplay)

The Pokemon: I'm hella biased as someone who basically loves all monster designs and little guysTM, but I've genuinely liked every new Pokemon encountered. Some really knock it out of the park in terms of overall design and concept. Some I didn't like when I saw them in a still image, but really grew on me when I actually caught and used them in-game. I'm surprised by the number of animations some Pokemon have for attacking, moving around, and interacting with things, which is small but really makes the whole world feel more alive. Also makes it more understandable why 'just importing' every Pokemon in existence is not that simple (I'm bitter to admit). I'm spoiled as to the general look of most new mons, but encountering them in-game and getting to see them in action is really on another level this gen. I have... so many surprise new precious babies...

The core gameplay loop: still great. Exploring and finding a new area or hidden cave or TM or rare Pokemon while traversing a bunch of varied environments is really exciting. Suffers a little bit from same-ness in spawns if you go to every nook and cranny, like there's some areas that don't have many unique Pokemon to encounter. On the other hand, it can make hunting for a particular Pokemon more fun since you may have a bunch of different locations to choose from. I'm enjoying the methods you can use to boost spawns and the visible scale differences for unusually tiny or large Pokemon (but WHY is size not a innately part of a Pokemon's summary... you just have to guess until you go and ask one specific NPC, afaik). The challenge of fighting trainers and gyms has is about as easy as it was in SwSh (if you stay to the recommended quest order), which is to say it's not challenging at all. Actual battles with NPCs seem to take on a much smaller role so far compared to the appeal of just exploring and catching wild Pokemon, which I don't mind at all but some players might miss the thrill of running into a really tough random trainer or a particularly fiendish gym leader (there have been some non-gym boss battles that were definitely pretty tough, however, and I expect some of the later story battles will give a bigger challenge).

I haven't had any bugs that actually affected gameplay in any way, although having the fore-knowledge that this is Pokemon Skyrim edition has made me cautious in avoiding things that I think might result in glitchy behavior. Restarting every few hours seems to avoid significant memory leak stutter, and the only immersion breaking graphics I've seen are the stop-motion movement on distant characters and the shadows randomly deciding to turn on or off depending on camera angle (which I've actually found very handy when getting pictures from all sorts of angles, but uh, probably not an intended feature?).

Wilderness landscape textures and meshes: no getting around the fact that there is a lot of ugly here. Cliffs and stony areas are a travesty in terms of repeating patterns and looking like play-doh in the distance. I also noticed something I haven't seen since playing janky user-made level in Spore, where in some spots the mesh also appears squishy like play-doh and warps up and down depending on how close you are (I don't know enough about 3D rendering to know exactly why that happens, but it's definitely a phenomenon that seems to occur in unpolished and 'underbaked' level meshes, or out of bounds areas no player is supposed to see). It... really brings in to question if there was a reluctance to hire more 3D map artists? I get staying loyal to a core dev team and wanting to reduce potential for leaks, but even just external devs/consultants who work solely on non-Pokemon related lighting engines, environmental textures, meshes, etc.?? Maybe they did actually do that but it just doesn't show in the final product, because even a whole team of talented people would create 'underbaked' maps if forced to rush. Unpolished textures and rendering are not that impactful on actual gameplay, the whole concept of the entire game being one massive wild area & open world was insanely ambitious and I'm not surprised to see mixed results, but it is still really jarring to see how unfinished a lot of the wild areas of the game look.

Town design, environmental props, etc: Props and non-wild areas honestly feel on par with X&Y so far with with just a higher resolution and more intricate level design. I maintain that that X&Y had such a fantastic look and art direction, especially for its time and the limitations of the 3DS, that similar graphics & aesthetic still feel serviceable even now when playing on mobile, but it's a little sad that the 9 year later successor doesn't blow X&Y out of the water. That being said, it is really fun jumping off buildings and around rooftops in town with your living bicycle (if you keep in mind finicky collision on edges), all the towns are really beautiful to look at (if kind of devoid of actual gameplay things to do besides the gym), and the seamless transition from most towns to wilderness is really lovely (but I do wonder what serious optimization costs/design considerations that decision came with). Now, NPCs within towns... are basically non-entities, sometimes literally due to pop-in and phasing while walking around. The random NPCs were never a big draw for Pokemon, usually just a chore to find out which ones give you important items/quests, but I've found so few NPCs who say anything more than 3 words that I'm actually starting to miss walking into a house and someone's grandpa regales me about how much he loves looking out at the sea with his Pokemon... and that was the entire point of that house. I guess it is kind of antiquated game design to add flavor in this way and far more labor intensive to create interiors than it was in previous games, but it is something quintessentially old school RPG (which I'd argue Pokemon still is!) that is now almost entirely missing. Named NPCs do have a hell of a lot to say, on the other hand...

Main Story and Characters: I have the least to say here because I haven't gotten too far, but it does seem promising? The whole school thing is kinda weird, I don't think this game was promoted as being academy-core, but good for the people who are into that I guess? The actual characters have been great so far, I don't play Pokemon for the human character designs but the devs clearly know that a lot of people do... The story NPCs have definitely had a lot of love and care put in to their looks and personalities, even though not many have really stood out narrative-wise so far. I have heard good things about where the story goes, and I'm especially interested in the sandwich questline (can't believe I'm saying that but it's true).

Difficulty: Definitely pretty bad so far. Making the exploration so compelling was really a double-edged sword for me here, it is way too easy to get distracted from whatever you're supposed to be doing and wander into an area that will crush you. I figured out the rule of thumb that if you get a zone transition and there is no recommended quest in that area, get the hell out. But it's difficult to keep track of which quests you are even supposed to do next. And if you do explore a lot within the recommended quest areas first, you can easily get overleveled for that set of quests and make them a cakewalk. OTOH, this definitely makes it the easiest Pokemon game ever to have a team composition of way more than 6 mons and rotate them, since powering up newly caught underleveled Pokemon is very easy with the exp share and exp candies. Autobattling makes grinding very easy too, if you gotta do it, and rare candies are actually fairly common scattered across the landscape. I've been using rotating teams to play through Pokemon games since X&Y, so I welcome the ability to use as many Pokemon as possible throughout the main storyline. As for accidentally getting to areas you are underleveled for... there's really no excusing the lack of signposting for what level the enemies in a given area are. Since you can avoid both wild encounters and trainers fairly easily, there's nothing stopping players from getting to a new zone and making a beeline for the boss without even realizing they have no way to beat it. Even just displaying level on nearby wild Pokemon and putting slightly stronger spawns in the area leading up to a tougher zones would do a hell of a lot, and is something that any RPG with freedom of exploration would do. It really reeks of lack of play-testing. Pokemon games have not always been great in terms of having what feels like a well-tested difficulty curve, but making every time the average player strolls into a new zone feel like a sequence break really takes the cake. I do wonder how well actual kids are going to be able to get through this game?? I know that every Pokemon Center has the 'where to go next' option that gives you a waypoint too, but kids are absolutely not going to remember that as an option (and a lot of adults aren't either. I'm also not sure how useful it actually is, given it's already recommended I go to the 4th gym when I haven't done the 3rd gym yet? I had to look at a guide to even know that I haven't done the 3rd gym though). On the OTHER other hand, it is kinda interesting to be able to get to lvl 40+ areas right off the bat without any exploits at all? Not good game design, not fun for a lot of players, but could make for some insane challenges. People finding routes for 100% speedruns and the like might be crazy entertaining.

#Pokemon #Pokemon scarlet and violet #lunzplays #Pokemon review

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aerinis · 9 months

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Doing my belated 2023 art review. Putting it below a read more because a lot of stuff happened this year and some of it is kind of heavy.

2023 was a pretty good year for me, both personally and artistically. I had a couple of annoying minor medical issues that I'm still dealing with, but I'd say I was able to maintain my goal of drawing at least one little doodle a day for most of the year. I will say though that the vast majority of what I drew this year - probably like 95% - was personal art. Hopefully someday I'll be satisfied enough with it to post it. I'd also like to spend 2024 focusing more on painting and practicing landscapes. I spent the first three months of the year working on a piece for a local art gallery competition, which actually ended up getting accepted and subsequently spent the rest of the year touring around the state in several different exhibitions. That introduced me to the wonderful world of trying to figure out how the hell digital prints and shipping work, but everything turned out fine in the end. It remains the largest piece I've ever made at 18"x24", and hopefully once I get it shipped back to me I'll be sending it off to my parents. I also found out that I HATE writing artist's statements, like fuck off you don't need to know my background, just interpret the piece however. I'd like to post here, but I want to make sure first that it hasn't been uploaded to the internet by any of the galleries since I'd like to keep my personal info off this blog lmao What's funny is that I feel like I've come so far as an artist ever since I submitted that piece, that every time I look at the B-grade prints I have lying around I'm like "oh my god this looks terrible, I can't believe this got accepted". I guess that's just what being an artist is like Following that, I took the next month off from art, which was a nice little break. I did a bunch of art parties in FFXIV, which are always great for improving, because as counter-intuitive as it seems the best way to get good at art is to be forced to draw a whole bunch of different things under strict time limits. I feel like I can definitely see my lineart improving as the months go on. I also started working more with color, my eternal nemesis, and I'm hoping next year I can really start to nail down a style. I did Art Fight for the first time ever in July and it ROCKED, definitely going to do it again this year and I'm still pretty proud of the drawings I did. I love an event where it's socially acceptable for me to draw people's OCs. I think I'll probably focus on doing more WoW OCs this year. Unfortunately July is the busiest month for me at work, where I'm waking up at 5AM for basically the entire month straight and working in 100+ degree weather, so we'll see if I can maintain the energy for it.

And now the heavy stuff. Some of you might know that I'm pretty involved in the secret finding community in WoW, and back during BFA when we spent 11.5 months trying to find Jenafur, I did paint-overs of a bunch of cat memes to try and keep spirits up during the hunt. Unfortunately, the Make-A-Wish kid who created the pet ended up passing away in April. You can read about her life here in this article that will make you want to guillotine a chemical executive, and this older interview from 2020 about the secret. But what really got to me was this one line from the PCGames interview:

And like, I don't want to be presumptuous but like. I think she was talking about my art. Every time I posted on she'd comment on it, and she even DMed me about them. This line fucking destroyed me. I'm not even going to exaggerate. For several days after we found out about her death I was a wreck. The thought that my silly little drawings actually had an impact on someone and made their life a little brighter just ruined me. The bill she was fighting for ended up passing, and I hope that someday the idea of 'forever chemicals' will cease to exist.

Downer ending but I'm kind of too bummed out to write more

#my art

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creek-cryptid-deluxe · 2 years

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Fun facts about my partner (because it occurs to me that I've not really described him here beyond amazing & severely adhd riddled):

• he is about 5.5 ft tall (we wear the same clothes & shoe sizes; his students thought it was hilarious & absurd that he wore my converse high tops for 3 days when his pumas finally died) with brown hair streaked with gray that is just past his shoulders. He is the very definition of barrel chested & has a full beard (that's also streaked with gray). He has a deep gravely voice with a THICK Texas accent (think south dallas area because texas accents vary).

• he is covered in tattoos all of which are in black ink & all but 2 of which he did himself

• dude is an insanely talented artist but his preference is Turner-esque landscapes. Man can literally sketch or paint anything & is working on resurrecting his painting livestreams. He enjoys teaching and making art accessible to everyone & is currently a middle school art teacher.

• loves musical theater (he was singing songs from Chicago while feeding the cats this morning)

• massive history nerd

• Carrie Fisher was his 3rd cousin (even prior to knowing that, he was a star wars nerd)

• loves LOTR, hockey, Star Wars, a variety of video games & only OG Star Trek (he's currently playing a game where he's a shark with a jet pack & lasers??)

• loves fantasy football because it's all just statistics & competition but only agreed to be in his league because he was allowed to design his own team's logo/helmets. He never watches football nor has the desire to but is intensely competitive. (So competitive in fact that after watching Good Omens, I text him good news that next morning followed by a gif of "Can I get a Wahoo" & he lamented for a week about wanting to be the first to use that gif. Now 7 months later if I bring it up, he rants for 10 minutes.)

• used to play hockey as a goalie.

• loves his chickens... possibly more than me. Like if it came down to eating chickens or me for survival, I don't fancy my chances.

• spent his entire adult life married to 2 women (one right after the other) who were both basically the same abusive narcissist in different physical packages. Poor man still has ptsd nightmares & because he has kids with both we have to deal with both on the regular.

• has adhd so severe that even with medication it still borders on debilitating. Most websites, forms, and admin stuff frustrates him to the degree that he gives up almost immediately. Dyslexia doesn't help. Even before we dated, I was his admin. I came over to help him sign up for insurance & such all the time.

• that last fact makes him react with awe, terror, & the conviction that I'm magic due to the sheer volume of shit I can accomplish & the fact that I generally know where everything is at any given moment. I am the keeper of the stuff.

• he is the most genuinely kind human i know. I've seen him run across the creek behind our house to help people he has never spoken to without a moment of hesitation.

• he is theatrical & flamboyant enough that despite knowing he has kids & a female life partner, his students still openly ponder if he is gay. This isn't helped by things he says. (A student is acting afool & so he says he will become besties with their mom. Kid replies that mom is married. He comes back with "So? I'll be besties with him too. Heck I'll kiss your dad if it results in you doing your actual work. I don't care.")

• is one of those rare teachers that genuinely cares. Like he always provides a refuge, a safe space, & snacks at this middle school in a lower income area. He legit spent 3 days sobbing when the dickhead principal didn't renew his contract because he "doesn't want to leave his kids". The kids found out, staged a walk out protest. He heard about it when it was happening because nobody could break it up, went out there & told them all that he appreciated the thought behind it but what he really wanted was for them to go back to class. They all immediately lined up to hug him & then went to class because he has that level of respect & pull with them. This didn't help his principal's unfounded & intense dislike of my partner.

• he can fix nearly anything but is somehow always floored by my ability to fix or build things. (I watched him rebuild our washing machine when it went on the fritz but he is stunned by my changing out shower heads and skim coating walls and removing shitty backsplash tiles/adhesives or building a cat enclosure) He claims that my smattering of skills makes him want to learn a bunch of those skillsets to "catch up" but that by the time he does, my skill will have probably progressed further in that area. He really enjoys my particular art/craft style because it's so different from what he does & it inspires him.

• loves to be out in nature but is often amused & a bit confused about my passionate rants regarding plant life. (Fucking invasive ass chinese privet has taken over wooded areas. Fuck that noise.) He is impressed by my vast botanical knowledge & likes that when we go out to get reference shots for his paintings, I'm drawn to different perspectives in the same area because it makes him look at things differently.

• will beat a joke/bit into the ground. (He can't sleep in clothes lest he flop around like a tuna in a net at 3 am. However for the last month every time I remind him to take off his pants he says "But [Dr M], I get hot & the pants wick the sweat..." Every. Fucking. Night. If i hear the phrase 'wicks the sweat' one more time I will lose it. He also referred to The Cranberries as 'Sheryl Crow' last night & I nearly beat him to death with a chunk of granite.)

• has an amazing smile that's contagious so it's hard to commit acts of violence during said bits because of the glee on his face.

• is absolutely absurd but with a deadpan/dry delivery that makes that absurd thing semi-belivable. Like when he was on leave from work & when he came back told each class something new about where he was. He can improv absurdities so well.

There's probably far far more but I'm not fully caffeine yet so. That's what you get.

#life with l #the Eternal Slumber Party

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insanit3a · 2 years

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idk what to name this bro the doc is literally called “i hate fluff.”

yeah so basically i wrote something lmao

SUMMARY

A curious artist climbs a beanstalk, hoping she’ll find something pretty to paint. Too bad that huge house she wandered into wasn’t abandoned...

WORD COUNT

1786 yessir

At times like this, Bijou often wondered why she ever left the house. Surely, finding new landscapes to paint wasn’t worth her life.

The young woman was huddled up underneath a couch, body shaking like a leaf. This was an abnormal occurrence in and of itself, but one distinct thing made it stand out from the usual madness she was dragged into.

The couch was giant-sized.

Thunderous, periodic thumps sent her heart into overdrive. They weren’t caused by seismic activity—the tremors were much too rhythmic.

From an early age, Bijou always had a strong sense of adventure. Her father’s stories about sailing across the ocean were her biggest influence. As much as the mysteries of the sea intrigued her, she wasn’t cut out for the life of a sailor. Instead, Bijou preferred painting—turning her experiences into compositions. It was unfortunate that her town was too small to be art-worthy.

Her parents warned her of the dangers that came with a natural desire to uncover secrets. They told her the story of Pandora’s Box, and how being inquisitive could come with a price. A dangerous, unpayable price. “Curiosity killed the cat” was a phrase she’d come to memorize. She was just a kitten that needed to be sheltered from the real world.

It was ironic.

Curiosity killed the cat, yet the cat was about to kill curiosity.

Bijou could hear the enormous feline purring. She liked cats, though could never have one because of her mother’s allergy.

Heavy pawsteps shook the ground around her.

It was close.

Stranger still, was that the cat could speak English, and could perfectly understand her as well. Some type of magic, she guessed. Nobody practiced magic in Dewpoint, so it was quite the surprise when the giant cat spoke to her for the first time. Apparently, cats were very chatty.

“Where are you~?” it called in a sing-songy voice, “You can’t hide forever…”

She didn't answer. The cat huffed, and Bijou felt the tremors stop. Was she safe..?

Gathering the little courage she had, the young artist tiptoed towards the light coming from the house-sized windows she noticed earlier. Those should’ve been red flags, but her usually cautious tendencies were suppressed by overwhelming amazement. Bijou could only wish she’d listened to that little voice in the back of her head.

The light was practically blinding; Dewpoint was cloudy and damp, so she wasn’t used to the harsh sun. Much less from gigantic windows.

It took a moment, but her eyes eventually adjusted. There was nothing around. No giants, no cats, no visible danger. She was safe. She silently promised to never let her senses leave her like that again. Who knew what else was out there, just waiting for the chance to attack an unsuspecting wanderer?

Letting out a heaving sigh of relief, Bijou nervously shuffled away from the couch, walking cautiously as she tried to retrace her steps.

“Found you~”

She knew that voice.

She hated that voice.

Her blood went cold as she slowly turned her head. To her horror, the black-and-white monster was lazily lying down on top of the couch, eyeing the artist with interest. Its smug, almost exultant expression worried her. As if she were a delicious meal that fell right into its grasp. With the way things were going, she didn’t doubt that was the case.

She faltered, caught entirely off-guard. How in the world did she not notice? The cat was a lot more cunning than she thought.

Desperate to escape, she took off running. She wasn’t as fast as she would be on horseback, nor as fleet-footed as Mielle, but with her adrenaline levels shooting through the roof, Bijou felt like she could take on the world. Including a certain giant cat.

Her heart was pounding against her chest. She could feel her pulse in her ears—a deafening, throbbing sensation. That would definitely result in a nasty headache when she made it back down the beanstalk. If she could even escape with her life.

A sudden, powerful quake coming from behind nearly sent her to the ground. What in the-

“Aww, you think you can run away~! How cute.”

Bijou didn’t pay the cat any mind. Maybe if she moved fast enough, she could outrun it.

That was a foolish assumption.

In the span of only a few seconds, the cat, at a walking pace, managed to catch up with her. It didn’t help that every step was virtually the equivalent of a shockwave.

There was no way it wasn’t going to pass her, which was a huge issue. Literally. Bijou got straight As in school, so surely she could think up a way to cheat death.

The cat walked past her, standing a little ways away to act as a barricade. “Nowhere left to run, my little doll~!” it cheerfully announced. “Just give it up. The end of our game is long overdue, no?”

Without a bit of quick thinking, that would be true.

Bijou finally found her voice, looking straight into the icy-blue eyes that stared her down.

“A composition is never truly finished until the artist gives up on it.”

She momentarily reveled in the sight of the feline’s irritated expression, before it began to speak again.

“A determined one, are we? Your tenacity is… amusing.”

Abruptly, Bijou turned on her heel, almost falling from the shift in momentum. It wasn’t over yet. She could do this. Her paintbrush was still in her grasp.

Every step was another brushstroke. She wasn’t the type to back down from a challenging piece, and this was no different.

In one swift motion, the cat leaped over her, landing in a surprisingly graceful way. Elegance aside, the aftershock was like that of an earthquake. Bijou staggered backwards, unable to withstand the shaking. As she attempted to regain her footing, a paw slammed down next to her. Mere inches away from the young woman’s trembling form.

She let out a startled yelp, eyes widening. The game was over. She lost. Her breathing accelerated at a wild rate. Gazing up at the cat, her body completely froze.

Its smirk was much more sinister compared to how playful it’d been. Just looking at its dagger-esque fangs made her feel helpless.

“You’re clever. I’ll give you that much,” it commented. “And that little stunt you pulled was completely unexpected. You really gave me a run for my money. Your bravery is admirable, but I can see right through you.”

Bijou watched the cat lean in, wanting to do nothing but run away as fast as she could. To scream at the top of her lungs. When she tried, though, the sound wouldn’t come out. She was effectively paralyzed.

“You’re terrified, aren’t you~?”

There was no response.

The cat waited for a few more moments, but she didn’t say a word.

A small, nearly silent sob escaped her throat. More followed, just as hushed as the first.

Bijou was expecting several things to happen next. Some kind of brutal, inhumane death by the monster’s claws or being ripped apart by its disturbingly sharp teeth. The cat retreating with a distressed expression on its face, however, was not one of those things. It let out a nervous chuckle, reaching a paw out to her.

“Hey, wait a minute-”

“Don’t kill me!”

It winced at her sudden outburst, immediately reeling the paw back to its side. “It’s this form, isn’t it? Here, maybe this’ll make you a bit more comfortable.”

Confusion was evident on the artist’s face as it disappeared into a puff of smoke. She was somewhat used to seeing smoke randomly arise from Colton’s experiments, but this was nothing like his alchemy studies.

As it started to clear, she could somewhat make out a human-shaped figure in front of her. A giant human-shaped figure. Moreover, the cat appeared to be gone. Before she could finish connecting the dots, a booming voice spoke, forcing her to cover her ears.

“Crumbs, I can barely see you! Just a moment…”

Without warning, a massive hand appeared through the smoke, coming towards her at an alarming speed. While Bijou closed her eyes and braced for impact, the hand scooped her up. Was she being crushed to death? Her thoughts were too panicked to register it lifting her into the air.

“Much better,” the voice, seemingly masculine, remarked. It was oddly familiar, but she didn’t dwell on that fact for too long; thinking about who it could belong to frightened her. “You can open your eyes now, little doll!”

‘Little doll...?’

Although complying was the last thing she wanted to do, she was also afraid of the consequences if she refused. Reluctantly, her eyes fluttered open, focusing on the huge orbs staring right back. Her first instinct was to start running again, but looking over the edge of the hand, she couldn’t see the ground.

“You’re even cuter up close~!” She skimmed over his features, gasping as she came to an unsettling conclusion. White hair, speckled with black, piercing blue eyes; she was trying not to believe herself at first, but there was no denying it now that they were face-to-face. No wonder the voice sounded so familiar.

“My apologies for startling you earlier. You humans are just so skittish—it’s fun getting a reaction out of you.”

Bijou scoffed, frustrated and baffled by what she was hearing.

“‘Fun?’ Is scaring me half to death nothing more than entertainment to you?!”

The giant looked uncomfortable, glancing away from her hardened expression.

“It wasn’t on purpose! Yes, I admit that I sometimes take my little games a bit too far, but I was never going to hurt you.” He shifted the human into one hand, gently poking her with the other. “I simply couldn’t resist toying with you for a bit. It’s so boring here, what with Polaris and Zack gone.”

Shaking his head, he continued, “Never mind that. I’m Kuiper, or Kai for short. A cat-shifter, as you’ve probably guessed. And you are?”

Left speechless, the artist furrowed her brows. He wasn’t nearly as menacing as before. On top of that, his tone came off as sincere. She didn’t think Kuiper was lying, but then again, he was still a giant. Taking all the legends and fairytales she grew up with into account, her safety wasn’t guaranteed. Far from it.

She let out a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing her temples. It was hard not to overthink the situation. There were so many things to consider. She eventually came to a decision, willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least for now. He didn’t have her full trust yet, but that was subject to change. She’d just have to wait and see.

“...Bijou.”

#g/t #g/t writing #giant/tiny #woahh i wrote something woahhh #boomshakalaka #if y'all have any ideas for naming this thing please lemme know 😭

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soundsfaebutokay · 3 years

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youtube

So I've recc'd this video before, but it deserves its own post because it's one of my favorite things on youtube. It's a Tedx Talk by comics writer, editor, and journalist Jay Edidin, and I really think that it will connect with a lot of people here.

If you live and breathe stories of all kinds, you might like this.

If you care about media representation, you might like this.

If you're neurodivergent, you might like this.

If you're interested in a gender transition story that veers from the norm, you might like this.

If you love the original Leverage and especially Parker, and understand how important it is that a character like her exists, you will definitely like this.

Transcript below the cut:

You Are Here: The Cartography of Stories

by Jay Edidin

I am autistic. And what this means in practice is that there are some things that are easier for me than they are for most people, and a great many things that are somewhat harder, and these affect my life in more or less overt ways. As it goes, I'm pretty lucky. I've been able to build a career around special interests and granular obsession. My main gig at the moment is explaining superhero comics continuity and publishing history for which work I am somehow paid in actual legal currency—which is both a triumph of the frivolous in an era of the frantically pragmatic, and a job that's really singularly suited to my strengths and also to my idiosyncrasies.

I like comics. I like stories in general, because they make sense to me in ways that the rest of the world and my own mind often don't. Self-knowledge is not an intuitive thing for me. What sense of self I have, I've built gradually and laboriously and mostly through long-term pattern recognition. For decades, I didn't even really have a self-image. If you'd asked me to draw myself, I would eventually have given you a pair of glasses and maybe a very messy scribble of hair, and that would've been about it. But what I do know—backwards, forwards, and in pretty much every way that matters—are stories. I know how they work. I understand their language, their complex inner clockwork, and I can use those things to extrapolate a sort of external compass that picks up where my internal one falls short. Stories—their forms, their structure, the sense of order inherent to them—give me the means to navigate what otherwise, at least for me, would be an impassable storm of unparsable data. Or stories are a periscope, angled to access the parts of myself I can't intuitively see. Or stories are a series of mirrors by which I can assemble a composite sketch of an identity I rarely recognize whole...which is how I worked out that I was transgender, in my early thirties, by way of a television show.

This is my story. And it's about narrative cartography, and representation, and why those things matter. It's about autism and it's about gender and it's about how they intersect. And it's about the kinds of people we know how to see, and the kinds of people we don't. It's not the kind of story that gets told a lot, you might hear a lot, because the narrative around gender transition and dysphoria in our culture is really, really prescriptive. It's basically the story of the kid who has known for their whole life that they're this and not that, and that story demands the kind of intuitive self-knowledge that I can't really do, and a kind of relationship to gender that I don't really have—which is part of why it took me so long to figure my own stuff out.

So, to what extent this story, my story has a beginning, it begins early in 2014 when I published an essay titled, "I See Your Value Now: Asperger's and the Art of Allegory." And it explored, among other things, the ways that I use narrative and narrative structures to navigate real life. And it got picked up in a number of fairly prominent places that got linked, and I casually followed the ensuing discussion. And I was surprised to discover that readers were fairly consistently assuming I was a man. Now, that in itself wasn't a new experience for me, even though at the time I was writing under a very unambiguously female byline. It had happened in the letter columns of comics I'd edited. It had happened when a parody Twitter account I'd created went viral. When I was on staff at Wired, I budgeted for fancy scotch by putting a dollar in a box every time a reader responded in a way that made it clear they were assuming I was a man in response to an article where my name was clearly visible, and then I had to stop doing that because it happened so often I couldn't afford to keep it up. But in all of those cases, the context, you know, the reasons were pretty obvious. The fields I'd worked in, the beats I covered, they were places where women had had to fight disproportionally hard for visibility and recognition. We live in a culture that assumes a male default, so given a neutral voice and a character limit, most readers will assume a male author.

But this was different, because this wasn't just a book I'd edited, it wasn't a story I'd reported—it was me, it was my story. And it made me uncomfortable, got under my skin in ways that the other stuff really hadn't. And so I did what I do when that happens, and I tried to sort of reverse-engineer it to look at the conclusions and peel them back to see the narratives behind them and the stories that made them tick. And I started this, I started this by going back to the text of the essay, and you know, examining it every way I could think of: looking at craft, looking at content. And in doing so, I was surprised to realize that while I had written about a number of characters with whom I identified closely, that every single one of those characters I'd written about was male. And that surprised me even more than the responses to the essay had, because I've spent my career writing and talking and thinking about gender and representation in popular media. In 2014, I'd been the feminist gadfly of an editorial department and multiple mastheads. I'd been a founding board member of an organization that existed to advocate for more and better representation of women and girls in comics characters and creators. And most of my favorite characters, the ones I'd actively seek out and follow, were women. Just not, apparently, the characters I saw myself in.

Now I still didn't realize it was me at this point. Remember: self-knowledge, not very intuitive for me. And while I had spent a lot of time thinking about gender, I'd never really bothered to think much about my own. I knew academically that the way other people read and interpreted my gender affected and had influenced a lifetime of social and professional interactions, and that those in turn had informed the person I'd grown up into during that time. But I really believed, like I just sort of had in the back of my head, that if you peeled away all of that social conditioning, you'd basically end up with what I got when I tried to draw a self-portrait. So: a pair of glasses, messy scribble of hair, and in this case, maybe also some very strong opinions about the X-Men. I mean, I knew something was off. I'd always known something was off, that my relationship to gender was messy and uncomfortable, but gender itself struck me as messy and uncomfortable, and it had never been a large enough part of how I defined myself to really feel like something that merited further study, and I had deadlines, and...so it was always on the back burner. So, I looked, I looked at what I had, at this improbable group of exclusively male characters. And I looked and I figured that if this wasn't me, then it had to be a result of the stories I had access to, to choose from, and the entertainment landscape I was looking at. And the funny thing is, I wasn't wrong, exactly. I just wasn't right either.

See, the characters I'd written about had one other significant trait in common aside from their gender, which is that they were all more or less explicitly, more or less heavily coded as autistic. And I thought, "Ah, yes. This explains it. This is under representation in fiction echoing under representation in life and vice versa." Because the characteristics that I'd honed in on, that I particularly identified with in these guys, were things like emotional unavailability and social awkwardness and granular obsession, and all of those are characteristics that are seen as unsympathetic and therefore unmarketable in female characters. Which is also why readers were assuming that I was a man.

Because, you see, here's the thing. I'm not the only one who uses stories to navigate the world. I'm just a little more deliberate about it. For humans, stories formed the bridge between data and understanding. They're where we look when we need to contextualize something new, or to recognize something we're pretty sure we've seen before. They're how we identify ourselves; they're how we locate ourselves and each other in the larger world. There were no fictional women like me; there weren't representations of women like me in media, and so readers were primed not to recognize women like me in real life either.

Now by this point, I had started writing a follow-up essay, and this one was also about autism and narratives, but specifically focused on how they intersected with gender and representation in media. And in context of this essay, I went about looking to see if I could find even one female character who had that cluster of traits I'd been looking for, and I was asking around in autistic communities. And I got a few more or less useful one-off suggestions, and some really, really splendid arguments about semantics and standards, and um...then I got one answer over and over and over in community after community after community. "Leverage," people told me. "You have to watch Leverage."

So I watched Leverage. Leverage is five seasons of ensemble heist drama. It's about a team of very skilled con artists who take down corrupt and powerful plutocrats and the like, and it's a lot of fun, and it's very clever, and it's clever enough that it doesn't really matter that it's pretty formulaic, and I enjoyed it a lot. But what's most important, what Leverage has is Parker.

Parker is a master thief, and she is the best of the best of the best in ways that all of Leverage's characters are the best of the best. And superficially, she looks like the kind of woman you see on TV. So she's young, and she's slender, and she's blonde, and she's attractive but in a sort of approachable way. And all of that familiarity is brilliant misdirection, because the thing is, there are no other women like Parker on TV. Because Parker—even if it's never explicitly stated in the show—Parker is coded incredibly clearly as autistic. Parker is socially awkward. Her speech tends to have limited inflection; what inflection it does have is repetitive and sounds rehearsed a lot of the time. She's not emotionally literate; she struggles with it, and the social skills she develops over the series, she learns by rote, like they're just another grift. When she's not scaling skyscrapers or cartwheeling through laser grids, she wears her body like an ill-fitting suit. Parker moves like me. And Parker, Parker was a revelation—she was a revolution unto herself. In a media landscape where unempathetic women usually exist to either be punished or "loved whole," Parker got to play the crabby savant. And she wasn't emotionally intuitive but it was never ever played as the product of abuse or trauma even though she had survived both of those—it was just part of her, as much as were her hands or her eyes. And she had a genuine character arc. My god, she had a genuine romantic arc, even. And none of that required her to turn into anything other than what she was. And in Parker I recognized a thousand tics and details of my life and my personality...but. I didn't recognize myself.

Why? What difference was there in Parker, you know, between Parker and the other characters I'd written about? Those characters, they'd spanned ethnicities and backgrounds and different media and appearances and the only other characteristic they all had in common was their gender. So that was where I started to look next, and I thought, "Well, okay, maybe, maybe it's masculinity. Maybe if Parker were less feminine, she'd click with me the way those other characters had." So then I tried to imagine a Parker with short hair, who's explicitly butch, and...nothing. So okay, I extended it in what seems like the only logical direction to extend it. I said, "Well, if it's not masculinity, what if it's actual maleness? What if Parker were a man?" Ah. Yeah.

In the end, everything changed, and nothing changed, which is often the way that it goes for me. Add a landmark, no matter how slight, and the map is irrevocably altered. Add a landmark, and paths that were invisible before open wide. Add a landmark, and you may not have moved, but suddenly you know where you are and where you can go.

I wasn't going to tell this story when I started planning this talk. I was gonna tell a similar story, it was about stories, like this is, about narratives and the ways that they influence our culture and vice versa. And it centered around a group of women at NASA who had basically rewritten the narrative around space exploration, and it was a lot more fun, and I still think it was more interesting. But it's also a story you can probably work out for yourselves. In fact it's a story some of you probably have, if you follow that kind of thing, which you probably do given that you're here. And this is a story, my story is not a story that I like to tell. It's not a fun story to talk about because it's very personal and I am a very private person. And it's not universal. And it's not always relatable, and it's definitely not aspirational. And it's not the kind of story that you tend to encounter unless you're already part of it...which is why I'm telling it now. Because the thing is, I'm not the only person who uses stories to parse the world and navigate it. I'm just a little more deliberate. Because I'm tired of having to rely on composite sketches.

Open your maps. Add a landmark. Reroute accordingly.

#Jay Edidin #LGBTQ #autism #mind and body #gender norms #why humans need stories #Leverage #Parker #Abby posts Leverage #my faves #Youtube #I did my best with the transcript #sorry for any mistakes

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redgillan · 4 years

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Under Pastel Skies - 8

Sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Modern!AU Bucky doesn’t need anyone, especially not a sugar baby. He isn’t that desperate… but she smiles so sweetly and she’s endearingly awkward, and he’s so lonely. She’s an artist, a painter, the type of person who always puts others before herself. Throwing caution to the wind Bucky offers her a place to live, a place where she can finally paint whatever her heart desires. He doesn’t need much in return; a friend, a muse.

Word Count: 3,734

Warnings: none

A/N: If this chapter had a name it would be “me, you, and steve’. Also I know how infuriating they are, so oblivious and dumb but isn’t it the point of pining ;) Thanks for your patience!

Wannabe sugar daddies, don’t interact with this post.

Bucky’s cab pulled over to the curb in front of his building. He tugged on the lapels of his coat, pulling it tighter around him, and braced himself for the blast of cold air waiting for him on the other side.

He hated the cold, hated winter. It reminded him of the day he lost his arm, alone on that godforsaken mountain until Steve found him. But he could deal with the cold if it meant he’d find you on the other side of that door.

He knew you were home, you had texted him about an hour ago telling him that you had a surprise for him. It had made him smile. He’d hurried home, desperate to see you even though he’d seen you that morning.

He had it bad.

He’d been restless since the gala, unable to sleep without dreaming of you, your velvet dress in a heap on his bedroom floor, your scent lingering on his bed sheets. He would wake up bathed in sweat, on the edge of coming.

He would deal with it with an ice cold shower.

Bucky had accepted the fact that his feelings for you weren’t as innocent as they once were. He had always thought you were strong, full of life and a little awkward, but lately he’d been wanting to kiss you, touch you, feel your warmth against him.

He wanted it so badly it hurt.

He wouldn’t say he loved you. He certainly felt something for you but love was something foreign to him. Sometimes he wondered if his feelings were even real. He’d gone from living an extremely solitary life to spending every single day with you. It could have easily been a product of his loneliness and your soft spoken demeanour.

He had stopped counting the number of times he’d almost kissed you on the lips. The urge was always there, eating away at him, but he always caught himself at the last moment, his lips landing on your forehead, your cheek or your temple instead.

“I’m home,” he shouted, closing the door behind him. He bent to untie his shoes and kicked them off while he unzipped his coat. “What’s the big surprise? Is it something we can eat?”

He hung his coat next to yours on the hook and walked down the short corridor that led to the kitchen. As he walked, he became suspicious of the silence that hung in the air. Slowly he peeked into the kitchen and found you in the company of someone he thought he’d never see again.

“Steve?”

“Not edible, sorry, Buck.”

Bucky’s face broke out into an instant smile, ear to ear and ecstatic. “Fuckin’ hell, Rogers, you look like a yeti.”

Steve barked out a laugh as he stepped forward and hugged him. He wrapped both his arms around Bucky, almost lifting him off the ground despite knowing how uncomfortable hugs made him feel. Chuckling, Bucky returned his hug with one arm; the only kind of hug he could give.

“I’m happy to see you.” Steve pulled back and held him at arm's length.

Bucky looked over Steve’s shoulder at you who were standing behind the kitchen counter, grinning at them. “Is that my surprise?” You nodded. “Ugh, I was kind of hoping for pizza honestly.”

“Asshole.”

“I’m joking, man.”

Steve returned to his seat and Bucky followed. You grabbed a mug from the cupboard and fixed Bucky a cup of coffee. He gave you a grateful smile.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with this punk on your own,” Bucky told you. “Did he give you a hard time?”

“Nah,” you said. “He was pretty sheepish. Also, I almost gave him a heart attack.”

Bucky burst out laughing as Steve’s face and neck flushed red. You told Bucky the story of how you and Steve met outside his apartment building. Bucky doubled over laughing when you made a pretty spot-on impression of Steve’s confused face. Steve rolled his eyes at your theatrics, a smile on his lips.

“In my defense, no stranger has ever screamed my name like that.”

“Oh, if the alley behind the church could talk, it’d call you a fucking liar, Steve.”

“First, shut up!” Steve jokingly pushed Bucky off his seat. “Second, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” That sobered you both up faster than a cold shower. Steve caught a furtive sideways glance between you and Bucky. “Did I say something wrong?”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” you replied with a smile. “I’m his, uh-” you trailed off and looked to Bucky for help but he was unable to speak. “I’m his roommate.”

“Oooh! Okay.”

Was that relief on Steve’s face? Bucky’s stare hardened. A muscle in his jaw jumped when Steve engaged you in a conversation. He asked you how long you’d been living with Bucky and if you liked the apartment. His tone was conversational but Bucky knew him like the back of his hand, he knew Steve was flirting with you.

“Are you staying for dinner?” you asked Steve. Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. You picked up the laminated meal plan from on the counter. “Creamed spinach and baked eggs.”

“Sounds great,” Steve agreed.

“You don’t like spinach,” Bucky grumbled under his breath.

“I’m not twelve anymore,” Steve countered with an arched brow. It made you laugh. “Besides I haven’t eaten a homemade meal in... wow, probably years.” Steve turned to you. “I don’t know if Bucky told you but I’m a landscape photographer. I live in the wild most of the year. It’s kinda like travelling by foot on an endless backpacking trip. It’s amazing but the food is disgusting.”

“Yikes!” You grimaced in sympathy. “Well, Bucky’s an amazing chef. I keep telling him we should open a restaurant together.”

You walked over to Steve and mock-whispered in his ear. “If we ask nicely, he’ll probably make us some garlic bread.”

That made Bucky smile. His first instinct was to answer with his usual ‘I’d do anything for you, angel’ but he couldn’t say that in front of Steve so he bit his tongue. He saw the disappointment in your eyes, as if you were expecting that usual answer too.

“I should go upstairs,” you said. “I have a painting to finish. Have fun, boys.”

Steve watched you go, then he shook his head and heaved out a sigh. He waited until he was sure you were out of earshot before he turned to Bucky.

“She’s quite something, isn’t she?” he said. “So, are you two...”

“We’re friends,” Bucky said.

Steve nodded. “Is she single?”

“As far as I know.”

Bucky’s jaw was clenched hard, the tendons in his neck looked like they were about to snap. He loved Steve like a brother but, goddammit, he wanted him to leave and never return. He balled his hand into a fist, feeling a visceral urge to punch something.

Yet, Steve seemed completely oblivious to Bucky’s turmoil. After living in the wild for several years, he was having trouble picking up on social cues.

“Do you think I should ask her out? I’m a bit rusty.” He ran his hand through his long hair, tugging at the strands. “I should get a trim first, right?”

“And a fucking shower,” Bucky grumbled to himself.

Steve didn’t hear him, he was too busy glaring at his hair in the big mirror on the wall.

Bucky tried to push away that nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was becoming harder to pretend this was all innocent. Not when he had to physically restrain himself from punching his oldest friend in the teeth. Steve was allowed to ask you out, Bucky had no right to be jealous.

And yet...

“How long are you stayin’?” he asked, eyeing Steve’s backpack. It wasn’t unusual for him to take Steve in when he was between assignments, but things were different now.

“A few weeks. Is it going to be a problem?”

“Listen, if it were just me, I’d let you stay,” Bucky replied. “But I’m not alone anymore. She doesn’t know you, you’re basically a stranger, and you’re already thinking of hitting on her. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable. This is her home.”

Steve blushed. “No, of course. I understand. I would never-”

“All I’m sayin’ is, she has the final say,” Bucky cut him off. “If she lets you stay, you can take the kids’ room.”

“You sure? It’s right next to her room. I could take the room upstairs, the one above the living room.”

“No, you can’t,” Bucky sighed. “It’s her painting studio.”

Steve stared at him with a suspicious frown. “Are you sure there’s nothing between you and her?”

“Yup, she’s just a friend.”

He tried not to fidget as he forced himself to hold Steve’s gaze. He kept his head high and acted as composed as he could even though his heart was jackhammering in his chest.

“Okay,” Steve drawled out, not entirely convinced. “If you say so.”

As Bucky expected, you allowed Steve to take the guest room, the one with the bunk-bed, though Steve told you that it wouldn’t be a problem. It also meant that he would be sharing your bathroom, and while it didn’t seem to bother you, it made Bucky really uncomfortable.

That evening, he sat down with you and Steve at the dinner table. He made sure Steve was seated at one end of the table, thinking that if you didn’t have him in front of you, you’d interact less. Bucky’s plan backfired pretty quickly. Steve had so many ‘I-lived-in-the-wild-for-ages’ stories that he monopolized the discussion –and your attention.

Bucky spent most of the night lost in his own thoughts, daydreaming, and only smiled when he caught your gaze. He snapped out of his haze when he noticed that he was alone at the dinner table. You and Steve were washing the dishes, talking and laughing.

He felt a pang of envy at the sight before him; it was supposed to be him and it scared him that someone could take you away from him. Then it hit him. He wasn’t special, you were kind and sweet with everyone. It was what had attracted him to you in the first place; your kindness, your fortitude and loyalty.

He couldn’t blame Steve for falling for you, too.

“Guys, I’m going to bed,” he said, standing on the landing between the two rooms.

You turned around mid-laugh and smiled warmly at him. “Good night, Bucky.”

“Sweet dreams, angel.” It slipped out. He didn’t even realize what he’d said, but Steve did.

Steve cocked a brow at his best friend’s retreating figure before he hung his head and let out a brief chuckle.

Over the next few days, Bucky’s mood didn’t improve. He was holding back, unable to reach out to you the way he used to. Steve was always there. Always.

In the morning Steve would come back from a run, sweaty and hungry, and wearing a shirt that was two sizes too small for him. He really laid it on thick, even by his standards, but you didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, you would often go out with Steve when Bucky was working on his new book. He took you to art shows, introduced you to important people and you visited art supply stores together, which annoyed Bucky more than he thought possible.

He felt stuck in a Garfunkel and Oates song, praying for Steve to go away.

I could've wished a thousand wishes for Steve to disappear.

Worst of all, Bucky was snappy with you. Especially after he inadvertently overheard you and Natasha talking about Steve. You painted a vivid picture of Steve’s ass. Figuratively of course, though Bucky couldn’t be certain that you didn’t have hundreds of notebooks filled with drawings of Steve’s ass.

“Hey, stranger.”

He looked up when you walked into his study carrying a tray with his breakfast –coffee and two slices of toasted white bread with butter and jam. You left the tray on a pile of papers and closed the door behind you.

“I was wondering about you, since you didn’t show up for breakfast.” You stood behind him and worked your fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and let you massage his scalp, the tension slowly leaving his body. “Something’s bothering you. I can tell.”

Bucky was so relaxed that his filter was non-existent. “Yeah, Steve’s bothering me. He stole my angel.”

“He can’t steal a mythical creature.”

“You’re my angel,” he half-moaned when you applied pressure to his scalp.

“I haven’t been feeling like your angel lately,” you said, giving him another squeeze before you let go of his head. You took a seat on the armchair close to his desk. “You’re... I don’t know. You’re moody and irritated, and I don’t know how to help you. I know you don’t like surprises, and Steve showing up out of nowhere and staying here was a pretty huge surprise. It’s difficult to cope with change but I think you’re acting a little weird. I swear, Bucky, sometimes you look at Steve like you want to kill him. Is it because we spend time without you?”

Bucky straightened up in his seat and took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “Yeah, I guess. You two are having fun and I’m stuck here, alone.”

“You feel left out.”

“A bit,” he replied earnestly. “But if you like him, you should go for it. He’s a good-looking guy, he’s nice. He’s also a dumbass but that’s part of his charm.”

You laughed. “What? Why are you telling me this?”

“I heard you and Natasha,” Bucky explained, blushing. “You said, and I quote: ‘he's got an ass you can bounce quarters off of.’”

You burst out laughing. “Oh, Bucky.”

“What? I’m just sayin’ if that’s what you wanna do... I’ll give you a bunch of quarters.”

“No, thanks,” you laughed. “I’m good. I keep my quarters for something else.”

Bucky speared you with a suspicious look. “So you don’t think his ass is like a juicy peach.” He blinked. “Also a direct quote.”

“Oh, no, I stand by what I said. His ass is so-” you lifted your hands and made a squeezing motion “-tight.”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” he rushed to say. “It’s not that impressive. Anyone can do squats. I do squats.”

“Fishing for compliments?” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. You looked at him with a fond smile. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He reached for a slice of bread and bit into it, focusing his attention on his laptop screen. You got to your feet and walked to the door.

“Oh, um, by the way, how much of that conversation did you hear?” you asked, leaning against the half-open door.

“Not much, I left after the juicy peach thing.”

You hummed while nodding, your eyes cast down. When you looked up at him, a glint of something mischievous shone in your eyes. “You should have stayed a little longer,” you said enigmatically, your eyes roaming shamelessly over his body.

You raised your eyebrows and closed the door behind you, leaving Bucky speechless and confused. “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” he shouted, hoping you could hear him through the closed door. “Angel? Come back!”

Needless to say he didn’t write much after that.

Bucky made a conscious effort to stop being an asshat. A week later, he was in a better mood, and only glared at Steve twice –the first time when Steve put his hand on your knee and the second when he made a vaguely flirtatious remark.

You let Steve and Bucky handle the dirty dishes, and Bucky was sure you did it on purpose. Your little smug smile said as much. Steve didn’t seem happy, he had never liked household chores and probably only did the dishes to spend time with you.

Bucky remembered Steve’s childhood bedroom; shades always down, his bed perpetually unmade, and a monster pile of clean and dirty clothes on his desk chair. He remembered Sarah’s exasperated sigh whenever she entered her son’s bedroom. It made him laugh.

Bucky had always been a neat person, something his mom always took pride in. ‘Look at my son who does his own laundry and sets the table without being asked. Look how well I raised him!’ After his accident, cleaning became an obsession, a way of controlling something that was uncontrollable.

“Did you get Sam’s text?” Steve asked, tossing the now-wet towel on the counter. “Emergency brunch tomorrow at 10.”

“Yeah, I know. Sam has a loose understanding of the word ‘emergency’. Last time he wanted to know if he could pull off a goatee. Not exactly an emergency.”

“Mhh,” Steve replied, thinking. “Are you coming?”

“Hell yeah,” Bucky chucked, “I wanna know what this new emergency is.”

Steve cast him a sideways glance while leaning his back against the kitchen counter. He mulled over something as he watched his friend clean the sink.

“So, um,” Steve started awkwardly. “I have a date tomorrow.”

Bucky’s hand faltered a bit. “Ah? With who?”

Steve looked toward your bedroom door and let out a very loud sigh. “A real-life angel, Buck.”

Bucky let go of the sponge and straightened up abruptly. He glared at Steve, hoping he’d heard him wrong. “What did you just say?”

“I have a date tomorrow night so you’ll have the place to yourself.” Steve smiled to his friend, blissfully unbothered. “I think I’ve been invading your personal space. You always look upset so I thought this would be a great idea. And I’ve been alone for so long, I need... relief you know.”

“Awesome,” Bucky replied, gritting his teeth.

“Great, I’m glad you see it that way,” Steve said, grabbing Bucky’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “See you tomorrow, Buck.”

He watched Steve walk to his bedroom and close the door behind him. Something inside him cracked, and he felt the overwhelming urge to throw something, watch it break into tiny pieces.

He took a deep breath and went in search of you instead. He found you upstairs in your studio, kneeling in front of a canvas, the handle of a pair of pliers in your mouth. It took you a few seconds to acknowledge his presence, and Bucky grinned when you let out a little shocked gasp.

“Did you have fun washing the dishes with Steve?” you teased, taking the pliers out of your mouth.

“I think we need a dishwasher.” He walked into the room and squatted down on his haunches next to you. “Whatcha doing?”

“I’m removing the staples on the stretcher bars so I can roll up the canvas and put it in a tube,” you said. “This way they’re protected and I can carry them pretty easily. I have a meeting with a gallerist tomorrow. Apparently Steve knows her well. He mentioned my name and she wants to see my work.”

“That’s amazing, angel,” Bucky exclaimed. “How can I help?”

“I’m almost done. I just need to finish this one. Can you grab that sheet of plastic on the desk? We’ll wrap it in it and then we’ll use a piece of canvas for extra protection.”

He followed your instructions and made sure not to ruin your hard work. Once the canvas was in the tube, you placed it against the wall next to two similar tubes. Then you cleaned up and put away your tools.

“I don’t know if Steve told you but-”

“Yes, I know,” Bucky cut you off. “The date. It’s great. Honestly.”

“Yeah.” You lowered your gaze and studied your shaking hands, unable to meet his eyes. “Listen, I was thinki-”

“I really need some time to myself anyway,” he talked over you. “So it’s great, y’know? We all get what we want.”

“I guess,” you replied. “It’s getting late, I should go to bed.”

“Getting up bright and early tomorrow, uh?” The jovial tone in his voice sounded forced, even to his ears. You nodded mechanically. “Well, good night.”

“Good night.”

You both stood unmoving, staring at each other. Your eyes were asking for something, pleading with him, but he was too lost to understand. He was lost in his own feelings, remembering something Sam had said a while ago.

There’s an entire world between like and love.

And it was true.

Like was doing the dishes with you. It was laughing and screaming while you chased each other around the living room, using fairy lights as lassos. Like was booping your nose when you watched him cook dinner. It was speaking gibberish after watching a foreign film.

Love was that sweet agony that made him feel more alive than he had ever felt. It was letting you hold his hand and play with his fingers even though his nose felt itchy. Love was seeing you wrap his bow tie around your wrist like a bracelet. It was walking around a deserted planetarium with you.

Love was the colour of your favourite lipstick; Carter Red.

“Thanks for your help,” you said, interrupting his train of thought.

“My pleasure.” He tried to smile but it hurt.

Everything made sense now. His crankiness and irritability, his sudden aversion to his oldest friend, the one who had saved his life. The one who had asked you out on a date –or so it seemed.

“Sweet dreams...” he paused, considering, then used your name instead of your usual pet name.

He had no right to call you ‘angel’ anymore. Steve had asked you out first, he had asked Bucky multiple times if he was okay with that, and Bucky’s answers had always been a gritted ‘yes’.

The truth was, his epiphany didn’t change anything. He wouldn’t have asked you out because there was too much at stake: your friendship, your livelihood, your career, the well-being of your family. He couldn’t put you in an uncomfortable position, couldn’t ruin your hard work.

And he was terrified of these feelings. They were too new, too raw.

You pinched your lips together and nodded, avoiding his eyes. He clenched his jaw hard, hating the resigned look on your face. Why did you look so defeated? Without saying anything, you walked past him and left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Part 9

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagines #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel imagine #bucky barnes imagine #redgillanwrites #redgillan

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a-briefexposure · 3 years

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For over a month I have failed miserably to post anything here, proving once again that I can't have good habits. Or at least not yet. Here is something interesting that mostly speaks for itself: a gallery of photographs I took inside Saint Nicholas Croatian Catholic Church in Millave, Pennsylvania (not exactly Pittsburgh, but part of the Diocese of Pittsburgh). These murals were commissioned to Maxo Vanka, a Croatian immigrant artist, in the 1930s. Vanka was the son of aristocrats, though he was born out of wedlock and placed in a peasant home until one of his grandparents found out that he existed and paid for his education in Zagreb. Vanka met Margaret Stetten, a wealthy Jewish New Yorker, while she was doing a tour of Europe; they married and moved back to the US in 1935, as antisemitic sentiment rose. Vanka tried to rebuild his fine arts career and eventually showed work in Pittsburgh, where he caught the eye of the priest of Saint Nicholas. An urban legend (told to me by the friend who took me to this place) says the priest actually dreamt that God ordered to ask Vanka to paint the inside of the church, which was totally white then.

Vanka painted these murals in eight weeks in 1937, which is almost unbelievable. Someone in our guided tour said he was drinking a lot of Coca Cola (apparently it was basically cocaine back then). He returned in 1940 to do the "evil capitalist" one and a couple of others I couldn't photograph very well. The first mural he did was the peasant Virgin Mary, with her broad shoulders and strong hands. Below her Vanka painted two groups: on the left, Croatians in the home country, an idyllic landscape, and dressed in traditional attire; on the right, Croatian immigrants, many of them wearing their work clothes and tools, and one of them holding a miniature model of St. Nicholas itself––a gift of the community to the Virgin. One of the other murals depicts the Crucifixion, and there are portraits of the apostles in the upper walls and ceiling. The vibrant color palette (the royal blue!) and the elongated, expressionist faces and bodies are probably the most immediately arresting elements that stay consistent throughout all the scenes. However, the main attraction here are the anti-war and anti-exploitation murals in which groups of women mourn a fallen soldier in Croatia and a fallen miner in Pittsburgh ("Mothers offer up their sons for war" and "Mothers offer up their sons for labor"). In the first, several women in traditional white funerary dress surround the casket of a dead soldier. In the second, inspired by real events in Pittsburgh, women dressed in black surround the half-naked body of a man––ostensibly the son of one of them––who has died in a mining accident; in the distance we see other workers heading back into the mine to look for survivors. In another wall, a Rockefeller-like figure sits having dinner while ignoring a beggar at the foot of his table. An angel turns their head away in disgust, and a demon extends a bony hand into the scene.

Within the line of sight of churchgoers, so colorful and cinematic, these scenes become part of the wider experience of prayer or worship. I don't recall seeing something like this before. Some scenes (like the evil capitalist with the top hat and the monocle) maybe feel a bit too on-the-nose, but I suppose that's appropriate for the context. In contrast, a couple of these paintings are hermetic in a way that makes you stare. The Angel of Justice, for instance, which is not really "an angel" that we know of by any name (and which mirrors an Angel of Prudence on the wall across, an emblem I love). The ceiling was my favorite parts of the church, painted like literal heaven, in a beautiful blue with lighter patches, stars, and planets. It seems that some of the lighter blues or greenish patches were caused by water damage (because Pittsburgh gets hurricanes, believe it or not), but they actually look beautiful, like nebulae. On the opposite side of Justice is Injustice (again, very didactic), a strangely futuristic-medieval figure wearing a beaked gas mask.

Not a whole lot is known about Vanka's politics, as far as I've been able to search. He's often described simply as a "pacifist." But, of course, these murals clearly express how war disproportionately affects any working class. The tour guide in the church was also unable to tell us if Vanka had had any contact with Mexican muralists, but the timing is perfect and him being in New York for any period of time would make it likely. While these images most likely follow Eastern European mural traditions, to me they have undeniable echoes of José Clemente Orozco --so maybe it was the spirit of the times.

#muralart #catholicism #pittsburgh #maxo vanka

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writtenonreceipts · 4 years

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I saw this prompt for feysand and i would love to see your take on it - I get stuck with a late class that doesn’t end until 9pm and I’m always anxious about walking across the campus to the dorms, so you offer to walk with me and one night, I find out that it’s in the exact opposite direction that you need to go in

I've really been enjoying your writing!!❤

AN: I took it and ran, and ran, and kept running. Thank-you so, SO much for sending it my way! This was a great prompt that had fun with. I’m glad you’ve been liking my stuff, it means a lot! ~5.5kwords

TW: Brief talk about death, anxiety, depression, fear.

Worth It

Seated at a canvas with paints or pencils in hand, Feyre was unstoppable. She could create landscapes with ease or depict a simple still life and turn it into something far greater. Art was where she lived.

Not in a basement classroom learning about Prythian history.

There wasn’t anything wrong with history, especially when it was as rich and vibrant as Prythia. But talking about wars, treaties, and assassinations could only be discussed for so long.

Of course, it didn’t help that Feyre was dyslexic, but she didn’t talk about that.

She glanced around the room, trying to see if anyone else was as bored as she was. It was the first day of class and she was the only one not taking extensive notes. Well, she and a guy at the front of the room. All Feyre could see was the back of his head. His hair was dark as midnight and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up as he sat at his desk. He didn’t even have a textbook with him.

Feyre forced herself to pay attention as the Professor finally shut down the slide show presentation.

“Make sure you look of the syllabus,” Dr. Wesson addressed the class. She was a small woman with rich brown hair and a plain green dress. “It outlines the schedule of tests and essays. None of the dates will be altered. My TA will be at your disposal.”

Dr. Wesson nodded to the guy with the black hair and gestured for him to stand up.

And just like that, the class was the most fascinating thing in the world.

He was tall, taller than he’d originally appeared. His warmly tanned skin made his violet blue eyes bright and eager. A sly sort of smile traced his mouth as he observed the class.

“Call me Rhysand,” he said, “I’m working on my masters specifically in the historical aspect of how literature was shaped by wars in the land. I’m always glad to help with your questions. Just make sure you email me to set something up.”

The girls next to Feyre whispered to each other, exchanging significant looks. Feyre exchanged a significant look with the amount of reading and writing that was required.

Hell. It was going to be a long semester.

The class dismissed right at nine o’clock, much to Feyre’s relief. While most of the students flocked to the front of the room to either gawk at the TA or further discuss issues with the Professor, Feyre left the class. Already she could feel her dread pooling into anxiety. Her heart rate quickened and the muscles in her left hand twitched.

She just needed to get home and sit down with a canvas and paint.

As soon as she made it outside the Humanities Building however, the dread continued to tug at Feyre. It was far too dark. With far fewer lights than she’d expected for a college campus. Or maybe it was because there was a thick layer of clouds sagging down and threatening rain.

“Feyre!”

Snapping to attention, Feyre clutched her bag to her chest and found the source of her name.

Her friend, and roommate, Alis waved at her from a path diverging deeper on to campus. Her dark hair hung in waves down her back and the jacket she wore was flattering against her curves.

Feyre let out a long, releieved breath and plastered a smile on her face. Quickly, she moved toward her friend.

“Hey,” Feyre greeted and accepted a hug from the smaller girl. “What are you doing here?”

“I know you had a late class,” Alis explained, “and I knew it was with Wesson. I heard the woman is miserable. So intense. But--I mean--you’re going to do great. Your always so creative with everything I’m sure she’ll love you. Anyway, I was finishing up buying my books for the semester and thought I’d meet up with you.”

Feyre smiled as Alis spoke, grateful for the small distraction. Even if it was slightly horrific in thinking about trying to get on a professor’s good-side.

“Thanks,” Feyre said, “I appreciate it. It was a bit intimidating.”

“I think everyone just likes making freshman miserable,” Alis said. Alis was technically a junior, but had changed her major four times and couldn’t decide on a minor. She was not on track to graduate when she’d originally thought, but wasn’t at all concerned.

Feyre wished she could be more like that than the raging mess she felt she was.

Behind them, leaving the Humanities Building, the TA appeared leading an entire gaggle of girls.

“Let’s go,” Feyre muttered. “I’m exhausted.”

By the third week of the semester Feyre came to better understand her relationship with exhaustion. And it was not a good one.

She was fairly certain her body consisted of ninety percent caffeinated beverages and ten percent hot pockets. She’d never been one for eating much. Growing up had always been a struggle in keeping food in the fridge and a decent pair of shoes on her feet. Feyre knew by now how her body functioned.

It wasn’t healthy, not in the slightest. And there was a part of her that recognized that. And another part that ignored it.

Two nights a week, Feyre found herself stuffed in the basement with little enjoyment. Other than getting to stare and Rhysand when Dr. Wesson turned the class over to him for brief instruction.

And looking at him was enjoyment. He was far different from any other guy Feyre had encountered. His hair was kept neat and short sweeping easily back out of his face, a charming smile, and warm brown skin. Not to mention the tattoos.

Feyre had never really considered tattoos as being attractive. Perhaps it was the artistic side of her that couldn’t get enough of them. On him at least. The way the black in swirled on his skin and swept up his arms. It was a shame he never wore short sleeves or unbuttoned one extra cutton at his collar.

Hell.

Mentally shaking herself, Feyre forced herself to pay attention.

Rhysand was discussing scores from the test last week. And, to put it mildly, was not impressed. Oh, there was plenty of good to say. Some of the students were engaged in the topics at hand. Some of the students displayed an obvious grasp of complicated topics. Others did not.

Feyre found herself sinking deeper into her seat by the end of class.

He hadn’t called her out by name, but truly--it felt like he had.

“That’s it for today, enjoy the weekend,” Rhysand called out at the tick of nine, “and remember essay proposals are due by the start of class on Tuesday.”

There was a quick rustle of the students getting up and gathering their things. It was a glorious Thursday evening and Feyre had somehow managed to keep her Friday’s clear of classes. At least something had gone right.

“Feyre?” She whipped around to meet those stark violet eyes. Hell. “I needed to talk to you about the questions you had on the proposal assignment.”

Feyre bristled. And not just because some of the girls shot her angry looks for being singled out by the hot TA. She hadn’t asked any questions. She was just trying to skate by on this class and be done with her prerequisites so she could get into her Art Major.

She set her bag on the floor once more and went to the front of the class. Already most of the students were leaving, far too eager to be done with school for the night.

As Rhysand answered a few last questions and dismissed the rest of the students, Feyre approached. Already she knew what she was going to say.

“I don’t have any questions.” The words fell from her mouth with ease. “I already know what I’m writing on.”

Lie. But a well-practiced one.

Rhysand’s mouth curled in a smile. He hefted a small stack of papers in one hand and leafed through them. Feyre froze realizing that they were the tests from last week. He pulled one of the stapled bunches out before setting the rest down.

“Honestly, I was surprised while grading this,” he said, “I mean, you’re obviously smart. I saw that you were awarded the Starfell Scholarship, not an easy accomplishment. Not to mention your always engaged and taking notes.”

Feyre wished her skin wasn’t as pale as it was. Her skin flushed under his scrutiny, but she tilted her chin up and met his gaze.

“And?” she asked. “I take my education seriously.”

Somewhat. When she actually liked the work.

Rhysand handed her the test. And she saw the grade.

Hell.

Her stomach churned. Roiled actually. Maybe she was going to be sick. That was just what she needed.

“So?” she asked instead. “It was the first test of the semester.”

“And yours in the only outlier,” he replied.

His eyes never left hers and Feyre felt more and more inclined to throw something at him. Who was he to talk to her about her grade? He was just the damned TA.

“Dr. Wesson doesn’t like picking up the slack of grading or talking to students about it all that much,” he continued, literally reading her mind. “I’m just concerned about you falling behind.”

Feyre stiffened and pursed her lips.

“I grew up learning Prythian history, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said stiffly.

Another lie. She knew enough that basic education taught and what she’d heard and listened to. But reading about it? Her mind couldn’t grasp it. It had been hard enough getting decent SAT scores to get accepted in the University let alone writing that damned Starfell essay.

“Of course,” Rhysand said slowly.

And Feyre had the sense that he was assessing her. Analytically, carefully. In the was that one would size up an opponent or scrutinize a strange recipe. He was trying to understand her.

Feyre handed him back the test.

“Thanks for the concern,” she said, “but I’ll be fine.”

Perhaps he was just being nice. Perhaps he was merely trying to fulfill his duties as TA. But she had seen the way he acted in the class. At times rebuffing boys and girls alike. Not to mention seeing him around campus tossing a football around with two other boys. She’d also seen him get kicked out of the library for a parkour prank challenge.

In all honesty, Feyre had no idea what to make of him. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

He didn’t seem to believe her. Not with the crease forming between his brow nor the frown turning down one side of his mouth.

Well, that was his problem.

“Have a good night,” Feyre said. She spun on her heel before he could say anything and grabbed her bag and was out the door.

Once she was outside, she could breathe again. Strange. She often found the darkness, the night, to be so suffocating. It wasn’t long before Feyre realized something was off about the night. And then she realized. Alis was nowhere in sight.

Feyre dug her phone out of her pocket and found a missed text.

Sorry chica, caught up at study group. Probs gonna spend the night at Nuala’s too. See you tomorrow!

Of all the nights Alis could get serious with her girlfriend.

Feyre swallowed stiffly and stared out over the pavilion that stretched between the humanities building and out to the mathematics building. A few pathways branched off to different parts of campus and then there was the main one that would take her to the dorms. And of course, most of the streetlamps were barely flickering to life.

She’d never liked the dark. Never liked what could hide in the shadows. Nor what could sneak in silence. Perhaps it was childish to still hold onto that fear. She was almost nineteen years old after all. Nearly fifteen years later and here she was.

Feyre’s hands shook as she clutched her phone. She could call Elain. Nesta. Even just to talk to as she walked. Though Elain lost her phone even when it was in her hand. And Nesta was at work.

But it was fine. Feyre knew it was fine. Because all she needed to do was walk. And shed been walking for long enough that putting one step in front of the other was natural. Easy. Simple. Yet here she was. Standing.

When Rhysand spoke, she didn’t even start.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

Myself. “No.”

Silence.

“It’s getting late.”

“I know.”

Silence.

How strange it was, to hear only the hum of crickets and breath of night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rhysand asked.

Feyre glanced at him. Even in the shadows she could see him clearly. It was like he was made of night, of dark, of the mysteries that she could never lay her hand on. She shook her head. Focus, Feyre.

“Of course I am,” she insisted, a little too sharply. “Maybe I like having time to think.”

“At nine-thirty at night. Outside the least exciting building on campus.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I heard that last year a group of boys nearly got suspended for trying to host a snowball fight, indoors.” Feyre couldn’t help but grin when she saw how Rhysand flushed.

“Technically, I’m not the one who brought the snowballs inside the building,” he said defensively.

“Oh, no, you’re just the one who built an entire fort in front of the main entrance to the building,” Feyre said.

It had actually been pretty hilarious when she’d heard about it from Alis. It almost made her wish that she'd been around last year instead of taking a year off.

“Technically,” he said again, the word making Feyre’s brow arch, “it was my brother who instigated the fight. He couldn’t let his reign be challenged.”

Feyre snorted a laugh and looked out over the quiet campus. It almost didn't look so dark and cold as she'd thought it had. But still, she felt her heart continue to hammer out unevenly in her chest. She couldn't walk home alone. Even the thought of taking one step forward had her clench and unclench a fist over the strap of her bag.

Rhysand continued saying something, but Feyre was only half listening. She was mostly focused on the thought of walking home. She could cut through the Science building. If it was still open. Or she could full out sprint.

“Are you alright?” Rhysand asked.

Flushing, Feyre pushed her hair out of her eyes and nodded. “Fine, yeah.” She knew she had to ask him. Knew that it was her only option despite how embarrassed she might feel. “Could you--this is stupid, so you can say no--could you walk with me to the dorms?”

Rhysand was quiet for a moment. And in that moment Feyre was certain he was going to sneer at her. Laugh. Tell her to get over herself. Just like the others before him.

"Where do you live?" Rhys and asked suddenly, cutting Feyre off before she had the ch

“The dorms on the west side,” she said.

“Alliance Dorms?” Rhysaid confirmed. When Feyre nodded, he flashed her a small smile. “Absolutely.”

Relief pounded through Feyre.

“If you tell me what the deal was with that test.”

“You’re an ass.” The words were out before Feyre could stop them. Not the best thing to say to the TA of a class she was likely going to flunk.

Scowling, more to herself than him, Feyre started walking towards the dorms. She was a strong confidant woman. She did not need him to walk her home.

But Rhysand with those damned long legs kept stride with her easily. And he was laughing. Feyre was half tempted to knock an elbow in his side for laughing at her, but his next words caught her off guard.

“I like you Feyre,” he said, “you are rather interesting.”

She glanced up at him. Was he serious? She’d insulted him. She’d barely exchanged ten words with him at this point. And was scared of walking home alone. Granted it was a valid fear for a young woman on a college campus these days.

“Insane is the better word for it,” she replied, mostly under her breath. That’s what everyone back home said at least. In the small town where nothing was supposed to go wrong. But everything did.

“Interesting, curious, vibrant,” Rhysand listed off. “Far better words I think.”

Feyre had never been good with words. Like now. She couldn’t find the energy to respond to him. There was a spark in his eye that almost challenged her, begged her to continue the banter, the little game.

She remained silent.

She’d heard it was a far better mask for her to wear anyways.

The first paper she turned in for the History class was returned with far too many red marks. Far too many question marks. Far too many. So Feyre merely folded the thing in half and stuffed it in her bag.

She could burn it later.

Dr. Wesson ended the lecture right at nine and dismissed the class. Feyre had almost disillusioned herself into thinking she could avoid a conversation with the Professor. With Rhysand. But just as she was trying to maneuver around the giggling pack of girls that sat next to her, Dr. Wesson’s voice called out for her.

“Oh Miss Archeron, a word please?”

Feyre froze. She could feign a phone call. But then next class session the same thing would happen. So, Feyre braced herself for what was to come and went to the front of the class.

As usual, Rhysand looked perfectly unruffled. Despite the fact that Fall was quickly slipping into the winter months, he still wore a simple black button up tucked into slacks, the sleeves rolled up.

“Feyre,” Dr. Wesson said as she approached, she reached out a hand and gave Feyre a firm pat on the arm. “I know Rhysand spoke to you last week about your test. I wanted to follow up, especially in seeing how this essay went. Now, there is still plenty of time left in the semester, but I worry you aren’t grasping the things you should be.”

Blood pounded in Feyre’s ears. She could hear her heart beat throb, feel it in her veins. Her entire body flushed with embarrassment, stress, horror. Everything bubbled to the surface even though she’d tried so hard to tamp it down.

She tried to open her mouth but found her teeth were grinding together so bad that her jaw hurt.

“I think,” Dr. Wesson continued, “that you would benefit from spending a bit of extra time with Rhysand. Just to make sure you’re where you need to be in the class.”

Feyre found herself nodding and agreeing. Her voice was relaxed, calm even. But far too close to breaking.

After thanking the Doctor for her uncharacteristic kindness, Feyre stared and the poorly erased whiteboard over Rhysand’s shoulder for a long moment. With a slow exhale she finally met his gaze.

Rhysand met her eyes with such intensity that Feyre nearly lost her breath all over again. She shook it off and rolled her shoulders.

“Shall we get started tonight?” she asked. “Or I’m sure you have plans.”

“Nah, only kicking Cassian’s ass at Mario Cart,” Rhysand replied. He flashed her an innocent sort of smile. Feyre wasn’t sure if it was one out of kindness or mockery of some sort.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and stuck it out for him. “Just give me your number and I’ll let you know when’s a good time to study.”

Rhysand hesitated on a moment before accepting the phone and adding his details. As soon as she got her phone back, Feyre changed his name from Rhys to Prick. It seemed to fit better.

“It’s not a big deal you know,” Rhysand said.

He followed Feyre out of the classroom. His steps were confident against the carpet that had to be at least thirty years old. Truly Rhysand was an enigma with his ease, grace, and elegance when pitted against the drab interior of the Humanities Building.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Feyre said.

Once outside, the cold night air nipped at her skin and even through her jacket she could feel goosebumps rise. Just like the night last week, Feyre waited just outside the building doors. She stared into the night; across the courtyard she could see a few pale lights from the Math Building. None of the lampposts had been fixed which left most of the walkways in shadows.

Nothing about the night was out of place. It was calm, still, and everything lingered on Feyre’s mind. And just like last week, Rhysand waited beside her.

Overhead, Feyre could just make out the stars. Only a thin veil of clouds hung over the sky allowing a small bit of freedom to pierce her heart. But not enough.

“Could you walk with me again?” she asked quietly, unable to look at Rhysand.

“Only if you talk to me this time,” he said. That cheeky grin returning. And despite how much she hated it, it put Feyre at ease.

“Fine.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets and began walking. “What made you pick history? There had to be something else. You don’t seem the type for old stuffy books or maps.”

“And who do you peg me for, Feyre?” His voice was practically a purr.

“High and mighty sitting behind a desk,” she replied drily. “Running some company somewhere. You certainly have the personality for it.”

He laughed unamused. “If my father had any say in the matter. A degree in history only puts off the inevitable.”

“That’s a rather bleak look on things,” Feyre said. It sounded like something she would say.

“Only if I didn’t enjoy what I was learning so much,” he said. In the flickering light of the lamps, they walked beneath, Rhysand’s expression brightened. “Between the wars and legends surrounding what shaped the country...it’s always been curious to see what we became. What we can become.”

His response seemed so honest, so genuine, that Feyre nearly stumbled. She barely knew him, had barely spent any time with him, yet she was beginning to feel that she knew him.

“So you devote all your time and attention to it?” Feyre asked.

They passed by the last of the campus buildings. A brisk wind scattered fallen leaves on the sidewalks and crunched under their steps as they walked.

“Don’t you have something you love? Something that you feel has changed you and you’d never want to give it up?”

A box of paints. Brushes that she’d had since she was ten. A canvas only half finished. She’d thought she could complete the image but it had been almost a year since she’d even looked at it. But art…art had changed her. Art had loved her just as she loved it.

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted. Tilting her chin up, Feyre caught sight of a small patch of stars amid the inky black sky. Dim but shining still. “There’s always something.”

If he heard the sadness in her voice, he said nothing. Which was partially surprising, but Feyre would roll with it.

“The tutoring,” Rhysand began.

“No,” Feyre cut him off. “Not right now.”

“So you’re just going to ignore your problems?”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Seems to be.”

Feyre stopped causing him him to move a few steps ahead of her. When he turned back towards her, he waited.

“I’ll admit to needing a little extra help to help my tests and essays, but I don’t see what else you’d need to know.”

“It’s alright to talk,” Rhysand paused, something else on the cusp of behind heard. But he restrained, his voice trailing off softly.

Feyre ignored the comment. Talking had never been her strong suit. She was more of action. Less idle, more work. Ever since she was a child it had been that way. She knew why, of course. It was obvious when she thought about it. So she never thought about it.

“What are you planning on studying?” Rhysand asked when she made no effort to continue on the topic of her test.

“Art,” she replied immediately. “I’m an artist. But my sister wanted me to get more of an education that could support me. So I’m just working on my prerequisites.”

“Art,” he repeated. There was a lilt to his voice as if he really were actually interested in what she was saying. “Sketching? Sculpture?”

“Paint and canvas,” Feyre said. “Since I was little. After my mom died, my sister bought me my first set of brushes and paint and everything I could need. She was only nine. I think she stole my dad’s credit card to do it.”

The reality of that had Feyre laughing softly, but Rhysand gave her look that was a mix of horror and confusion.

“It’s fine,” Feyre said quickly, “I’m fine.”

It was a lie of course. If she really were fine, she wouldn't have asked him to walk her home. She would better know how to control her fears, her anxiety. She would be happy.

“My mother died ten years ago,” Rhysand told her, his voice quiet and contemplative. “She’d been sick for a while and we knew it was coming. But for a ten-year-old boy, it was hard to understand. My father certainly didn’t. Still doesn’t.”

They reached Feyre’s dorms then, floodlights illuminated the front street and made it seem as though it were day. Feyre turned toward him and found herself smiling, just barely.

“Thank-you,” she said sincerely. “And I’m sorry you have to be a part of the dead mother’s club.”

“You too,” he said.

Feyre wondered if there was something else she should say. Wondered if he would even want to hear it. It was strange, that little flame of comradery that she felt towards him. But it was gone in an instant as Alis came running out from the building.

“Feyre! Get inside, it’s movie night!”

Shaking her head, Feyre offered Rhysand a small wave and headed into the dorms.

With three weeks until the next paper was due in that miserable class, Feyre spent her free time studying with Rhysand. It wasn’t as miserable as she’d been expecting it to be. Not when she realized he was far more laid back than she’d assumed. And then she’d met his best friends who were essentially like his brothers.

It was far easier to study in the relaxed environment that Rhysand created. And far easier to be herself around him. Of course, it had taken Feyre a while to decide that maybe they could be friends.

“Summarize what the chapter from last night’s reading discussed,” Rhysand said one night as they were studying. It was well after ten o’clock but they’d been given permission to stay in the building.

Feyre pursed her lips. She’d done the reading of course. As well as she’d been able. Most of had been hard to understand. No matter how she tried to focus or train her mind, her dyslexia always got in the way.

“Right,” Feyre said slowly. “It was about the last king of Hybern.”

“And?” Rhysand prodded.

“And he was a jerk,” Feyre added.

Rhysand’s fixed her with a look. Long and hard but still underlined with compassion.

“Feyre,” he said, just a bit more seriousness to his voice.

She sighed heavily and tugged at the sleeve of her shirt. “I read it. I just didn’t understand it.”

Silence.

Feyre shot him a scowl but didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m dyslexic. And History tends to be a bit harder for me to understand.”

Rhsand blinked. Once. But nothing else. No laugh or scoff of scorn. Instead, he smiled and pushed to text book toward her.

“Then read.”

“Read?”

“Aloud, preferably,” Rhysand said. He shrugged. “You want to be ready for the paper and subsequent test?”

“Prick,” she muttered. But she dragged the book towards her and began.

It became habit. A rhythm they fell into for the next several weeks. Rhysand helped Feyre study and prepare for the paper, the test. He walked her home, remaining the perfect gentleman. And Feyre, Feyre relished the time.

It was because he was genuine. Honest. There was something about him, deeper than the intensity he displayed on the outside. And for the first time in a while, Feyre found herself laughing with him. For the first time in a while, she was living for more than just expectations.

He was actually turning into her friend and it was strange thought indeed.

“Alright students,” Dr. Wesson announced towards the end of class on the last day before Thanksgiving break. “I have your midterm tests and papers graded. So now you can either relax or stress even further. Depending on the grade.”

A weak laugh bubbled around the room. Feyre gripped the underside of her chair tightly. She wasn’t ready for this. Not in the slightest.

Dr. Wesson slowly made her way around the room delivering both test and paper. Feyre, by some stroke of cosmic affair, didn’t get her paper until last and the entire room was empty aside from Dr. Wesson and Rhysand. Why was it they always ended up here?

“Well done, Miss Archeron,” Dr. Wesson said. She handed two packets of paper to Feyre and smiled. “I love to see improvement.”

Gaping, Feyre looked between the two grades. Heart hammering, she looked over the scores, brilliant red B’s shined up at her.

“I don’t usually offer extra credit,” the doctor went on, “but an exhibit is coming to the University about the Prythian Wall and it’s destruction. If you can come up with a project to demonstrate what it entails, I might be convinced to help you keep your grade up.”

Feyre could only nod as the professor bid them goodnight and left.

“Well done.”

Feyre looked up to see Rhysand beaming at her and she couldn’t help but grin. She leapt out of her seat and flung her arms around him in an embrace.

“Thank-you!” she whispered. It took her perhaps a moment too long to realize that a hung might not have been the best of plans. She hurriedly pulled back. “Sorry. That was uncalled far. I’m just really excited.”

“As you should be,” Rhysand said. His smile hadn’t dimmed but there was something in his eyes that Feyre couldn’t quite read. “It wasn’t an easy test.”

“And now we have a full week off for Thanksgiving,” she said. It was the best news she could have been given after getting her grades back.

“If you want,” Rhysand said, “my brother’s and cousin and I are having a game night, with pizza. If you want to come.”

A spark of excitement ignited in Feyre’s chest. She didn’t know when she’d developed a stupid little crush on Rhysand, but it was slowly starting to simmer out of control. She should have said no. Or come up with an excuse of some kind. Insead she found herself nodding.

“I’d like that,” she said.

They collected their things and left the building. Feyre took a few steps down the path they usually took to get to her dorm when she paused. She turned back to Rhysand and frowned.

“Where do you live?”

Rhysand looked a little sheepish. “Oh, I live over in the Court Apartments.”

Feyre blinked. “That’s in the complete opposite direction from my place.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been walking me home for practically a month.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Feyre asked, practically waving her hands in the air. “It’s basically a two-mile walk from my place.”

Rhysand shrugged. “You asked for help and I wanted to give it.”

Feyre stared at him. Her coat and scarf bunched around her neck, even though the night was perfectly clear. It was clear enough that she could see the billions of stars overhead. She could see them sparking in the black night. And for one she wasn’t overcome with her usual anxiety. Her usual fears. Instead, all she would do was stare at Rhysand.

“Why would you do that?” she insisted.

Rhysand opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Because you were worth it.”

His simple words hung between them and Feyre had a hard time knowing what to say or how to react. So she merely smiled and hooked her arm with his.

“Tell me about game night. Am I going to wind up on some snipe hunt?”

“Oh no, you and I are going to gang up against Cassian and beat him at Mario Cart.”

Feyre laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

And she realized that she wouldn’t mind if that’s how the rest of her nights played out. Late hours of laughs and friends, being around people--one person--who made her feel better than she had in a long time.

No, she wouldn’t mind it at all.

thanks so much for reading!

tags:

please reach out if i missed you and let me know if I put you on the wrong tag list/want to be removed. it’s generally going to be easier for me to just have basic acotar/tog lists and not go into too much worry about that, so just and fyi...anywho

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#feysand #feysand au #anon #prompts #answered #acotar #feyre archeron #rhysand #acomaf #sjm #fanfiction #feysand fanfiction

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