#I saw her portrait in the National Portrait Gallery in the other day

[thewalrusespublicist]

Hi! What are your thoughts on Paul's relationship Jane Asher? It seems very not affectionate, and even that Paul didn't care about it at all, Jane a little bit more than him but also not really? So a PR relationship? But if yes, why? It's pretty bizarre to me when I look at it . What do you think?

Hi anon!,

I think there’s a bit of a misconception about their relationship that lingers because neither of them have talked about it and it ended terribly (iconic break-up though Jane just amazing). Linda's illness meant that Jane was also airbrushed from MYFN out of respect for her (Peter Cox keeping a copy of Jane's cookbook to pull out and set Linda off about her own autobiography is both worrying and hilarious). All of that makes it seem like she was a blip.

The reality was that Paul and Jane were sweethearts who were deeply loving and affectionate. There's been a lot of really good compilation of quotes and lovely images which I'll link here and here. In short though, Paul lived with the Asher's for years, took time to spend on just her, alludes to missing her on Sgt Pepper and were remarked on as being a lovely couple by people like Ray Connolly, Cynthia and Patrick Stewart weirdly. I can't remember where I saw it but there was this article after Paul was with Linda where he's says something like 'Jane and I are still in love with each other like you are with exes but hey ho!' (I remember it clearly because it was a huge WHAT moment, please if anyone has it I'd be so grateful.) When they split Paul spent weeks crying on Alistair Taylor's shoulder about how he'd lost his 'closest friend', the one he told everything to and he could be himself around. Jane loved him for him and showed him a whole new world and scene. She was a huge part of his life, to the point he dedicated part of 'Eye of the Storm' decades later to her.

So if they were this big love story, why did they split? Well aside from the tinnnyy little cheating issue, they just weren't suited at that life-stage. They met when she was 17 and he'd just turned 21 and broke up when she was 22 and he was 26. People change a lot as they get older and suddenly life plans get in the way. Jane didn’t want children then and wanted her own career whilst Paul is one of the most instinctively paternal, baby-crazy men I’ve ever heard of and had at the time a view of a ‘traditional’ wife that stayed at home with the children. Those two alone are deal-breakers for any relationship. In the Hunter Davies bio it seems they are trying to work the career thing out but there is no way on gods green earth that Paul would give up on the prospect of children.

Then there were the other problems. According to Ray Connolly, Jane didn't like Paul’s drug taking, the affairs, his preoccupation with the Beatles and that he seemed closer to John than her and prioritised their relationship over her (💀). Jane quite fairly wanted to be number one and Paul did try to prioritise her with weeks alone after India in Scotland. However at the end of the day Paul was too enmeshed with the Beatles and especially John to give her that starring position.

So yeah, Jane played a really important part in Paul's life in the 60s, they had a deep and cherished relationship but ultimately they wanted different things and really no one could come between Paul and John ... except themselves.

(Also ngl if you wrote 'we can work it out' about me I would have throttled you Jane has some patience goood god.)

[xtruss]

The First Four Women Supreme Court Justices: Sandra Day O'Connor, Sonia Sotomayor, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and Elena Kagan, October 1, 2010. photographer Steve Petteway, the Supreme Court of the United States

On Being the First Woman on the Supreme Court of The United States

A friend and former law clerk of Sandra Day O’Connor reflects on her pioneering career.

— September 10, 2021 | Ruth McGregor

The Nomination

I was driving to work. On my car radio I heard President Reagan, and he’s saying, “She is truly a person for all seasons.” But I had missed the first part of it where he said the name of the person he was nominating, and he didn’t say her name again throughout his remarks. So after he finished this short statement, somebody came on, one of the commentators, and said who he had nominated.

And I just burst into tears. I pulled my car off to a side street and just sat there and cried for a while until I could get back under control and drive to work.

I think the women hoped that she would be a voice for women’s rights, that she would be a voice against discrimination against women and other protected groups. I think women expected that she would be supportive of women’s groups and issues. And she was.

She was always, in my experience, very much in favor of women being given equal opportunities. She was always very much in favor of the laws that gave women equal employment opportunities, equal credit opportunities. She was very supportive of women’s bar associations and the National Association of Women Judges. She was always willing to lend her time and her name and support for those things.

Discrimination and Access

She liked to say that she didn’t feel she had been discriminated against, and yet, when you hear her tell her stories about the way she was treated by fellow state senators, it’s obvious that she was. [It] was obvious to her. Her classmate Bill Rehnquist is clerking for the United States Supreme Court, and she’s working initially for no money for a county attorney’s office.

People wouldn’t interview her and hire her. So on some level, she expected to be treated fairly with the men, but she got a real education in that she would not be pretty early on. So it seems clear to me that she was discriminated against. It’s not really surprising, when you think about how she was raised, that she came with the expectation that hard work and ability would overcome any other potential problems.

Growing up on [a] ranch she was treated equally. She was expected to do the same things that the men on the ranch did. She was expected to be able to hold up her end of the bargain. She was expected to be able to help with roundups and whatever it was that needed to be done.

She grew up in Eastern Arizona, went to school in Texas, and the West was different in its view of women and the value of women than some parts of the country. Arizona was a community property state, women had some property rights that people in common law states didn’t have, and it was much more an even playing field. So she grew up in an atmosphere where she was expected to do the same and was treated much the same.

Sandra Day O'Connor, 1982. Credit: National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Michael Arthur Worden Evans.

Commitment to Fairness

She did so much for so many people to help them along the way, to encourage them, to push them, to make opportunities where she could, to remind people that there needed to be women on commissions and committees. A lot of what she did probably no one saw, because it was when she was meeting with people and saying, “I don’t see any women in this room,” and then they would go find some women to be part of the group.

She of course didn’t like to call herself a feminist, although in my view, she clearly was. There’s no question. She believed women should be able to be on an equal footing with men. The most basic tenant of feminism. I think the reason she didn’t say she was a feminist was because her view of a feminist was somebody who was demonstrating in the streets.

If you take away that kind of stereotype of feminists in the 1970s, then you look to see what was the role of the women’s movement? It was to remove barriers to women so that they were able to do what they wanted to do. It was to remove barriers within employment, within education, and all of those things were things that she had found a way around without the benefit of the laws that helped women later. Nothing would frustrate her more than to suggest a woman wasn’t able to do a job, because that’s not the way she was raised. It’s not the way she lived her life. It’s not the way she acted.

She did become noted for the diversity of her law clerks, and this obviously was a very deliberate act on her part. She noted—and it’s pretty obvious—that almost all the law clerks come from just a few law schools. Almost all the law clerks come from just a few circuit court judges. And she knew there were a lot of other people out there who were qualified to work as a clerk at the Supreme Court.

So she broadened the law schools that she hired law clerks from. She brought in more women as law clerks. More diversity in terms of physical ability. I think this is something that people don’t understand totally about her when they ask about her views toward discrimination. Her view simply was that nobody should be prevented ever from doing something they’re qualified to do. Whether it was women, whether it was African-Americans, whether it was Hispanics, nobody should be disqualified from doing something because of a particular characteristic. And that was just as clear to her as anything ever could be.

So it’s not surprising that she found a way to add more diversity to her law clerks, because she was in a unique position to give people an opportunity that really would help them in their later career. Being a Supreme Court law clerk is a big advantage to people, and I really always thought she just couldn’t bear the notion that some people couldn’t reach their full ability. And so if she could do something to move it along, she would.

From her opinions and what she wrote, you can see her attempt to come to a standard that she thought was both applicable and protective of all the parties involved in that decision. Her opinions were for the most part limited to the issues that came to the Court. She regarded that as the appropriate approach for the Court to take, not to make broad, sweeping generalizations, but to decide the case before them.

— Our interview with Ruth McGregor has been edited for clarity. McGregor was Justice O'Connor's former clerk at the Supreme Court in 1981 and a longtime friend.

[thomaspaine]

A portrait of Catharine Macaulay (née Sawbridge), English Whig Historian, Activist and Blue Stocking (1731-1791), by Robert Edge Pine

Born in Wye, Kent, and educated at home, Catharine claimed to have been interested in history from a very young age, reading books from her father’s library and delighting ‘in those histories which exhibit Liberty in its most exalted state, the annals of the Roman and Greek republics.’ This contradicts what she later told her friend, Benjamin Rush, to whom she insisted she was, ‘a thoughtless girl till she was twenty’ when she 'contracted a taste for Books and Knowledge by reading an odd volume of some history.’ Regardless of how her obsession with history came about, she went on to become England’s first female Whig historian, as well as a political activist and blue stocking. 

In 1760, at the age of 29, she married Scottish physician Dr. George Macaulay, with whom she lived in London until his death in 1766. During these years, she began to write her History of England from the Accession of James I (1603) to that of the Brunswick Line, the first volume of which was published in 1763, and for which she became famous overnight. The History was generally well received, and she continued to publish further volumes in the following years, using a batch of 17th century pamphlets which no previous historian had ever had access to. These had been provided to her by fellow Whig republican Thomas Hollis, leader of the ‘Real Whigs,’ a group of republican dissenters with whom she spent considerable time. Through her History, she promoted a radical agenda, praising the Commonwealth of England, but denouncing Oliver Cromwell. In 1767, she wrote her first political pamphlet, in support of exiled Corsican Pasquale Paoli and outlining ‘a Short Sketch of a Democratical Form of Government.’

In the 1770s, she took up the cause of America, writing a pamphlet in response to Edmund Burke’s Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontent, in which she identified the corruption of the British system of government as the root cause of the developing crisis in the colonies. Throughout the period she corresponded with leading colonists, including John Adams, Abigail Adams and Benjamin Rush, discussing with them the unfolding political situation on either side of the Atlantic. In 1775, she wrote a remarkable pamphlet, addressed to the inhabitants of England, Scotland and Ireland, specifically aimed at those sections of society ‘unjustly debarred the privilege of election,’ in which she encouraged them to make common cause with Americans who were also denied representation in Parliament. 

Later on in life it is fair to say she lost a few friends, through her increasingly radical politics and her controversial marriage to a much younger man, the 21 year old brother of the Scottish quack doctor and ‘pioneer sex therapist,’ James Graham, whom she married in 1777 (James also fell in love with her later). In the 1780s she became the first English radical to visit America after independence, meeting George Washington. In 1790, she wrote her Letters on Education, calling for the better education of women, and in the same year she wrote another pamphlet in response to Edmund Burke, this time in support of the French Revolution and the National Assembly. Although furnished by George Washington with plenty of materials to write a history of the American Revolution, she was unable to do so due to ill health, and likewise her History of England from the Revolution to the Present Time was left incomplete on her death in 1791.

In this portrait, painted at the outset of the American War of Independence, she wears the distinctive purple sash of a Roman Senator, demonstrating her belief in representative government. Among the pile of books is her History of England. The letter in her hand refers to her friend and patron Revd Thomas Wilson, who probably commissioned this portrait.

[spencersweetie]

Coincidence (Spencer x GN!Reader Onseshot)

Category: Fluff

Summary: Spencer and Reader accidentally have a museum date when they run into each other. 

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: none <3

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“Y/N!” A familiar voice called your name. You turned around and faced a familiar man whom you’d met through your friend Penelope. Spencer stood smiling at you with his hands in his pockets. He energetically waved at you.

You grinned back at him. “Hey Spencer! What a crazy coincidence, us both being here at the same time.” You had spontaneously decided to visit the National Gallery of Art since you had a free day to yourself over the weekend.

“Totally!” He responded. “I’m supposed to have the whole weekend off so I thought I’d revisit the gallery. How are you?”

“I’m alright! You’re revisiting? How many times have you been here? This is my first time seeing the gallery.” You had been to other art museums in Maryland but never the National Gallery of Art since you had recently moved to D.C. a year ago.

Spencer chuckled lightly. “This would be my ninth time coming here. I saw the gallery for the first time when I was nine years old  and couldn’t keep myself away from this place.

“Wow!” You exclaimed. “I don’t blame you, I’ve only seen the sculpture garden and the first few pieces in this wing so far and everything is gorgeous; I’m in love already.”

“You know what, I’ve got the building memorized!” Spencer eagerly informed you. “If you want, I could be your personal guide and show you the best parts of each exhibit and take you on the most efficient path through the museum! I mean, you don’t have to say yes, it’s up to you.”

“Spencer, that’d be awesome, I’ll totally tag along if you’re cool with that!” You beamed at him, trying to hide your excitement. You usually went on trips like these alone so it was nice to have someone who could enjoy the same thing as you by your side.

“Great, let’s go!” Spencer turned and gestured towards the next exhibit.

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As you and Spencer explored the museum together, you noticed how abnormally comfortable you felt around him. You two had never hung out without Penelope so this was a first for you both. Even without your mutual friend, you found that Spencer was both easy to listen to and easy to talk to. He of course knew a lot about the art in the gallery and thoroughly explained each piece to you but you appreciated that he never talked to you like you were dumb or lesser than him. He regularly asked if you were okay with his infodumps as well, which you completely didn’t mind. You could tell that he undoubtedly had a passion for the arts, and you liked that he was so enthusiastic to share that with you.

While you did certainly find Spencer’s interesting facts to be intriguing, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander as you looked at him from the side. He didn’t notice your looking as he faced the painting while he talked to you, completely occupied by the piece that was on the wall in front of him. You liked the way he spoke about the art that he showed you. Spencer was very animated, clearly demonstrating his excitement about whatever he was explaining in the movement of his hands. His face was quite expressive too. His eyebrows rose and fell as he talked and his eyes squinted and widened as he conversed with you. You hadn’t noticed how pretty Spencer’s eyes were until now, how his irises were brown but with little gold specks on the inside. You liked that when he wrinkled his nose in the middle of a sentence, his scrunch reached the top of his nose bridge between his eyes. His nose was a nice nose, you thought. It enhanced his side profile and turned slightly upwards when he smiled too. And his lips. Today you noticed that his lips were quite… pink. And full. And plump. You had to catch yourself when your eyes traveled down from Spencer’s eyes to his mouth when he spoke, then hope that he didn’t notice your distraction. You just liked that way he smiled, that’s all, you told yourself. He often kept his smile as he talked and continued to smile when you spoke to him too. You liked the way his lips puckered when his smile grew bigger as he finished his sentences. It seemed like an uncontrollable habit of his-

“Y/N?” Spencer interrupted your thoughts. He looked at you with his brows slightly raised.

“Hm, yeah?” Your mind snapped back to the present moment. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”

“Are you okay? Am I boring you? We could stop here if you want!”

“No, Spencer- it’s fine!” You jumped to explain. “You’re good, I promise! I’m not bored, I just got lost in my thoughts for a second. Um, the only da Vinci painting in the U.S. right? Is this one here?” 

“Exactly!” Spencer lit up and straightened his posture. “Da Vinci painted less than 20 oil paintings throughout his career; this one was bought for $5 million and arrived in D.C. in 1969!”

“Damn!” You exclaimed. “So that makes this portrait like, the Mona Lisa of the National Gallery, huh?”

“Absolutely!” Spencer agreed with you. “The gallery has other Da Vinci pieces displayed but none that are as rare and valuable as an oil painting of his. This one, Ginerva de’ Benci, is a portrait of a daughter of a banker, most likely commissioned when she was about 16 and just engaged. You know, the juniper bush is what’s in the background. Juniper represents chastity which was one of the most significant traits of a woman in the Renaissance era. It’s kind of a subtle little pun, including the juniper plant, because in Italian the plant is called ginepro.”

“Oh! Ginepro, Ginerva! That’s so cute, I love it!” You told him. “I like how there’s like no fancy jewelry or finery on her in this portrait too. It’s different from the Renaissance portraits of the other ladies that we saw.”

“Yeah, it’s a little bit of a surprise when it comes to a portrait like this that she isn’t completely dressed up! It doesn’t reveal her family’s wealth like portraits commonly do. I love that you noticed that.” Spencer’s lips turned at the corners in appreciation of your attention to detail. “Let’s move onto the next one!”

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You and Spencer moved on through the exhibit, then through the rest of the museum. You two enjoyed each other’s company for the day and were able to see all the art in three hours. As you exited, you found yourself laughing as you and Spencer recalled the events of the day. “I still can’t believe they kept trying to pay you for a private tour even after you insisted you weren’t a museum tour guide!” You laughed into your hand which was clapped over your mouth, trying not to draw attention to you and Spencer. 

“Shut up!” Spencer jokingly rolled his eyes at you. “I hate that they were gathered around me too, attracting a crowd while trying to hand me money. I don’t even wear a uniform like the other employees!” Spencer cracked up along with you, shaking as he pictured himself standing next to you, explaining to a group of strangers that he was just visiting with a friend, not working for the gallery.

You shrieked with laughter, uncontrollably gasping for air as you tried to calm yourself. “Then when they said they would call the gallery and get you fired for denying customers!” Tears were coming out of your eyes from being unable to stop laughing. “And you just went ‘Okay!’ and walked off without me!” You missed a step and tripped, grabbing Spencer’s arm as you fell into him.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” You were half still dying from laughing and half freaking out from your mistake. “I didn’t mean to grab you, I know you’ve got a germ thing! I think I just got a little carried away and wasn’t careful enough to watch my step!” You frantically apologized to Spencer. “Are you okay?”

Spencer grinned at you and dusted you off on your shoulders. “Relax, Y/N. I know you’re not germy; I’m not gonna freak out if you touch me. And I’m fine, you’re the one who fell!” He reassured you. “Are you okay? Do you need a second? You’re pink in the face, I don’t know if from laughing or from tripping on the step.”

“I’m fine, I’m good! Thank you Spencer.” You replied, still hot around your face. “Let’s just get out of here before I start to laugh and embarrass myself again.” You chuckled. “Are you free for the rest of the day? We could get something to eat if you’re hungry!” 

Spencer smiled at you. “Yeah, I’m free! Do you like Indian? There’s this new place that’s about 10 minutes from here-”

A loud ringing cut his sentence off. Spencer sighed and apologetically looked at you before whipping his cell phone out of his pocket. “Yeah?” He spoke into the phone.

He listened for a few seconds before speaking. “I’m in D.C. but I’ll be there as soon as possible. Thanks, Penelope.” Spencer hung up and shoved his phone back into his coat.

“Got a case?” You asked.

“Yeah. I’m so sorry, Y/N, I know we were supposed to-”

“Spence!” You stopped him. “You don’t have to apologize, we didn’t even plan on hanging out today!”

Spencer’s eyes softened; he expected you to express disappointment before anything else and was surprised that you were understanding instead. He smiled and nodded. “Okay, but we could still check out the new Indian place another time, yeah?”

You felt butterflies in your stomach emerging. “Of course. Thank you for today, Spencer. I had an amazing time.”

“Me too, Y/N. I’ll text you when we get back!” 

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to comment your thoughts or send anon feedback, anything is appreciated <33

[1ddiscourseoftheday]

Thurs 18 March ‘21

The Zayn/ Zach Sang interview is happening, for real this time (fingers crossed)! It’s scheduled for tomorrow!! Zach promises to ask lots of NIL questions. And I really believe it’ll happen this time, Zayn OUT THERE doing promo-- he did multiple radio spots yesterday and answered every question thrown his way however stupid, even throwing caution to the wind and taking on the one they’re all always trying to avoid (though not so far to the wind as to choose any of the other options each of which would be a scandal in a different way- you can take the boy out of the media training but...)- “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “Niall is my favorite. How about that? There you go. Niall makes the best music. Yeah I will say that he makes better music than me. Yeah, I’m a Niall fan." About the grammys he said, “It's nothing to do with my own personal gain because even if they nominated me at this stage, I wouldn't even go and accept the award because it doesn't mean anything to me.”

Zayn talked about how he just wanted to do a song with Ingrid, he didn’t know what, “I didn’t expect it to be anything less than great but it was better than that… it hit the nail on the head” and “the fact that it’s an important message in the song makes it better.” He also said that he listens to a lot of country music and would really like to collab with Chris Stapleton. OKAY! TBH I can hear how that makes sense- amazing, I am manifesting this, come on universe! He also said that he will have new music this year in an old school R&B style though and that he would like to do live shows after the pandemic!! If I didn’t think he was just saying things I would be LOSING MY MIND right now but omg WHAT IF?? He said Khai is an easy baby, a good sleeper and eater, that he likes singing to her, and that Gigi is a “wicked mom” and “a big help,” LMAO (RIP Zayn, strangled by his baby mama). RCA posted a couple more gorgeous new Zayn pics, and Ingrid raves about how Zayn’s fans are “the sweetest most supportive people” and she feels “like I’ve been hugged by a million stars today.” Am I to understand that it’s possible for stans to treat a woman working with their fave with kindness?? My mind is REELING!

Hopefully Harry has had enough time to process having achieved a great industry honor, because yesterday brought another- he was on Beyonce’s insta! She included a picture of the two of them talking backstage in her big grammys wrap up post (plus he’s visible behind her in a shot of her winning- say what you will about the orange jacket it’s great for visibility!) And Lil NasX, perfect as always, has something to say about Harry too- he says “stop using me as a bait against harry styles. I love harry, if y’all fw what I wear say it without mentioning him,” and posts a couple examples of the types of tweets he means such as “we have GOT to stop acting like Harry Styles is a male fashion icon when lil nas x is right there.” Stop pitting girls against each other2k21! Nas gets it, bless him. Oh yeah and an old pap video from DWD set of Harry going into Olivia’s trailer posted which I ignored because it was so completely uninteresting but apparently that’s a BIG DEAL to some people. My bad! You’re so right, the only reason someone would possibly go into a room with a coworker is obviously that they’re fucking! They probably had sex right there while the paps were outside! I mean there were a bunch of other people visibly in the trailer too but whatever. Oh and as long as we’re doing nonsense catch up- he was seen with a FEMALE in Malibu the other night omgggg they’re clearly dating. Oh but actually it might have been Mitch! LMAO, but that’s okay we can have discourse about how they’re obviously fucking anyway cause like… dinner! TOGETHER!! The scandal.

Anyway Louis has a message for us, can you guess what it is? Yes that’s right-- “Hope everyone's doing alright!!” No matter how many times he says it, I still love the hello, thanks love (even if it was an afterthought and he was actually there to follow a crypto currency trading account). A bunch of old videos of him were posted today, including one from 2019 where Louis says about acting in his music videos “I wasn’t acting it’s who I am hahahaha” (ahhhhh I miss that laugh) and he’s on the wall of a THIRD MUSEUM! Louis is Art pt lll-- A Doncaster history timeline at the local museum has a big entry for Doncaster’s finest export, labeled “Louis Tomlinson Achieves Super Stardom”! Earlier entries were his face (hung up high) in the National Portrait Gallery and the science museum employee who saw their chance and took it by crediting a mushroom joke to him, a deep Video Diaries reference in the year of 2019; whoever that unknown louie is I hope they are having a very nice day every day, what a hero.

And a photodump from Zayn’s favorite member of OT4! Labeled DUMP (charming thank you) Niall posts an assortment of selfies (that sunglasses one! Ashe agrees, commenting “photo number four thank you very much”) and aesthetic pics and one tiny snippet of a piano tune, and speaking of photodumps from favorites of Zayn’s, a BUNCH of outtakes from Liam’s Grinder Tetu photoshoot just got posted and if I were a gay man I’m pretty sure I would have just had a heart attack, view with care they should probably be PG13.

[kuroo-shitsurou]

Auxilium (College!Xiao x College!Reader)

TW: mentions blood, depression, anxiety

note: it's my first time writing and posting something on tumblr so im sorry if it's bad!! reader is gn hehe.

Late February was never a good time for Xiao.

It was the second month of the year; People were starting to adjust and adapt to the ever-changing and progressing timeline. Although, he never really understood the concept of the "New year, new me!" shtick. Humans make decisions that eventually shape their personalities. What does a new year have anything to do with that? Does a change in the year automatically make you a good person? Does it make you less of an asshole than you might already be? He never really understood.

He found it rather silly, actually. Whenever a new year rolls around, Xiao would mutter silent curses to himself because he'd write the wrong year on his papers. Other than that, there wasn't any significant changes he made in his daily routine. He was still the same Xiao; The same anxious, mildly depressed, and coffee-high art major Xiao.

Now, Xiao was a respected figure in their college (or at least, that's what he was told). He was one of the most talented artists at Tokyo University, and professors have been eyeing him for a scholarship overseas (he, along with his brooding and mysterious senior, Diluc). His keen eye for details always produce great results as most of his portraits are featured in the university's gallery of students' greatest works. Not to mention, one of his larger canvas works were displayed at the Tokyo Museum, making him one of the youngest artists to have their art showcased there.

Admittedly, Xiao was aware of how people admired his talent. Unfortunately, due to a rough childhood where his parents barely showed him any love and affection, he had trouble reflecting his true emotions onto other people. That's why other art majors often labelled him as a self-absorbed, egotistical prick.

Xiao was the last person you'd want to compliment. It's not that he'd be a dick about it or that he'd scowl at you and act as if he was better than you in every way possible. It wasn't like that at all. It's simply because Xiao doesn't know how to handle compliments. He'll still keep his stoic face, lips pressed in a straight line, but deep inside, he'd be flustered to bits. He'd try to internalize his reply, stitching together the right words to express his gratitude, but it would always take him a few minutes. The person who complimented him would've already left after he finally constructed the sentence in his head. Not that he wasn't used to it

This led to Xiao earning his current reputation, as stated earlier. He was already expecting the rest of his college years to be spent alone in his studio, working on his artworks during the wee hours of the night, high on the fumes of his paint palette and his exhausted coffee machine.

Until you came.

Kaoru was... eccentric. You were loud, you were moody. He felt like you'd be the type of person he'd hate dealing with just because you was unpredictable. You were like the rain, and Xiao hated the rain.

He must have an Archon's cursed tongue, because he got paired up with you during the first semester of their second year in college. You were a familiar name to him, as you were in the same course since the first year, but he barely knew anything about you since you were in different classes.

"Hey, Xiao! I'm _____. I hope we can be good friends by the end of the semester!" His memory of your bright smile still remains vivid in his head. He wasn't really a brooding type like Diluc, but Xiao liked to believed that he presented himself as a silent person who had no intentions of interacting with other people. So, how were you so bubbly around him? Because she was forced to do so? You were to be his partner for the whole semester, after all. Maybe it was all formalities. Yeah, that's probably it.

"Hm." Xiao gave a nod in her direction, acknowledging your existence. you heard from your friends that the young artist didn't have a pleasing personality, but you weren't expecting to be shutdown from the get-go.

"Mind if I sit beside you?"

Again, a light nod.

You felt the awkward tension between you and Xiao, and you hated it. You were a person who hated it when people are uncomfortable in your presence. You didn't want to be a bother, and you did your best to make everyone like you. Not that you were a people pleaser, nor an attention hog, but you just wanted to get along with everyone.

The lecture was going to begin in twenty minutes, so the lecture hall was yet to be filled with people. You took the opportunity to strike up a conversation with the amber eyed man beside you, who was typing away on his laptop. Something about color theory and how it affects the perspective of people on different art types? You couldn't really see that well. He was a fast typer.

"So, Xiao, I heard that your painting was displayed in the Tokyo Museum last year. It must have been an honor. I was at the unveiling last year and I saw it up-close." You started off, testing the waters.

"And what did you think of it?" Xiao cringed internally. He meant to genuinely ask for your feedback regarding his art, but it sounded so harsh that he wanted to punch himself when he saw you wince (or maybe you shuddered because it was cold and you were wearing a sleeveless top? His nerves were getting the better of him at this point).

"Well, a lot of my friends told me that it wasn't anything special,"

Ouch.

"It was a large canvas. I can still remember how it looks. But, maybe that's because I'm at the museum every two weeks," You laughed. You noticed how Xiao's breathing noticeably changed after you started your sentence, and you have to admit that it sounded a bit too mean.

"You know, Xiao. My friends told me that your art was simple. Anyone could have done it. But honestly, they couldn't be more wrong. I love how your piece was painted. Auxilium. I'll never forget what you called it. That's... Help, right?"

At first, Xiao didn't want to listen to this person ramble about an art piece he made during one of the lowest points of his life.

His anti-depressants had run out during that one Christmas. It was 2:47 in the morning. He had morning classes the following day. He had a project to submit, but he was unable to continue working because of the unbearable pain in his chest. His head was throbbing. Voices were invading his mind. Flashbacks of his parents' negligence taunted him. He rushed to grab a glass of water, chugging it down in almost three chugs. He slammed the glass back onto the counter, smashing it into tiny little splinters and cutting himself in the process. His hand was bleeding, there were bits of glass on his counter and on his floor, but he couldn't care less. He was heaving, his breathing was unsteady, he wanted to die right then and there. His vision became blurry, but he rushed back to his studio.

With a bleeding hand, he picked up his brush and began to tear into his canvas. Not literally, but he started to create strokes onto the blank canvas. Different colors, different textures (he swore some of his blood got blended in with the area where he painted the sunrise, but it's fine. No one was going to notice, right?). He screamed and cried, wanting to throw the entire easel out his window.

It was Christmas. He was alone in his apartment. His anti-depressants ran out. He was having a panic attack.

That night led him to having one of the worst breakdowns he could remember, but he also ended up with a gorgeous painting that nabbed him a place in the Tokyo Museum.

"Help," Your voice echoed in his ears, snapping him out of his trance.

"People can tell me that it's nothing more than a simple painting, but the way that the sunrise was only showing in a segmented part of the canvas? The way that there were hints of red? It kind of reminded me how a new day can resemble hope but still contain hurt. Like, the promise of a fresh start isn't guaranteed a good one, right?"

Your words rang in his ears like a gong being hit continuously. He wanted to cry. People always complimented him and congratulated him about being recognized by art critics and national museums, but none of them ever really stopped to talk to him about his art. They were there for his recognition- not his work.

"I mean, you could begin with a fresh start, but wouldn't the remnants of yesterday still take a toll on your tomorrow?"

"Hm. Interesting take. To be honest, those specks could have been my blood." Xiao spoke up, to your surprise. A small smile formed on your face. Maybe this guy wasn't so bad after all.

"My hand was cut up when I was painting that," He added quietly, not mentioning why his hand was in that state. "I think I accidentally added too much concentrated red. I couldn't blend it out the way I originally planned."

"Oh? But that makes it all the more great, though!" You beamed, "Maybe it was an Archon guiding you? I don't really believe in that stuff, but acknowledging some divine intervention once in a while can't be all bad, no?" You laughed.

"I guess you're right." For the first time in a while, Xiao actually gave someone else a small smile. It wasn't really a smile per se, but his lips curved even the slightest bit upward, and you decided that it was a win for you.

-

Fast forward to the second semester of their third year.

Late February was never a good time for Xiao.

It was the second month of the year; People were starting to adjust and adapt to the ever-changing and progressing timeline. Although, he never really understood the concept of the "New year, new me!" shtick.

It had been years since he was clinically-diagnosed with mild depression. So, why was he still that way? Shouldn't new years help him be a better person? Or something like that. Why was he still like this?

Late February meant the end of one semester, and the start of another.

What else did that mean?

His semestral feedback report (he refused to call it a report card. What was he, high school?).

"Xiao? Are you here? I bought almond tofu from Xiangling's place. Sorry for barging in, you weren't answering my calls." He heard your voice from the kitchen and he glanced at the clock on his studio's wall.

1:37 AM.

You were at Xiangling's place because you were working on a report about the history of acrylic paints or whatever it was. You were supposed to go home, but you still dropped by his apartment. He checked his phone.

[ 14 missed calls. ]

Yikes.

"I'm here." He answered meekly, but loud enough for you to hear. He felt tired. Defeated, maybe. He was blankly staring at the canvas in front of him. He has sketched the base of your face and upper body. He was planning on painting a portrait of his beloved to decorate his room with, but he couldn't find the energy to continue.

He could hear the soft "thud"s of your feet walking from the kitchen towards the studio, but he tuned it out with an annoying static he could only hear in his head.

Fuck. Where are they?

He rushed to the drawer next to his easels and rummaged around in a panic.

Where the fuck are they?

He kept a few anti-depressants in his studio because he spends most of his time here and he didn't have time to rush to the kitchen to get them if he ever got a panic attack.

"Fuck!" He cursed loudly, throwing the contents of his desk onto the floor. Some of his paintbrushes scattered on the wooden floor of his studio, marking the wood various colors. Maybe they're going to stain, but he didn't really care.

Xiao heard the footsteps retreating until he couldn't hear anything else except the constant ringing in his ears. It was annoying. It was loud. It started to make him want to split his head open.

"_____," He whispered, feeling his chest hurt and his throat tighten. The passageways helping him breathe seemed to close themselves, giving him a hard time and mocking him. It was coming back again.

Tears started to flood his vision, and they rolled down his red cheeks. He took the ponytail out of his hair and used two hands to tug at his locks starting from the roots. His breathing patterns became more erratic, but he tried his best to stay calm.

His knees and legs felt like jelly. He had to lean against the desk to avoid from toppling over.

Why? Why again? Why now? Why when you were here?

He screamed. It was loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but his care for any external entities was out the window the moment his eyes became blurry with tears.

Even though he was leaning against the desk, his legs still couldn't hold the weight of his entire body. His knees dropped to the floor, and he swore he must've dented the wood below, but he paid no mind to it. His knees were also aching, but he could deal with that later. He bent down and pressed his forehead to the floor.

"_____," He whispered again, longing for his partner. "Auxilium."

"Xiao?" The voice was muffled. His eyes were glued to the floor in front of him, but he knew it was you.

"Xiao, stay with me, honey." There was a hint of panic evident in your voice, but he was glad that you didn't let that get the best of you. You was still somewhat calm.

You kneeled down beside him, helping him back to an upright position.

"Honey, you left these on the counter outside." You handed him two tablets of his anti-depressants, and he gladly placed them in his mouth. You also gave him a glass of water, and he downed it in two swift gulps. Afraid that he might underestimate his strength, he returned the glass back to you instead of setting it down himself, nodding at you in the process.

You got into a more comfortable position where you rested your back against the wall, and you guided Xiao to follow you. It was a difficult task; He was very sensitive during his panic attacks.

His semestral feedback reports always made him anxious. He didn't have to please his parents anymore since he moved out years ago, but Xiao had this nagging feeling inside of him to do better with his academics. Nobody was really pressuring him to be a straight-A student, but did he feel like he needed to be? Who was he trying to prove himself to anyway? You knew about his sever panic attacks and how they were more active if he had a big event coming up. The first time you had to deal with it, you were still stiff and trying to learn how you could help. Now, you takes pride in yourself for being able to handle him in the ways you know would help him the most.

"Here you go, I've got you." You cooed, assisting him with moving. You laid his head flat on her lap and she began stroking his beautiful, tousled forest green locks. The highlights he had under the first layer of his hair started to fade, and you made a mental note to take him to a salon so they could get their highlights redone.

"You know, I've been listening to a lot of Coldplay lately," You started speaking, as if Xiao wasn't about to have a full-on panic attack. "Yellow would have to be one of my favorite songs. I guess it's kinda cheesy, but can you blame me?"

You used your free hand to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

"Look at the stars, look how they shine for you." You began singing, voice just above a whisper.

"And everything you do. Yeah, they were all yellow."

Xiao was a reserved person who had a hard time dealing with other people because of his inferiority complex that sprouted when he was young.

"I came along, I wrote a song for you."

He didn't have love and affection growing up. He didn't know how to be the best person to talk to. He had poor communication skills. He was a mess, to be honest.

"And all the things you do. And it was called yellow."

You were the first person who looked past his rough and tough exterior. You were the person who showed interest not just in his name- but in him as a whole.

"So when I took my turn, what a thing to've done."

"Thank you," He murmured silently, noticing that the ringing in his ears vanished. His throat was beginning to open again, and he could finally feel the steady heartbeat he had in his chest.

"And it was all yellow."

Xiao curled himself into a ball, burying his face in your clothed stomach. You smelled a bit like smoke (maybe you ate yakiniku at Xiangling's?) and your faded cologne. It smelled like home. It washed a sense of relief over his entire being. He felt safe. He felt secure. He was being held like a child, but he didn't really mind. Maybe he needed this.

"Your skin. Oh yeah, your skin and bones,"

You craned your neck downwards to look at Xiao's figure. He finally looked peaceful. You knew about his rough past. You knew about the trauma he had to go through, but you chose to look past it because you knew that he was just afraid and... alone. He needed someone to be there for him, and you would rather the world die than leave him alone ever again.

"Turn into something beautiful."

You noticed how his chest started a rhythmic pattern of ups and downs. His breathing was finally steady. He looked at peace. He looked like he was right at home.

"Do you know? You know I love you so."

You couldn't help but chuckle as you watched him sleep in your lap. How could anyone think that this softie was an asshole?

"You know I love you so."

You barely whispered the last part of the song, but it was loud enough for his heart to hear it. Xiao hated when things were unpredictable; that's why he hated the rain. But now, maybe the idea of rain wasn't so bad. Especially since you were his rain.

"I love you, Xiao."

At that moment, you knew that the involuntary smile on Xiao's face was a response that contained more emotions than his words could ever bear.

"I love you too."

[contreparry]

Hello and happy Friday! For DADWC, perhaps "Secrets beneath floorboards, memories in the walls," if that strikes your fancy?

Absolutely! I haven’t written him or the rest of the family in a while, but I think I’ll write some contemplative Maxwell Trevelyan for @dadrunkwriting ! (Yes this is the saga of Henrietta, someday I’m finishing this fic I swear).

House Trevelyan was built on secrets. There were secrets under every floorboard and memories soaked in every wall. All noble houses were like that, no matter the nation, and Maxwell Trevelyan was molded by duty and secrets. Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed, full of secrets to be taken to the grave.

At least, there would still be secrets if his daughter wasn’t such a determined, fiery, independent girl- so much like her mother that Maxwell struggled to see himself in his own child, save for her height and adoration of horses. Had he not been the same, before he took his duties as heir seriously, before he had an entire brood of younger brothers to follow his lead, before he had a sister-

A sister. One of those other family secrets Henrietta rooted out while wandering through the family portrait gallery. Then she was tripping through the genealogy records, pestering everyone she met until she dragged the story of the youngest Trevelyan child out into the light-

Maxwell hadn’t forgiven his brothers for the parts they played in that fiasco. The discovery of a secret aunt fascinated his daughter. She peppered him with questions regularly: what was she like? What were Aunt Evelyn’s favorite foods? Her favorite color? Did she like animals? Horses? I bet she liked horses. Maxwell knew his answers were terribly brief and disappointing: quiet. She liked sweets. Pink, I think. Yes, but she was too small to ride the horses. She had a pony, before- and he stopped there, secrets clamping down on his windpipe until he choked. Before The Incident, before the fire in his father’s study. He was away at school in Val Royeux at the time, only to return a month later on break to find his sister gone and his family stone-faced.

She is a Mage, he was told. What else is to be done? Forget about her if you can, but you must hold your tongue and bury her in your heart. She’s another secret for House Trevelyan now. She is lost.

This explanation did not sit well with Henrietta when he gave it to her. So what, she shouted over breakfast, cutlery shaking as she slammed her hands on the table. She’s my aunt! I want to write to her! And no matter what Maxwell said, no matter how he pleaded, no matter what he ordered, Henrietta was as she ever was: fiercely independent and tenacious, clever when she put her mind to it.

Headstrong and willful, his father would sigh, disapproval etched into the furrow between his thick dark brows. Wild and spoiled, his mother would exclaim as she shook her head, emeralds glittering at her throat like the eyes of a particularly snobby cat. Unrefined, his grandmother would placidly remark over a glass of wine, but not incorrigible.

Henrietta is a delightful breath of fresh air, his sister wrote to him in her short missive inviting him to Skyhold to retrieve his wayward child, who ran off from finishing school to visit a beloved aunt she never met. His sister! By Andraste, he and Emily boarded a ship the very day they received the message that Henrietta was at Skyhold. Healthy, hale, and safe, his sister assured him, but Maxwell could not, would not rest until he saw his daughter with his own eyes.

Which he had. And now she was perched on the emerald green loveseat across from his armchair in the Inquisitor’s private quarters. Her mouth was set in a grim, determined line, her bright red hair (just like Emily’s) pulled back into a loose tail. She looked healthy, a little pink in the cheeks from the cold and the wind, but well enough and comfortable in wool tunic and leggings. She had a bit of straw caught up her her hair. Horses, once again. Always with the horses.

“Scold me all you like, father. You can lock me up in the dungeons or in a tower or ban me from riding or sailing or make me sew samplers until my hair turns white, but you mustn’t blame Aunt Evelyn for this! I never told her I was coming to visit. I arrived quite unexpectedly,” Henrietta insisted in a rush, breaking the frigid silence. Maxwell bit his tongue as Emily lay a hand on his forearm. Peace, Maxwell, the gesture said. Modest temper. Sit back and think!

His first thought was anger. How dare the Inquisitor worm her way into his daughter’s generous and kind heart, use her to draw him across the sea to pay court? A brilliant strategy, and the Inquisitor had a tactical mind. Their encounter in Skyhold’s courtyard had been brief. Proper, a Chantry leader greeting a noble and acting head of an influential family. Just another pawn in the Great Game- show that family ties are mended, gain a little more influence in the Free Marches as a result. Maxwell was entitled to his suspicions, to his anger.

But Emily’s hand on his forearm, the reminder to control the rage and see beyond the first glance, cooled his temper. For all the proper protocol and addresses, Maxwell felt the Inquisitor’s hand shake when he took it. Her voice was brassy and bold, nothing like the high, musical laughter he remembered, yet there was a hesitant tremble when she lowered her voice to speak with them privately. She looked... remarkably like their mother, save for the eyebrows and eyes. Their father’s features lay there, but somehow the thick brows that were forever unruly on Maxwell’s face was fierce and elegant on the Inquisitor’s. And then... then his sister carefully positioned herself (short, so short, their mother’s height, maybe a bit taller) between him and his daughter as they walked back into the fortress. A wall to keep him away. A shield to protect his child.

“Henrietta is a delightful breath of fresh air,” the Inquisitor wrote. “Her visit has been a most welcome one, no matter how unintentional it may have been. While I treasure the opportunity to know my niece, she must be grievously missed back in Ostwick. I am happy to provide an escort for her safe journey back to the house, or to host you in Skyhold. I await your response, good ser.

Warm Regards,

Inquisitor Evelyn Adelaide Trevelyan

Postscript- I bear the full blame for Henrietta’s misadventure. In my efforts to soothe your daughter’s worries over my own safety, I ended up minimizing the dangers of Skyhold and the wild. It was foolishness on my part, Ser, not your daughter’s. I will not ask you to forgive a woman grown who ought to have known better, but I beg you forgive your child who adores you.”

What was he supposed to do about a woman who so obviously loved his daughter, so much so that she would throw herself headlong into the path of his fury just to keep Henrietta safe? His sister. His sister!

“We will discuss punishments another time,” Maxwell said instead. His daughter was safe. For now that was what was most important. And the matter of his sister... his sister. Maker’s Breath, she had grown so much! She was nothing at all like the wild child who flung herself off a wall to tackle the older Vael boys who were picking on their littlest brother, screeching the family motto at the top of her little lungs. She was nothing like the ragamuffin who was dragged back to the house by an exasperated nanny, covered in mud and clutching weeds in her chubby fist. There was nothing familiar there, and yet... and yet...

“I’ve a mind to lock you up in a tower with a thousand sewing samplers myself, girl, but your father had the right of it,” Emily sighed. “Henrietta, darling, what were you thinking?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Henrietta burst out, face growing red to match her hair, and Maxwell’s heart clinched in his chest as fat tears rolled down his daughter’s round cheeks. “I- I wanted answers! That’s all I wanted! Of course I went to Aunt Evelyn! She listens! If it were up to you you’d lock me up and never listen to what I have to say while you keep everything a horrible secret!”

“Henrietta-“

“Dearest-“

“My darling niece,” his sister sighed as she finally appeared in the doorway, a tea tray clutched in her hands. Blunt, short nails, calloused fingers. Not an elegant lady’s hand at all. A little... a little like his. Practical. He watched as his sister crossed the room, set the tray down on the table before them, and sat to his daughter’s right.

“I’m afraid we’ve all had a part to play in this mess, though I will shoulder the blame for this misadventure,” the Inquisitor- no, his sister- said, composed. Maxwell noted that, even when her voice was firm and her face a mask of politeness, his sister’s hands trembled ever so slightly on her lap. As if she was aware of his eyes on her, she fussed over the tea set, rearranging the cups and saucers as she waited for the tea to steep. Nervous. She was nervous and trying to hide it, and that familiar twist of anger and pain stabbed him in the gut. His sister was nervous in front of him, afraid of his response and trying to hide it. Secrets again, more and more secrets creeping out of the shadows to strangle them all.

No more. “We all had our part to play,” Maxwell said, clearing his throat. “The only way we can resolve this is to lay our cards on the table. No more secrets... Evelyn.” His sister’s head whipped up, brown eyes wide with surprise- eyes so like his daughter’s. Eyes so like his own, and Maxwell saw both the little sister who was so small he was afraid to pick her up and the woman she grew into.

His sister. His sister! No more secrets. Even if he had to tear House Trevelyan down to its foundations, there would be no more secrets.

[enviedear]

secrets that you keep → peter parker

DESCRIPTION ⌙ in a consolation trip back to europe, the kids of midtown high are eager to have a normal vacation, finally. but you on the other hand are on a mission. something weird is going on with peter parker, and you’re going to figure it out.

PAIRING ⌙ peter parker x fem!reader

WORD COUNT ⌙ 2.4k

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“-smaller group than before, but we’ll still have fun guys. the tour company has made precautions for you kids. there will not be a repeat of last year.” mr. harrington babbles.

you sink lower into the bus seat. you did not want to be back in europe. truthfully you want to be anywhere but here. wherever, here, was. no one knew. cell service went out about five miles back and the bus driver didn’t speak english. 

“yeah guys, don’t worry. this trip is going to be ten times worse than the last. it’s already started bad since we don't know where we ARE!” flash yells, running a hand down his face.

mr. harrington tries to calm him and the rest of the bus down, to no avail.

you block out the commotion and stare out of the bus window. grass, farm, cattle, shack, more grass, more farm. and not one single cell tower in sight. this is it, you think, this is how it ends, stranded in a foreign country with the most annoying people you’ve ever known.

“guys, GUYS! my service is back,” betty yelps. “it says we’re in wiveliscombe, and that it’s going to be three hours until we reach london.”

her words are met with groans.

“at least we have cell service now.” jokes peter parker, who’s sat in the seat across the aisle from you. he’s cute and nice, but weird. last year’s trip he had about a thousand excuses as to why he’d leave the group and if it happened this year, you were gonna figure out why. no matter what it took.

“mhm, and since we have access to the endless possibilities of the internet again, we don’t have to talk..” you huff.

“i.. sorry. i didn’t-” you cut him off by placing your earbuds back into your ears and turning the volume up. 

something about peter irked your nerves in a way you couldn’t understand. maybe it was the way he knew fucking everything. maybe it was the way his body became incomprehensibly fit in such a short period of time. you really couldn’t understand that. even went as far as to do research on steroids, but found there was no way he could be using those. most probably it was the nonsense of his idiotic excuses. he might be able to fool everyone else, but not you. you knew there had to be something going on.

he and his stupid cute little brown curls, button nose, and six pack were under your firm watch.

by the time the bus reached the hotel the sun was beginning to set. jet lagged and in need of a long shower, you’re one of the first to fly into the hotel.

“It's me and you for the next week.” mj smiles, holding out a room key for you. truthfully, you really liked mj. she was cool and liked a lot of the same things as you. but she had one fatal flaw in your eyes, she used to date peter parker.

it was a short lived relationship, almost everyone saw it as a fling. peter and mj were just… too different. but they remain close friends.

it’s not like you were jealous... just, a tad bit jealous. besides, that ship had sailed and your goal wasn’t to end up like mj on the last trip to europe. no, you had other plans.

“cool. we can watch murder mysteries tonight and grab some snack from the convenience store down the street.” you grin.

the rooming situation for everyone else took entirely too long. it started with flash being upset that his room requirements weren’t being met. he wanted nothing to do with a roommate. this, caused his previous roommate, zander, to object to rooming with someone so, ‘coddled’.

took a full twenty minutes to resolve the issue. 

“mj, you still wanna visit the national gallery tomorrow?” asks the one and only peter parker.

“uh, yeah. y/n, wanna join?” she questions.

you were ready to object, finding it far more intriguing to stay in and sleep but then you remembered your little mission. if you wanted to figure out what peter parker’s deal was, you’d have to be around him. 

“sure. nothing better to do.” you shrug, peering straight into peter’s eyes. 

“i, uh- i thought we’d get an early start to the day. ned wants to go on the jack the ripper tour, so that gives us until one to look through the museum.” peter rambles.

“alright, me and y/n will meet you two down here around ten thirty.” mj clarifies.

“see you then. night mj,” he looks to you. “goodnight y/n.”

you narrow your eyes at him, “sleep tight parker. busy day tomorrow.”

with that you and mj enter your room, ready to sleep off the jet lag. and soon enough, sleep carries you into her open arms, preparing you for the day ahead.

the next morning consists of peter and ned rushing in and out of their room. the duo forgetting nearly everything they needed for the day. it was extremely annoying. but you’d take watching the two ninnies scramble about over this tour you’re forcing yourself to get through right now.

the national gallery was proving to be a bore. maybe it was you. or maybe it was the dull ass tour guide. either way, you’re finding it hard to focus on any of these artworks around you.

“this is the arnolfini portrait. it’s the work of jan van eyck and it is believed to depict an italian merchant named giovanni di nicolao arnolfini. this painting has remained in the national gallery since 1843.” the tour guide drones.

you peer up at the art, searching for anything to interest you about it. you try to focus of the dark green of the woman’s dress, then the small dog, but nothing about this art is appealing to you. instead, you find the whispered conversation going on behind you to be much more intriguing.

“ned how am i going to make it all the way to japan and back here before the ripper tour?” peter grumbles.

japan?

“i don’t know, but i really don’t want to go on a tour of the most infamous and creepy serial killers of all time without my best friend.” ned whispers.

“but mj will be there, and.. y/n.” peter assures.

“great. they both creep me out. that’s like, two extra loads of creepy added onto the already creepy tour.” ned huffs.

“dude, i have to go… mr. stark is waiting on me.” peter pleads.

you hear ned give an annoyed, “fine.”

you wait a few seconds before turning around to face peter’s friend.

“where did peter run off to?” you ask, as innocently as you can.

“uhhhh- the bathroom. the uh, hotel bathroom. yeah, must have been those tomatoes he ate with his breakfast today.” ned gulps.

“mhm. well i think i’ll meet up with him. he shouldn’t walk all the way back alone.” you smirk, shoving past ned and running the direction peter went.

it took a good minute to find him outside, the boy running into a bakery. but once your eyes find him, you rush straight in, right behind him. eyes narrowed and full of questions. 

the brown haired boy quickly enters a bathroom and you grin. 

no escaping now, parker.

you wait outside the bathroom eagerly. only for minutes to pass. no sound escapes the room and you furrow your brows.

you knock on the door, no answer. annoyed you open the door, only to be met with an empty bathroom. 

an empty bathroom with an opened window.

what the fuck?

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“we’ve been upgraded!” mr. harrington gleams, looking down at our tired faces.

“last time we were upgraded we almost died.” betty sighs.

“ah- what did i say, we’re not going to repeat last year,” harrington retorts. “now...how do you guys feel about paris?”

well those words certainly livened up the breakfast table. train tickets are soon passed around, and you study yours, spoonful of yogurt still in your mouth.

“hey y/n, mj and i are gonna go to the louvre when we get there,” ned grins. “wanna come with?”

you chuckle, “another museum? nah, i’m good.”

mj quirks a brow at you, “this museum is home to the mona lisa. it’s not just any museum.”

“and the mona lisa is not just any painting… it’s an ugly one.” you huff.

ned guffaws at you.

“honestly, i might skip out too.” peter says.

you turn to face him, “great. you and i can explore paris while mj and ned explore another museum.”

he shifts in his seat, “i dunno i was thinking of-”

mj cuts him off, “i think that’s a great idea y/n. don’t you, peter? you remember what harrington said.. no repeat of last year.”

her eyes are cold as she awaits his answer and he fidgets more in his seat.

“i just think it might be best for me to stay here… ya know in case mr. stark needs anything.”

you roll your eyes, “dude, you’re just an intern. what could he possibly need that his other ten thousand interns can’t do.”

“technically he only has like six other… interns.” peter mumbles.

“but uh.. they can handle whatever mr. stark needs from you. i mean they’ve been av- uh, interns, for a while.” ned says, eyes pleading with his friend.

peter sighs before smiling at you, “alright, me and you versus paris.”

no peter parker, me and myself versus your dirty little secret.

somehow you got to sit next to peter in an empty train car for the ride to paris. and holy shit.. could he talk.

his eyes did have a way of lighting a fire inside you as he talked but, that, was not the point.

it was between an empty car with peter or full car sat between flash and harrington.

peter is always better than the latter.

“-anyways, how’d you convince your parents to let you go back to europe?” he asks.

“i didn’t. they made me.” you say simply.

peter slumps into his seat a little, “uh, why?”

“because when they were younger they traveled the world. i dunno, i guess they expect me to want to as well.” 

“oh. well, are you enjoying it so far.” he asks.

i’d enjoy it more if i could figure out your damned secret, parker.

“sure.”

and then, finally, peter is quiet. 

but not for long, as the train comes to a screeching halt.

over the train speakers comes a booming voice, “veuillez rester calme. le train s'est arrêté en raison d'un dysfonctionnement du moteur.”

your body tenses and you look at peter, “please tell me you understand french?”

“a little.. i dont think we need to worry. they said it’s just an engine malfunction.” he nods, looking around the train car.

you try to breathe. 

everything is okay. there’s no evil robots coming to destroy a train car with two innocent teenagers. that’s so pre civil war. just breathe. 

suddenly a loud bang is heard from the car behind you. not just any bang… a gunshot.

“holy shit.” you whisper, stiff as a board.

peter on the other hand is rummaging through his bag.

“parker! what the fuck are you doing?” you hiss.

“i.. just trust me okay? when i tell you to run… run.”

you look at him with a scowl, “i’m not going to be the sacrificial pig for slaughter, asswipe.”

he rolls his eyes, “i’m going to run with you. we’re going to find an empty car and then… wait for spiderman.” 

you blink. the kid’s gone insane.

“peter. listen, i know coping with your own inevitable death can be hard but, spiderman.. really?” you groan.

another loud bang comes from the car behind you. 

peter looks at you, taking your hand in his. 

the door to your car bursts open.

“run!” peter yelps, rushing into the next car, the gunmen not far enough behind.

“holy shit i’m gonna die.” you scream.

peter throws something at the gunmen when the two of you enter the next car, separating the two of you from the monsters.

but the kid didn’t throw just anything at them. motherfucker threw a damn door. a metal train door.

by the time you process the information, peter is pulling you into a cramped bathroom.

“i don’t have much time but basically, hi, i’m spiderman. those guys back there are people tony stark pissed off really bad and i need you to hide in here until i fix this issue.”

with that he pulls his jacket off revealing the spiderman suit you’re so used to seeing on the news.

“that’s your secret? this entire time i’ve been hanging around you trying to figure it out, and it turns out you’re spiderman. i would have thought anything before fucking spiderman.” you dwell, eyes wide.

he slips his mask on, “wait, you only hung out with me because you thought i had a secret? i mean.. i did but-”

another loud bang interrupts him, “nevermind. we’ll talk about this later. stay here and don’t tell anyone what i just told you.”

you nod, and watch him exit the bathroom.

so much for “not a repeat of last time.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“at least it wasn’t witches this time.” mr. dell sighs.

your entire fourth period groans. 

“what! our world is infested with witches now. i don’t even know why i’m teaching science. i’m gonna turn around one day and suddenly i’ll be teaching witchcraft.”

your eyes return back to your desk, staring a hole into the old wood. your trance is broken by a crumpled piece of paper. you roll your eyes and turn your attention to peter, who after europe has been watching you like a hawk.

you open the paper to see, ‘listen, mr. stark said i need to get written evidence that you won’t spill the beans. please sign below.’

you grimace but sign at the bottom of the paper and hand it back to your new ninny friend.

that’s right. friend. despite being one of the most annoying people on the planet, with the weirdest secret ever.. peter was nice. he was really nice. he liked almost everything you did and listened intently to whatever you had to say.

“earth to y/n.” his voice calls from beside you.

“oh? is class over?” you ask.

he nods and holds his arm out to you. you take it and give him a half smile.

you may find peter parker to be the weirdest dude ever, but you can’t deny that the secret superhero is starting to flood your mind. you never thought you’d be the one to say it, but peter parker is the coolest weirdo you’ve ever met.

and besides, your mission was a success. you figured out his secret and obtained a friend along with it.

well, friend, until you could complete your newest mission.

telling him you like him. like, a lot.

[avatarstories]

izumi’s birthday pt 1: bad memories

AN: I had to split Izumi’s birthday up a bit. trying to fit it all in one chapter would have been just stupidly long. I will say this starts sad, and the second chapter is also sad, though more angsty than sad, but part three will be much happier and have a good resolution. 

TW: character death in childbirth (in past, but mentioned), noblewomen being sucky to Izumi. 

Izumi was never particularly excited to celebrate her birthday. It was a day of mixed emotions knowing that while her family celebrated her coming into this world, they were reminded of the sharp pang of losing her mother on that day as well. Nonetheless, her grandfather Iroh had insisted on throwing a party to celebrate her 17th birthday. Nobles from the outlying islands, diplomats from the Earth Kingdom and Water Tribes, and of course her father’s friends and their families who were essentially her extended family. The palace, usually quiet and peaceful (as she and her father preferred) was bustling with guests. Her father had been so busy  greeting guests and addressing some Republic City business with Sokka and Aang that she had barely seen him that day. So, she decided to take a walk to his office after she knew he had finished meeting with Sokka and Avatar Aang. 

As she walked down the hallway, she overheard two of the noblewomen, a governor’s wife and her daughter, visiting for her birthday festivities talking with each other in the portrait gallery. 

“I just hope she won’t be like her forefathers, with the Fire Lady curse,” the mother says. 

“Fire Lady curse?” the daughter questions. 

“Haven’t you noticed, dear, that all of the Fire Ladies who gave birth to bad Fire Lords have died in childbirth,” the mother answers. “Fire Lord Sozin’s mother died when he was born, as did Azulon’s. Lady Ilah died when she gave birth to Ozai. General Iroh’s wife died when Prince Lu Ten came. Princess Ursa barely made it through Princess Azula’s birth, and of course you know that Lady Mai died when the Crown Princess was born.” 

“It seems the spirits had it out for the Fire Ladies that brought bad men into the world,” the daughter replies. 

“Indeed,” the mother says “For our sake, let’s pray it’s not an omen about our next Fire Lord.” 

Izumi’s breath hitches. The mother turns and sees her. Izumi recognizes her as Lady Niko and her daughter Ichika. 

“Your highness, I hope you are well,” Lady Niko says with a bow. Izumi clenches her fists. What an asshole she thinks to herself.

“Good evening,” she says bitterly. 

“We were just off to retire,” Lady Niko states.  If she has any suspicion that Izumi overheard their conversation, she does not show it. Izumi says nothing. “Well, good evening then.” The women bow again before walking down the hallway. 

Izumi is left alone in the portrait gallery. Her father had the portraits of the imperial Fire Lords removed long ago, before she was born. Instead, they were replaced with paintings of more favorable parts of Fire Nation history. There was one of Avatar Roku, one of her grandfather taking back Ba Sing Se, of her father redirecting lightning, and most recently of her Aunt Azula discovering the true nature of fire and being gifted a dragon egg. Even still, there were not enough new paintings to replace the old, and black curtains hung in their place. 

Izumi finds herself reaching out to touch the heavy dark fabric and remembers the first time asking about them when she was maybe 8 years old.

"Why are there dark curtains on the walls in the portrait gallery?” Izumi had asked at dinner

“There used to be paintings there, but I had them taken down,” Zuko explained.

“Why were they taken down?” Izumi asked. 

“They were of bad men, and I did not want them on display,” Zuko explained. “I didn’t need the reminder of their poor examples. And I did not need them setting an example for you to aspire to,” he answered. 

“Well, I will not be bad. Girls are not bad like boys are,” Izumi said cheerfully. 

“Girls can be bad, Izumi,” Azula says. 

“But I’m a girl and I’m not bad. And so are Aunt Kiyi, and Aunt Katara. They are all very nice,” Izumi states, somewhat defensively. “You are not bad.” 

“I used to be bad, very bad,” Azula responds. 

Zuko looks at her across the table. “You don’t have to now-”

“She’s going to have to know sooner or later” Azula cuts him off. Azula didn’t talk much about her past, and for Izumi, Azula had always been one to chastise her for being mean. Izumi could not imagine Azula as anything other her stern and wise aunt. 

Azula and Zuko are having a conversation with just looks, like only people with secrets can. Izumi looks between the two of them. “Know what?”

“Izumi, I know we have not taught you much about the war yet, but during the war, I was a bad person,” Azula starts. “I hunted down your father and grandfather to try to bring them back to the Fire Nation as prisoners,  I chased Bumi and Kya’s mom and dad, Sokka, and Toph across the earth kingdom, I burned Uncle, I put Suki in prison, I tried to drill a whole in the walls of Ba Sing Se, then I actually took over Ba Sing Se, I killed the Avatar, well briefly, I had your mom and Ty Lee locked in the Boiling Rock, and then when my dad tried to take over the world and told me I could be Fire Lord, I tried to kill Zuko and your Aunt Katara when they tried to stop me. Even before the war, I was never nice,” Azula finishes. She sighs “Don’t believe anything is the way it is about you because you’re a girl, Izumi. Anyone is capable of destruction.” 

Izumi is quiet. She looks at her aunt, her fire bending teacher, her fiercest protector, the woman who walks her home from school every day, who brushes her hair every morning, who tucks her in at night when her dad has too much paperwork to do, who is the closet thing this motherless child has to a mother. She cannot reconcile Azula’s confession. 

“Dad is that true?” Izumi asks. 

“Izumi, where else would he have gotten the scar on his chest? That was from when I tried to kill him,” Azula responds before Zuko can.

Izumi does not want to believe these things about Azula. “Well, if you were so bad, then how did the family pass the People’s Approval every year?” 

“We did not have People’s Approval before me. That was something I created,” Zuko explains. 

“So there used to just be uncontrollably bad Fire Lords and Fire Families?”

“Yes” Azula and Zuko say in unison. 

“But we’re different, we learned from their misdeeds,” Zuko finishes. Izumi pulls her hand back from dark velvet.  A door opening down the hall pulls her from her thoughts, and she starts towards her father’s office. As she walks down the hallway, she cannot shake the thought that she might be predestined for destruction. 

“Is he with anyone?” She asks the guard at the door when she arrives. 

“No, your highness. Master Katara, Councilman Sokka, and Avatar Aang just left. Would you like me to announce you?” 

“Thank you, but no need. It’s just me,” she tells him. 

“Of course, your highness,” he says with a polite nod.

When she walks in her father is staring, with a wistful but melancholic look, at a small ink portrait of himself and Mai that was commissioned shortly after they were married. Her entrance pulls him from whatever thought or memory he was lost in. The thought of him sitting in here alone and thinking of her mother only augments her anger and unease, and it quickly settles in her as sadness.  

“Hey, turtleduck,” he says softly and with a smile when he sees her. 

“Hi,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“Sorry, I missed dinner. Sokka, Aang, and I were working on something. And then Katara came in here to tell us off for working too late.” 

“That’s ok,” she says, trying to cover the sadness in her tone but Zuko notices.  

“What’s wrong, turtleduck?” he says walking over to her. 

“I’m almost 17, don’t you think I’m a little old for that?” 

“I don’t care how old you are, you’ll always be my little turtleduck.” 

Izumi smiles softly. Zuko was sweet father. “You were looking at that painting of mom when I walked in.” 

“I was, yes.” He pauses, "I was thinking about what I would tell her about you if I could.” 

“What would you tell her?” a few tears well up in Izumi’s eyes, and she tries hard to keep them in. 

“Well, I think she’d be happy to know you look just like her,” he starts. “And that you like to read and learn, and there’s nothing that you can’t teach yourself how to do. She’d be amazed that you can make your Aunt Azula laugh. And,” he says tipping her chin up so that she has to look into his eyes, “she’d want me to tell you that you could confide in your father with anything just like she did.” 

“I don’t want to celebrate my birthday,” she whispers. A tear rolls down her cheek, and Zuko wipes it away. 

“Why not?” 

“It makes me feel guilty,” she barely manages to get out.  She leans forward, and Zuko pulls her into an embrace. 

“Zumi, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this. You have nothing to feel guilty about.” 

“What if I just haven’t done the thing I’ll feel guilty about yet?” she strains. 

“What’s that supposed to mean, Zumi?” 

She doesn’t want to talk about what the noblewomen were discussing in the portrait gallery, and she diverts from her last question. 

“I took your wife from you. You’ve been lonely for a long time because I came into the world.” 

He holds her tighter against him. “That’s not true, Izumi,” he says firmly. 

“Yes, it is.” 

“Sit down, Izumi.” He guides her to the red and gold couch in his office and kneels in front of her. He takes one of her hands in her lap between his own, her gaze fixed downwards. 

“Look at me,” he says softly. 

She swallows and looks up, a tear rolls down her cheek.  

“It has been, and still is, the greatest privilege of my life to be your father. The first time I ever saw you, I didn’t think I could ever love anyone more. I would have rather died than see you get hurt.” He pauses and wipes a tear off his cheek with his sleeve, and then does the same for Izumi. “And you’re right, I am lonely sometimes, but it’s not your fault, Izumi. In fact, when I see you smile or do something that brings you joy, I wonder how I could ever have wanted anything else. So don’t you ever think that you took anything away from me because you are the greatest joy of my life.” 

She cannot stop the tears at his admission. She wraps her arms around his neck and he hugs her tightly to him. He doesn’t seem to mind that his robes are getting wet from her tears. Let’s pray it’s not an omen about our next Fire Lord plays again in her mind, and now with her father’s words, she only cries harder. He had so much faith in her, and she hadn’t proven anything yet about her ability to lead. 

A few minutes later when she had stopped crying, Zuko loosens his embrace. 

“I hate when my little girl is upset. You know Azula used to laugh at me because I’d cry when you got hurt or when you were sick. Then one time while I was in a meeting and Azula interrupted it clearly distraught because she found out someone had picked on you at school and she wanted the swiftest punishment imaginable, and I told her, 'now you know how it feels.'” 

Izumi lets out a little laugh against his robes. 

“Thanks, Dad.” 

“Want me to make some tea?”

“You’re turning into grandfather,” she quips, pulling out of the hug. 

“I’d consider that a very nice compliment, Zumi,” Zuko jokes. 

A short while later they are in the kitchens, each with a cup of tea in hand, but a darkness still sits heavy in Izumi’s heart. She knows she won’t be able to shake it off anytime soon.

AN: I love soft Dadko and protective Aunt Azula. I think it’s cool to explore Izumi’s understanding of her family and their past, especially in a way that it mixes with her own insecurities and fears. Next chapter, we get Bumi (who is actually of my favorite of the Gaang Kids, even though I tend to harp on Izumi.)

[addictedtoeddie]

The full Esquire Spain interview translated from Spanish:  

Eddie Redmayne trial: guilty of being the most talented (and stylish) actor of his generation

The Oscar winner talks about what it means to premiere a film with Aaron Sorkin (The Chicago 7th Trial on Netflix) and filming the new part of the most famous saga of all time under the watchful eye of its author, J.K. Rowling.

By Alba Díaz (text) / JUANKR (photos and video) / Álvaro de Juan (styling) 10/23/2020  

At the Kettle’s Yard Gallery in Cambridge, stands alone and leaning on a piano Prometheus, a marble head made by Constantin Brâncusi, and the only piece of art that Eddie Redmayne (London, 1982) would save from possible massive destruction. He tells me about it as he leaves the filming set of the third installment of Fantastic Beasts in the early days of an autumn that, we suspect, we will never forget. It begins to get dark as the actor nods seriously: "I promise to do my best in this interview."

Eddie Redmayne made himself in the theater despite some voices warning him that he could not survive in it. "Many people were in charge to tell me that it would never work, that only extraordinary cases make it and that I would not be able to live from this professionally." Even his father came home one day with a list of statistics on unemployed young actors. Redmayne, who is extremely modest, polite and funny, adds: “But I enjoyed theater so much that I got to the point of thinking that if I could only do one play a year for the rest of my life… I would do it. And that would fill me completely.

Spoiler: since then until today he has participated in many more. He set his first foot in the industry when he debuted at the Shakespeare’s Globe Theater and won over critics and audiences. He then landed his first major role in My Week with Marilyn opposite Michelle Williams. And then came one of the roles of his life, the character he wanted to become an actor for, Marius. With him he sang, led a revolution and broke Cosette's heart in Les Miserables. “I found out about the Les Misérables auditions when I was shooting a movie in Illinois. Dressed like a cowboy. I picked up the iPhone and videotaped myself singing the Marius song. I always wanted to be him ”.

Now Redmayne is an Oscar winner - thanks to his portrayal of Stephen Hawking in The Theory of Everything - and the protagonist of one of the most important sagas in history, Fantastic Beasts. He plays the magizoologist Newt Scamander in it. When I ask him what it means to him to be the protagonist of a magical world that is so important to millions of people, Eddie sighs and takes a few seconds to answer. “I have always loved the Harry Potter universe. Some people like The Lord of the Rings or Star Wars ... But, for me, the idea that there is a magical world that happens right in front of you, that happens without going any further on the streets of London, that. .. That exploded my imagination in another way.

During the quarantine, J. K. Rowling, who has been in charge of the script of the film, sparked a controversy through a series of tweets about transgender women. Redmayne assures that he does not agree with these statements but that it does not approve of the attacks of some people through social networks. The actor was one of the first to position himself against Rowling alongside Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and other protagonists of her films. "Trans women are women, trans men are men, and non-binary identities are valid."

After having spent a while talking, Redmayne confesses to me that he has never been a big dreamer not to maintain certain aspirations that ended up disappointing him. So he has always kept a handful of dreams to himself. One of them was fulfilled just a few weeks ago with the premiere of The Trial of the Chicago 7, a film written and directed by Aaron Sorkin that can already be seen on Netflix and in some - few - cinemas. “I was on vacation with my wife in Morocco and the script arrived. I think I called my agent before I even read it and said yes, I would. She probably thought the obvious, that I'm stupid. After that, of course I read the script, which is about a specific moment in history that I knew very little about. I found it exciting and a very relevant drama in today's times. "

And it is that having a script by Aaron Sorkin in your hands is no small thing. Eddie Redmayne has been a fan of his work ever since he saw The West Wing of the White House. “His scripts have delicious language and dialogue. As an actor, it's fun to play characters that are much smarter than you are in real life. That virtuosity is hard to come by. I really hope that audiences enjoy this movie and feel that there is always hope. " He remembers that since he released The Theory of Everything he has recorded, to a large extent, English period dramas, “and although the new Aaron Sorkin is not strictly contemporary,” says Redmayne, “to be able to wear jeans and shirts and sweaters instead of so much tweed is great ”.

Besides acting, art was the only thing the actor was interested in, so he ended up studying Art History at Cambridge University. “My parents are quite traditional and when I told them I wanted to act they gave me free rein but on the condition that I study a career. And I'm very grateful for that because ... Look, beyond that, when I play a real character I usually go to the National Portrait Gallery in London quite often. There I lock myself up. Now, for Sorkin's film, I went through a lot of photographs and videotapes. Art helps me to be more creative, to get into paper ”. If he were not an actor, he would be, he says decidedly, a historian or perhaps a curator. "Although I think he would be a very bad art curator."

Against all logic, Eddie Redmayne is color blind. But there is a color that you can distinguish anywhere and on any surface: klein blue. He wrote his thesis on the French artist Yves Klein and the only shade of blue he used in his works. He wrote up to 30,000 words talking about that color with which he became obsessed. “It is surprising that a color can be so emotional. One can only hope to achieve that intensity in acting. "

Like his taste for art, which encompasses the refined and compact, Redmayne seems to be in the same balance when it comes to the roles he chooses. When I ask him what aspects a character he wants to play should have, he takes a few seconds again before answering: “I wish I had a more ingenious answer but I will tell you that I know when my belly hurts. It's that feeling that I trust. In my mind I transport him to imagine myself playing that character. When I read a script I have to really enjoy it. You never fully regret those instincts. It's like when you connect with something emotionally. "

So we come to the conclusion that all his characters have some traits in common. "You know what? I never look back, and this is something personal, but I do believe that there is a parallel between Marius in Les Misérables trying to be a revolutionary, someone who is quite prone to being distracted by love but at the same time is willing to die for his cause, and Tom Hayden from The Chicago Trial of the 7 who was a man who had integrity and was passionate and fought for the things he believed in. So I suppose there may also be similarities between a young Stephen Hawking and Newt Scamander. There are traits in common in all of them that I don't really know where they come from ”.

When we talk about the year we are living in, in which it is increasingly difficult to find hope, we both let out a nervous laugh. "There must be," Redmayne says. “There is something very nice that Tom Hayden, the character I play in Sorkin's film, said to his former wife, actress Jane Fonda, just the day before she passed away. He told her that watching people die for their beliefs changed his life forever. In that sense, I also think about what Kennedy Jr. wrote about how democracy is messy, tough and never easy ... As is believing in something to fight for. I look at history and how they were willing to live their lives with that integrity to change the world and I realize that somehow that spirit still remains with us. " We fell silent thinking about it. "There must be hope."

I tell him about my love for Nick Cave's blog, The Red Hand, and one of the posts that I have liked the most in recent weeks. In it, the singer affirms that his response to a crisis has always been to create, an impulse that has saved him many times. For Redmayne there are two activities that can silence noise: drawing and playing the piano. “When you play the piano your concentration is so consumed by trying to hit that note that you can't think of anything else. Similarly, when you draw something, the focus is between the paper and what you are trying to recreate ... There I try to calm my mind.

Before saying goodbye, I drop a question that I thought I knew the answer to, but failed. What work of art would you save from mass destruction? "How difficult! I could name my favorite artists but still couldn't choose a work. Only one piece? Let me think. I am very obsessed with Yves Klein, but I would stick with a work by Brancusi. There is a sculpture of him, a small head called Prometheus, in Cambridge's Kettle’s Yard, on a dark mahogany piano. The truth is that I find it very ... beautiful ”.

Before leaving, he confesses to me - with a childish and slow voice - that he would like to direct something one day. We said goodbye, saying that we will talk about his next project. Next, the first thing I do is open the Google search engine. "P-r-o-m-e-t-h-e-u-s". Although Eddie Redmayne has trouble distinguishing violet from blue, he doesn't have them when choosing a good piece. He's right, that work deserves to be saved.

* This article appears in the November 2020 issue of Esquire magazine

Source: esquire.com/es/actualidad/cine/a34434114/eddie-redmayne-juicio-7-chicago-netflix-entrevista/

[mishinashen]

Home Again by James Collinson, 1856

Home Again was painted in the final year of the Crimean War. The British Public had followed the two-year conflict between Britain and Russia in the popular press; with this painting Collinson satisfied the demand for staged homecomings.A weary soldier wearing the uniform of the Coldstream Guards is returning home to his rural cottage. When it was first exhibited a quotation beside the painting explained that the soldier had been discharged because of an accident leading to blindness. As a consequence, the family now faced a bleak future.

'Home Again' was exhibited in 1857 just one year after the Crimean War had finished and viewers who saw the picture then would immediately have grasped the full meaning of Collinson's work. However, much of the force of Collinson's narrative, relying as it does on details and allusions which were undoubtedly familiar to mid-nineteenth-century eyes, is lost on present day gallery-goers.

In March 1854 Britain had declared war on Russia over what she considered Russia's unprovoked aggression against her ally Turkey and which had its roots in a dispute over who should have the guardianship of Christian shrines in Palestine. In July 1853 Russia had invaded Moldavia and Wallachia, two provinces of the Ottoman Empire, and then in the following November had sunk the Turkish fleet. She thereby made plain that her ambition was to eventually gain control of the Bosphorus and the Dardenelles so that her navy could have unhindered access to the Mediterranean from the Black Sea. Britain saw the Russian navy as a threat to her supremacy in the Mediterranean, but it was the Russian refusal to move out of Moldavia and Wallachia, even in the face of a British and French naval threat in the Black Sea, which led to the formal alliance of Britain and France (with, later, Turkey) followed by the outbreak of hostilities with Russia.

By the time peace was proclaimed in April 1856 the British public had been exposed to some of the realities of a foreign war in a way that had never before happened in the country's history. Two important factors contributed to this state of affairs: the presence of a reporter - William Russell from The Times - in the field meant that there were frequent accounts in the daily press of both the appalling conditions endured by the soldiers in the extremes of the Crimean summer and winter and also just how badly the war was being managed by the Government back home; and then the existence of the weekly paper The Illustrated London News ensured that images of the landscape, the battles and the military commanders were easily accessible to the public for more or less the entire duration of the conflict. The public thirst for news and impressions of the war was also satisfied by a number of exhibitions and panoramas (for example, those at the Gallery of Illustration in Regent Street and Burford's Panorama in Leicester Square in which the displays showing the progress of the allied armies were periodically updated).

The war was dominated by the allies' year long siege of the Russian naval base at Sebastopol which lasted from September 1854 until September 1855 - a period which embraced victories at the Battles of the Alma and of Balaklava. An idea of just how much impact the war made on the home public at the time can perhaps be gauged by the extent to which there are still reminders of it surviving to this day. For example, the Balaklava helmet - a woollen covering for the head and neck worn by soldiers camped out on the plain near the village of that name; William Russell's description, in a dispatch in The Times of 25 October 1854, of the 93rd Regiment in action at Balaklava as a 'thin red streak tipped with a line of steel' is perpetrated in the 'thin red line' commonly used when pinpointing a battle front on a map; the modern profession of nursing was created by Florence Nightingale in her hospital for soldiers at Scutari; the order for valour, the Victoria Cross, was instituted by Queen Victoria in 1856, and until 1942 its bronze cross was made from the metal of guns captured at Sebastopol; and the Battle of Alma is commemorated in the names of streets, terraces and public houses in London and elsewhere in England. The most famous piece of literature inspired by the war is, of course, Alfred Tennyson's 'The Charge of the Light Brigade', published a few weeks after the occasion on which the Brigade had been all but wiped out at Balaklava. Rather less well known is the debt owed by Charles Dickens's extraordinary creation of the Circumlocution Office in Little Dorrit (published from 1855) to the revelations about the inefficient workings of the War Office brought to light by an official commission of enquiry into the conduct of the war.

Engaging as it did the full attention of a patriotic public the Crimean campaign presented a wealth of opportunities - for artists to exploit - from the production of portraits of the leading politicians and officers involved in the conflict to the rendering of battlefield topography. Some, for example William Simpson (1823-99) and E.A. Goodall (1819-1908), actually received commissions early on to travel to the Crimea so they could send back drawings to London - in Simpson s case for the dealer Colnaghi who published prints after his work and in Goodall's case for The Illustrated London News. In February 1855, in a collaboration between the dealer Agnew and the Government, the photographer Roger Fenton (1819-69) who had trained as a history painter, left for the Crimea in order to provide a record of the war which would - so the authorities hoped - counterbalance Russell's pessimistic account of affairs. Some of his prints formed the basis of engravings in The Illustrated London News but towards the end of 1855, after Fenton had come back, Agnew's started selling them to the public - more than three hundred images being made available in this way. The great revelations provided by Fenton's photographs (though he was only one of a number of war photographers) were, firstly, the vast scale of the destruction wrought by modern military bombardments and, secondly, the fact that the conventional view of battles purveyed by history painters - where perfectly kitted-out armies charged in ordered lines - was false. Nevertheless,. Edward Armitage (1817-96), an established history painter, was to be commissioned by the dealer Gambart to visit the battlefields at Balaklava and Inkerman in order that he might recreate on canvas appropriately heroic views of the British actions there. They were duly put on public display to some acclaim, along with other Crimean views by Simpson, at Gambart's Gallery in Pall Mall in March 1856 (Critic, 15 March 1856, p.156 and Jeremy Maas, Gambart, Prince of the Victorian Art World, 1975, p.79).

Predictably enough, not only because it was the largest of the London picture shows, but also because historically its role was one of promoting a national school of history painting, the Royal Academy exhibitions during the war years provide an accurate barometer of how strongly artists responded to the challenge presented by the war. And so, in 1855, there were seventeen painters and sculptors who dealt with the subject, in 1856, thirteen and then, in 1857, only seven. Collinson's 'Home Again' has to be set within the context of work exhibited here and elsewhere, and also alongside other pictures which had the war as their inspiration.

First to be considered - because they formed the earliest graphic commentary on the war - must be the cartoons which started appearing in the weekly journal Punch from early 1854 onwards. Frequently comparable in their bite to Dickens's satire in Little Dorrit, their subject - just as in 'Home Again' - was often the lot of the simple soldier: John Leech's picture of two raggedly clad privates camped out in a snowswept plain and their conversation - '"Well, Jack! Here's good news from Home. We're to have a Medal". | "That's very kind. Maybe one of these days we'll have a coat to stick it on"' - was a pithy comment on the plight of the expeditionary force (Punch, 17 Feb. 1855, p.64). Other Punch drawings by Leech, 'Britannia Taking Care of the Soldiers' Children' (4 March 1854, p.85) and 'For the Soldiers' Children' (6 May 1854, p.184), or by other artists, 'The Soldier's Dream' (5 April 1854, p.130), 'Sebastopol - A Prayer for the Brave' (30 Sept. 1854, p. 127) and 'Britannia Takes the Widows and Orphans of the Brave under her Protection' (21 Oct. 1854, p.161), represent a potent distillation of a national as well as a private sense of grief about the effects of war and underline the fact that more substantial images on the same theme, such as C.W. Cope's 'Consolation' (RA 1855, no.69, oil on canvas, 700 x 590, 17 x 20, Christie's 1 Nov. 1985, lot 72, repr.) and F.G. Stephens's similar but unexhibited 'Mother and Child' of about the same date (Tate Gallery, N04634) are not to be dismissed as mere products of Victorian sentimentality.

For those easel painters who, like Collinson, Cope and Stephens, remained at home, two of the most obvious war subjects available to them were those which touched upon the themes of what might be broadly termed 'news from the front' and 'the returning soldier'. Not surprisingly, given their early hopes that their combined aims of absolute truth to nature and utter sincerity of purpose would imbue their treatment of modern life subjects with the power of 'turning the minds of men to good reflections' (J.E. Millais to Mrs Combe, 28 May 1851, quoted in J.G. Millais, The Life and Letters of Sir John Everett Millais, 1899, I, p.103), some of the members of the by then dispersed Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, one of whom, of course, was Collinson (another being F.G. Stephens), as well as others from their immediate circle who sympathized with their aims, were quick to test the potential of Crimean subject matter in precisely these two areas.

Among the very earliest and most notable of those pictures in the first category was Ford Madox Brown's 'An English Fireside in the Winter of 1854-5' which was first exhibited in Paris in 1855 and then again at the Liverpool Academy in 1856 (270). This shows an officer's wife, her sleeping child lying across her lap, pausing as she sews, engrossed in thoughts of her husband (whose portrait lies on the table beside her) at Sebastopol (Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, oil on panel 310 x 200, 12 x 8; repr. Art Journal, 1909, p.251). It was an idea which Brown had developed in the spring of 1855, just as the final assault on Sebastopol was beginning to gain momentum, out of an earlier, similar, composition (see Mary Bennett, Ford Madox Brown, 1821-1893, exh. cat., Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool 1964, p.18 no.24). What elevates Brown's small picture above any other work inspired by the war is its successful projection of the idea of uncertainty. By contrast, the two pictures by Cope and Stephens already referred to, which might be regarded as sequels to the episode depicted by Brown, are inevitably less satisfactory because they show that moment after the news of a husband's and father's death has arrived: the tension has snapped because grief in all its fullness is displayed.

One artist in the Pre-Raphaelite circle, Arthur Hughes (1832-1915), felt sufficiently strongly about the effects of the war at this time to not only treat the subject but also to contribute his painting to the Patriotic Fund Exhibition in time for its opening in March 1855 - where it was to be sold for the benefit of orphans and widows of soldiers and sailors. The picture, now lost, but described as a small oil sketch, showed a soldier coming back to his wife and child, and apparently resembled Millais's 'The Order of Release' (Tate Galley, N01657) in its composition (Spectator, 31 March 1855 p.344). With the siege of Sebastopol over in the following September and the war officially finished in April 1856, the same subject acquired a new significance because the entire Crimean army was soon on its way back to England. The first painting in the genre (in which Hughes might perhaps be regarded as a pioneer in this instance) to actually catch the eyes of the critics was by yet another artist who sympathized with the Pre-Raphaelites, Joseph Noel Paton (1821-1901), who exhibited 'Home' at the Royal Academy in 1856 (35; untraced). This showed a corporal in the Guards who has just returned to his cottage; he has lost his left arm and, exhausted by his journey, has slumped onto a chair to be embraced by his kneeling wife while his mother weeps upon his shoulder. Described by John Ruskin as a 'most pathetic and precious picture' ('Academy Notes, 1856', E.T. Cook and A. Wedderburn, eds, The Works of John Ruskin, XIV, 1904, p.150), a print after it appeared in the following November (mezzotint by H.T. Ryall; An Alphabetical List of Engravings Declared at the Office of the Printsellers' Association, London 1847-1891, 1892, p.171, records that it appeared in an edition of 1,775 impressions) and Queen Victoria commissioned a replica (Oliver Millar, The Queen's Pictures, 1977, p.184, pl.219). Within a few weeks of the appearance of Paton's picture, Ford Madox Brown was considering a more pathetic variation on the theme though, in the end, it was never worked up into a finished picture: '... three figures, to be called "How it was", a youth quite a boy home from the Crimea with one arm, narrating to a poor young widow "how it was", a young girl, his sister, hugging him' (Virginia Surtees, ed., The Diary of Ford Madox Brown, New Haven and London, 1981, p.178, entry for 19 July 1856).

One final, initially very different, view of the returning soldier but one which in its changed state acquired the greatest popularity in its day must be mentioned here. John Millais, perhaps owing some debt to the satire of his great friend Leech, set out to deal with the privileges enjoyed by the officer class. He found a good subject in the scandal surrounding those who had excused themselves from further active service in the Crimea on the grounds of having 'urgent private affairs' to attend to back home. The contrasting total lack of similar rights for the humble private was illuminated by Punch in its cartoon 'The New Game of Follow my Leader' in which the infantryman is shown asking his general 'May me and these other chaps have leave to go home on urgent private affairs' (24 Nov. 1855 p.209). Millais showed 'a young officer ... being caressed by his wife and their infant children were themselves the laurels which he ought to be gathering'. However, with the coming of peace and the satire thus misplaced, Millais had to revise the composition: the officer was instead shown weakened by the effects of a wound, reading, with his wife, the news of the cessation of hostilities as printed in The Times, and the composition was entitled 'Peace Concluded' when exhibited at the 1856 Academy (no.200; now Minneapolis Institute of Art; repr. Geoffroy Millais, Sir John Everett Millais, 1979, p.56; see also, W. Holman Hunt, Pre-Raphaelitism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, 1905, II, p.105 and Virginia Surtees, op.cit., p.169, entry for 11 April 1856). Extravagantly praised by Ruskin, the work was one of the pictures of the year at the Academy and Millais's name has helped ensure that it is the only image from the war years to have achieved any sort of lasting fame.

At the opposite extreme, in subject matter, in the depth of feeling which seems to underly its conception, and in the critical reception accorded to it, is Collinson's 'Home Again'. Dated 1856 but not exhibited until the Spring of 1857 it must be numbered among the last of those paintings which owed their inspiration directly to the spirit of the times - and which, no doubt, the artist hoped would help sell his picture. But 'Home Again', far from being an isolated response to the war on Collinson's part, actually seems to represent the culmination of his efforts to produce a substantial image incorporating his thoughts about the war. In the spring of 1856 he had exhibited a picture entitled 'A Man Who Has Been with Death' at the National Institution of Fine Arts (349, untraced). It must have been a small work since it was only priced at fifteen guineas and it is quite conceivable that a painting Collinson exhibited at the Liverpool Academy later that year, 'A Crimean Hero' (790, untraced), for sale at twelve guineas was the same work under a different title. Whether or not this was the case, there can be little doubt that in the latter instance at least, the artist's subject must have been a soldier back from the war - the central theme, of course, of T04105. Alongside this, another work by Collinson which has survived should be considered for it too has a direct bearing on 'Home Again'. Once again a small work, in oil on panel, 270 x 215, 10 3/8 x 8 1/2, it is signed and dated 1856 and is prominently inscribed 'Siege of Sebastopol | by an eye witness' (Christopher Forbes and Andrea Rose, The Art and Mind of Victorian England, exh. cat., University of Minnesota Art Gallery 1974, pp.31-2, repr., and also Sotheby's Belgravia, 9 April 1980, lot 18, repr. in col.). It depicts two young boys playing: one, on top of a mangle, attempts to repel the other who, grasping its handle, is about to set the mangle in motion and so topple his opponent off his perch. On the wall behind them is a print, the subject of which - a guardsman bayonetting his enemy - sombrely echoes the boys' horseplay; the print bears the word 'ALMA' and then a sign just above this print notes, in words which both pinpoint the actual domestic circumstances in which the boys live and at the same time act as an incisive commentary on the separate images of conflict which Collinson has shown, 'MANGLING | DONE HERE'. The irony employed here suggests that the picture could well have been the work exhibited by Collinson at the Liverpool Academy, also in 1856, under the title of 'Children at Play' (774, price £36.15.0).

Clearly, the 'Sebastopol' painting is a first idea, and is used virtually unaltered, for the left-hand group in 'Home Again', but this time the boy on top of the mangle holds aloft the Royal Standard, out of reach of his assailant, the print on the wall beyond shows a more clearly defined, though unidentified, battle scene and the 'mangling' notice has gone. Below them, sitting on the floor and leaning against a tub in which two toy warships float, is a third child who, nursing a grazed knee, has also been involved in this childish scrap.

The motif of children acting out more serious adult preoccupations in their play is a device which Victorian painters frequently used to provide a commentary on the abiding weaknesses and irresponsibilities of humanity in general. An obvious parallel with 'Home Again in this respect is found in William Mulready's 'The Convalescent from Waterloo' of 1822, where a wounded soldier is faced by the sight of two boys scrapping (Victoria and Albert Museum; see Marcia Pointon, Mulready, exh. cat., Victoria and Albert Museum 1986, p.128 no.108, pl.XXVII). In T04105 the universal truth expressed, so far as the inevitability and folly of war is concerned, is given further weight by the reminders - in the Royal Standard, the royal crest on the stoneware jug next to the tub and the model of the British Lion on the mantelpiece - that patriotism too, plays a part in the shaping of men's ambitions.

Collinson's audience would have had little difficulty in picking up these points and even if there is still the whiff of the studio about the picture (for example, the lantern and the tartan rug slung over a washing line are props used by the artist in 'The Writing Lesson', RA 1855, no.321; Christie's 24 June 1983, lot 13, repr.) the meticulous attention to detail as well as overall concern for authenticity in those areas where the artist's public would quickly identify any solecism do demand our attention. The returning soldier is tanned and bearded - a characteristic of the Crimean veterans which was commented upon by the press at the time. His red coatee, with its dark blue collar and cuff facings, pewter buttons in pairs and white epaulette with its loose tassels and the dark blue field service cap with its white piping (known as the 'Albert Bonnet' after Prince Albert, its designer) single him out as a private in the Coldstream Guards. In a touch that is intended to add further pathos to the scene Collinson has indicated on the soldier's right sleeve four chevrons for good conduct; and pinned to his left breast is a silver medal on a crimson ribbon which is the Long Service and Good Conduct Medal (Army) instituted in 1830 and awarded to soldiers who, in the case of the infantry, had served for twenty-one years (the compiler is indebted to Mrs Daphne Willcox of the National Army Museum for kindly supplying this information).

Collinson's hero would have been in the 1st Battalion of the Coldstream Guards, one of the three Guards battalions (the others being the Grenadiers and the Scots Fusiliers) which served in the Crimea. The first draft left London, before hostilities began, on 14 February 1854 and the arrival of the sixth and last draft in the Crimea on 1 March 1856 brought the total number of Coldstreams who served in the war to two thousand and sixty. According to a survey of the occupations held by the men at the time of enlistment, of the total about seventy-five per cent were agricultural labourers and Collinson accurately reflects this by setting his scene in what is obviously a rural cottage. The Battalion finally embarked from the Crimea on board HMS Agamemnon on 4 June 1856, arriving at Spithead twenty-four days later and then travelled by train to their camp at Aldershot. The triumphal entry into London of all the Guards who had seen war service took place on 5 July when they marched from Nine Elms Station over Vauxhall Bridge, along Pall Mall and then via Buckingham Palace to Hyde Park, led by the Grenadiers marching to the tune of 'See the Conquering Hero Comes'. The seven Guards Battalions mustered in Hyde Park where the salute was taken by Prince Albert and where they were mobbed and cheered by the proud and patriotic citizens of London. Overshadowing the thrilling spectacle was the grim fact that three hundred and ninety officers and more than twenty thousand non-commissioned officers had not returned and nearly fifteen thousand men had been invalided during the course of the war. Of the Coldstream Guards, the central figure in 'Home Again', who is apparently blind, would have been one of the one hundred and eleven men discharged from the army on account of their disabilities (information from Col. Ross of Bladensburg, CB, The Coldstream Guards in the Crimea, 1897). None of these men would have been in the victory parade and although the guardsman here, with his long service medal, would have received a pension, his prospects were indeed bleak: he would be excluded from any further useful employment unlike those veterans who suffered the commonest disability inflicted by the war - loss of limbs, through cannon shot. 'Many of these men', pointed out an earlier writer, 'although unfit for military service, are quite capable of duties where steady habits of discipline, trustworthiness and obedience are required ... they are well suited to act as watchmen, gatekeepers, porters or warehouse keepers, and as porters in attendance upon passengers at railways would be highly useful ... We are glad to learn that every opportunity of employing them in the Royal Parks will not be forgotten' (Illustrated London News, 10 March 1859, p.238).

Few critics noticed 'Home Again' when it was exhibited: the Society of British Artists rarely attracted any sustained attention from the press and the subject was by now, anyway, rather too familiar. The Spectator thought it a work 'containing a good deal of matter, clearly if not strongly presented' (28 March 1857, p.343) while the Art Journal described it as 'full of appropriate material very minutely executed' (vol.3, May 1857, p.144). The most extended and adverse comment appeared in the Literary Gazette. It was, the critic wrote,

a picture which has manifestly cost the author much patient and careful thought, and the amount of success accomplished is by no means inconsiderable. The subject is trite to weariness ... nor is the treatment of a character to redeem the picture from the usually homely type. Here are the stock members of the family group which have figured in every similar scene from Wilkie's [Blind] Fiddler downwards; and it is only upon another version of this oft told tale that the ingenuity of the composer has been employed. For the careful, painstaking and modest manner, however, in which the attempt has been carried out, much praise is due to the artist. (4 April 1857, p.330)

'Home Again' was at one time owned by a prominent Liverpool businessman, Samuel Stitt (1816-98) who made his fortune as an iron merchant and shipowner. Very probably Stitt acquired the picture directly from the artist (it was for sale for £150 at the SBA) though the earliest indication of it having been in his collection is found in an advertisement for the sale of the contents of his house in the Liverpool Daily Post for 19 September 1898 (p.4). As a religious and benevolent man and also as a politician of a radical persuasion (he had been an active member of the Anti-Corn Law League) he may well have viewed the Crimean war with particular distaste and so the moral behind Collinson's picture would have appealed to him. In addition, in 1857, Stitt moved into a new house, The Grange, at Claughton which he had built for himself and it would have been quite natural for him to acquire new pictures at that time (see B. Guiness Orchard, Liverpool's Legion of Honour, Liverpool 1893, pp.655-6; the compiler is indebted to Edward Morris for supplying this reference). His collection also included works by other British artists including F.W. Hulme, Patrick Nasmyth and T.L. Rowbotham. In 1885 he presented a bust of W.E. Gladstone by Albert Joy (1842-1924) to the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool and under the terms of his will an oil painting by John Smart (1838-99), 'The Pass of the Cateran', was also bequeathed to the same gallery (Walker Art Gallery: Illustrated Catalogue of the Permanent Collection, Liverpool 1927, pp.105,174).

[volkswagonblues]

Sokka/Zuko long fic looking for a beta!

Hey guys, I’m writing a slowburn, 15K+ sokka/zuko fic set about five years post series. It has palace intrigue! lots of dumb jokes! zuko is a sleep-deprived millenial at his new job (ie. being the fire lord) trying to deal with racist boomers in the workplace (ie. the fire nation palace). sokka is there to make jokes and solve crime.

I’m looking for someone who wants to be a beta for the stuff I have so far. I’m looking for someone to edit my grammar/ let me know if the story idea makes sense so far. Here’s a little snippet  so you have an idea what it’s about:

“Relax,” Sokka said, and slapped Zuko on the back. “They’ll probably just assume we were having a tryst in the woods. Speaking of which, that’ll be my cover story’s cover story in case anyone gets overly suspicious.” He winked. “See you tomorrow for a bit of sparring, buddy.” – and strode off, leaving Zuko to splutter after him.

extended snippet behind the cut:

They walked back together in the darkness. Zuko kept an ear out for anyone lurking off the cobbled paths, but all the servants and guests were still occupied at the other end of the garden.

If Zuko exited from the western gate he and Sokka just passed and cut through the tea rooms, he would be in the hallway leading directly towards the portrait gallery. When Zuko was a child, he regularly sneaked into the gallery where the portraits of his ancestors were hung. He loved looking up at the enormous paintings of Fire Lords past and present; there was something new to discover every time: little dragons snaking through the clouds, fire salamanders intertwined in the details of the scrollwork. He imagined what Lu Ten’s portrait will look up hung up there one day, and burned with a fierce, secret jealousy. The gallery was a reminder of his family’s greatness, Zuko’s tutors told him. That’s why it was situated where it was: at the heart of the palace.

In the second year of his reign, Zuko took the portraits down and ordered them stored away.

He commissioned new works instead from the Water Tribes and Earth Kingdom. In the place of Sozin and Azulon and Ozai, the palace servants had hung up three new pieces representing the other nations: an enormous ink and brush drawing of rocky canyons and forests; a woven tapestry showing moonlight over the sea waves; another painting of distant mountains covered with mist. “It’s time we put aside the ways of war,” Zuko had said to his court during the unveiling speech. “I want us to remember our place in the harmony of nations. Peace must be at the heart of the Fire Nation.”

He had meant it, every word, but he saw the mute disapproval in the eyes of his ministers and nobles. Not all of them; most are relieved that the Hundred Year War is over, that they and their sons and daughters will never risk their lives on a battlefield; some are even enthusiastic supporters of the reparation projects. But others, the ones who knew nothing but war, were stubborn. Zuko was the oldest son of Ozai; he had won the throne in an Agni Kai, as honourable as any other inheritance custom. But to them, he is still the disgraced prince with the scarred face. He knew what gets whispered in the corridors and in the privacy of great stately homes:  the new Fire Lord is stripping the Fire Nation of its hard-won glory, what should we do about it?

They turned a corner and came closer to the glow of the pavilion lanterns. Strains of music and conversation floated by on the breeze, startling Zuko back to reality.

“Let’s divide and conquer,” said Sokka. “I’ll try talking with the Earth Kingdom delegates directly, ask them if they know anything about Luan and her plans. You try the same with your ministers, try to find out if any of them is acting suspiciously.”

They’re courtiers, Zuko wanted to say. Since when do they not act suspiciously?

“How are we going to meet again to share what we find out?” he asked instead. “I can’t keep disappearing from my own function.”

Sokka chewed his lip. “Do you still train at sunrise like you did with Aang?” At Zuko’s nod he said, “Then I’ll meet you at a sparring ground. If someone sees me, I’ll say that I want to practice moves with an old friend.”

“That’s smart – we’ll have to assume that whoever Luan is talking to might be watching you.”

There was a smaller practice yard reserved for the royal family, and Zuko gave the directions to Sokka, who repeated the complicated turns back word-for-word. It was absurd how sharp he was despite the cups of plum liquor, Zuko thought, and felt a new wave of irritation at the minister from earlier: even drunk, Sokka’s brain was worth five of his.

“Wait,” said Zuko when they approached the lighted path. He held up an arm to stop Sokka. “We have to stagger our entrances. It’ll look suspicious if we re-appear together after being absent for so long.”

“Relax,” Sokka said, and slapped Zuko on the back. “They’ll probably just assume we were out for a tryst in the woods. Speaking of which, that’ll be my cover story’s cover story in case anyone gets overly suspicious.” He winked. “See you tomorrow for a bit of sparring, buddy,” – and strode off, leaving Zuko to splutter after him.

Maybe Sokka was drunker than he thought, Zuko decided. It was the only explanation.

[crashingmeteorz]

saw u were taking requests- perhaps a sukka blurb? cute, domestic stuff, if you're up for it!

fun fact, when i got this notification i assumed it was a like on an ask i had reblogged and didn’t realize someone was actually sending ME a prompt until i opened the app. thank you so much for thinking to ask me, it absolutely made my day. i hope this is okay!

-

It’s late, well past midnight, when Sokka’s boat docks at the Kyoshi port. Suki’s pacing the island - she hasn’t been able to sleep the whole night through since before she left to help with the war effort. Not since she was captured by the fire princess.

Suki shudders at the thought. She’s been told that Zuko is trying to help Azula, rehabilitate her. She’s happy for him, that he might get a piece of his family back. But Suki doesn’t have any interest in seeing Azula again for a while. Forgiving Zuko was easy - Zuko, who fought fair and left when his target did. It was harder to forgive Azula after their more...personal interaction.

“Look at you, the leader of the Earth Kingdom’s most famous warriors,” the younger girl had said all those years ago, in her deathly calm voice. “And you’re stuck in a cage.”

“The Earth Kingdom won’t fall to you,” Suki had hissed back. Azula smiled.

“Maybe,” the princess had agreed. “But either way, you’ve left them vulnerable. I can’t help but wonder - if you hadn’t failed, if you’d captured me instead, maybe this war would be over?”

Suki was silenced. She knew this was just a ploy to get in her head, but the guilt was overwhelming.

“Oh, well,” Azula had said with a cruel smile, “guess we’ll never know.”

“Okay, something’s wrong,” says a familiar voice that brings Suki back to the present, its owner emerging from the island’s shadows. “I’ve never been able to get the jump on you before.”

“Sokka!” she exclaims, running to him and leaping into his arms.

“Hi,” he says softly, resting his head on top of hers, hugging her tightly. Every reunion with him feels like a miracle, like they’ve beaten impossible odds just to be together.

To be fair, they have.

They go back to her house and have tea, talking all the while. Sokka produces four portraits he made of her, each one slightly better than the last.

“You’re getting really good at these,” Suki tells him, smiling at a half-decent sketch of her in her warrior uniform.

“Really?” he asks shyly, rubbing the back of his neck while she looks through the papers. “Toph said the same thing. Then I realized it was Toph, so...”

Suki laughs, picking up the drawings and placing them next to the others he’s made over the years, between the slats of her wall. She waits a moment before rejoining him at the table, looking proudly over her personal art gallery.

“Zuko only gets one portrait,” Suki says to him smugly. “I get dozens.”

They discuss what they’ve been up to - Sokka spent the last couple of months at the Northern Air Temple with Toph. Together with Teo they’ve been working on a language system for the blind.

“They’re thinking of starting a school. Isn’t that great?” Sokka says excitedly. Suki nods, genuinely happy for them. It’s a relief to know how many people respect Sokka for his ingenuity - Suki’s known it from the first few days they met, but he tends to forget. He deserves this recognition, this joy.

“What have you been doing?” he asks her, reaching across the table to hold her hand. She turns her hand so that their fingers are interlocking, and she tells him the truth: not much. Things finally calmed down enough in the Fire Nation capital that the Kyoshi Warriors finally felt comfortable going back home. And now that they’re here - well, they’re certainly back home.

“It’s nice to have a break, but...” Suki feels her eyes begin to brim with tears, and she swallows, hard, refusing to cry over something so selfish.

“Suki,” he says gently, reaching out his other hand and covering hers. “You can talk to me.”

She heaves a big sigh and it comes out stuttering with the effort of trying not to cry.

“Did I abandon the Earth Kingdom?” she whispers, the candlelight fading so that their faces are little more than shadows. “Zuko’s my friend, and I’d gladly help him again but...I came back and everything’s changed without me. I was supposed to protect them, and I left.”

She begins to cry openly, and Sokka stands, rounding the table to hold her. He lets her sob, and it goes on for so long Suki begins to wonder if there’s something wrong with her.

“I’m sorry,” she says wetly once she’s cried her fill. “I haven’t - I haven’t even thought about this until just now and, and it’s just so nice to have you here-“

“Suki, you don’t have to apologize,” he tells her in that same, calm voice that always fills her with ease. “To me, or to the Earth Kingdom.”

She blinks at him, wiping her eyes.

“You can’t be everywhere at once - you protected the Firelord and prevented another war from breaking out. You advocated for the Earth Kingdom and its needs. That’s more than anyone else I know. Well. Besides Aang and Katara. But they don’t count, they’re the Avatar and a wannabe revolutionary.”

“Sokka, Katara is a revolutionary,” Suki says laughing a little.

“Yeah, well, she’s also my bullheaded baby sister, so, to me she’s a wannabe,” he says flippantly, not even able to mask his pride behind the gruffness.

“You wouldn’t know anything about being bullheaded,” Suki teases. He grins sheepishly.

“Thank you,” she whispers, kissing his cheek. “I don’t...talk about these things much.”

“Me neither,” he whispers back, blushing and reaching up to touch where her lips had brushed his skin. “Maybe we should work on that?”

Suki agrees - her chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. Talking about these things might be...nice.

-

a couple of things: 1. i absolutely believe azula deserves redemption and love. i also believe forgiving her is probably hard for people like suki and the kyoshi warriors, and mai and ty lee. azula specifically mentions speaking with suki during the day of the black sun, and since she knows suki and sokka were together, we can assume it’s true. knowing azula, it probably wasn’t the most pleasant conversation. 2. the great thing about suki and sokka’s relationship is how they can lean on each other, both during battle and emotionally. this was meant to explore the latter - i’d eventually like to write about suki and sokka talking about kya, as well. 3. once again, thank you so much @beepboopbitch for the ask. i really hope you enjoyed it!

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

She is forever - Part 3

Series Masterlist - Stucky Masterlist - Full Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OC, Bucky Barnes x OC (Ophelia Wright)

Summary: When Steve and Bucky went to the army there was a girl they went to school with who wasn’t allowed to go. She was left alone and never thought about again, until Steve sees a carbon copy of her on the streets outside Stark tower and she seems to know them just a little too well to be a stranger.

Word count: 1777

‘Bucky, I think it’s time you leave,‘ Tony speaks loud and clear. ‘She’s lying to us,‘ he barks at Steve, ‘she isn’t Ophelia’s granddaughter, she IS Ophelia.‘

Ophelia never thought her own studio could feel this hostile and cold. No one dares to speak as Steve tries to wrap his head around what Bucky claimed mere seconds ago. Both Tony and Natasha are thoroughly confused while Peter just disappears back into the background. It’s like a blanket of fog has fallen over the group, making them unable to see each other. ‘Bucky,‘ Ophelia tries to approach him again, but he holds up his hand to stop her coming explanation. ‘How do you know they call me Bucky? I introduced myself to you as James.‘ ‘Steve keeps calling you that. And remember the pictures I gave to Steve,‘ she says to try and explain it, ‘please, you don’t really believe I am that old do you?‘ ‘We are that old,‘ he argues, ‘why would we believe you aren’t? For all we know you could’ve been frozen by Hydra as well. Are you spying on us?‘ ‘N-no, why would you think that,‘ she seems desperate and scared. It makes Tony worry for what Bucky’s next move might be. So he steps in, grabbing her shoulder so he can pull her out of the way just in case Bucky tries something. ‘That’s it Bucky,‘ he says, ‘you can’t just accuse the girl without any evidence.‘ ‘No evidence?‘ He grabs a painting from the back of the stack and holds it up. It’s a portrait she made Steve pose for. She can see by the look on Steve’s face that he recognizes it too. ‘The date on this painting is the third of June, 1942. Signed by Ophelia Wright. Then this painting,‘ he picks up a newer painting and holds it next to it, ‘is a painting from last year. The signatures are identical.‘ The whole groups looks at Ophelia. ‘Now tell me. Are you send by Hydra?‘ ‘You’re a dick Barnes. You always were,‘ she mutters with a fake smile, feeling a tear slip down her cheek, ‘I am not send by Hydra and I wasn’t frozen.’ She wipes the tear off her cheek and straightens herself up. ‘Leave.‘ ‘What?‘ Bucky looks disrespected, like he thought he didn’t do anything wrong. For a second he thought the truth would come out and he’d have his friend back, but he thought wrong. ‘You heard me,‘ her voice sounds shaky, but her eyes look certain, ‘leave. In fact, all of you can leave.‘ Hesitantly, the group starts to make their way out the door. Steve, however, doesn’t feel like it applies to him until she shoots him a killing glare. He hurries down the stairs with her trailing behind. When the group gets to the front office they look back. ‘Naomi, we’re closing early today,‘ Ophelia tells the girl at the front desk and shoots another glare at the group, ‘I said leave.‘ Her voice sounds venomous and the group wastes no time getting out of there. ‘I’m sorry, what is going on,‘ Naomi asks Ophelia. ‘I got an offendingly low offer,‘ Ophelia lies, ‘now please close the gallery for the day. You’ll get the day paid in full, but I just can’t keep this place open today.‘ Naomi knows not to ask any more questions and goes on her merry way.

The hostile feeling in the studio seems to be brought over to the Stark Tower as Bucky and Steve locked themselves up in their separate rooms to think while Natasha, Peter, and Stark try to make sense of the situation. ‘So she’s immortal,‘ Peter comments, looking surprised at his own words, ‘but that wouldn’t make sense. She’s a human.‘ His eyes widen. ‘Is she human?‘ Natasha sighs and runs a hand through her hair. ‘Whatever she is, I don’t think she wants anyone to know,‘ she says, ‘remember how Steve was rummaging through his room to find pictures of Ophelia and he found like three even though they were best friends throughout their whole lives? I’m guessing she doesn’t want there to be any record of her being alive.‘ ‘That would make sense with the immortality,‘ Tony says, shooting up from his seat, ‘I mean, if people were to find out there are actual people who are immortal they would like to run tests on them and maybe dissect them. Earlier in the days she might’ve been seen as a witch and maybe they tried to burn her at the stake. It would make sense for her to stay hidden.‘ ‘But that wouldn’t make sense with her being a fairly well known artist,‘ Natasha objects, ‘they would be able to tell that the paintings were made by she same person because of the signature.‘ ‘Ah, but that’s the thing,‘ Tony exclaims, ‘she uses an alias on the paintings she sells and often works together with other artists which begs the question if she makes all the art under that alias herself. And, she never comes out and says that it’s her alias. She only told me because I figured it out.‘ ‘So they alias can keep existing without her,‘ Peter says like he’s just seen the light, ‘but that means the paintings Bucky found were private for her to keep. Maybe for nostalgic purposes?‘ ‘Could be,‘ Tony says, ‘we should run some face recognition through date banks to see if we can find any trace of her.‘ ‘Should we though,‘ Natasha falters, ‘she obviously tried very hard to stay under the radar.‘ ‘But then why would she stay here if Steve and Bucky know her,‘ Peter questions. ‘I’m guessing they were very special to her,‘ Natasha hums, ‘they might’ve been trustworthy people to her.‘ ‘I think she found out they were alive and wanted to see them grow old like she was supposed to when they were friends back in the day,‘ Tony suggests, ‘I’m going to run some pictures through the system.‘ ‘I’ll come too,‘ Peter calls and jumps up from his seat. ‘You should tell Steve and Bucky that you’re doing this,‘ Natasha states. ‘Why? You saw how feral they went when they realized she might be the girl they used to know,‘ Tony shrugs, ‘if anything, they should be told off for treating an old friend like that. Especially since they know what it’s like to outlive everyone you love.‘ Natasha sighs. ‘Fair enough.‘

“Dear Steve and Bucky,

It pains me that things had to happen the way they did and I’m sorry that you’ll never hear the explanation from my mouth, but I hope this letter will be a satisfactory replacement. You don’t have to believe me, but I am immortal. I have been alive for about 400 years and will probably continue to be alive until the end of time unless the Gods decide my time will come earlier. I am sorry I never told you but events of my past made me more careful than I would like to admit. The only reason I lived so close without ever trying to make contact is because I wanted to see the both of you thrive like I was supposed to see back in the day. You can’t imagine how much joy it brought me to see the both of you alive and well. See this letter as a goodbye and grant me one last favor. Keep my secret so so that I may continue to live my life without torture as I have seen my fair share of it by now. If you do not wish to grant me this favor I will not blame you for it. I have been a horrible friend to you. There will be some old paintings and a picture with the paintings I left for Tony. Those are for the two of you. Please be civil about splitting them between the two of you.

Don’t try to find me, as I will be long gone once you receive this letter.

Love,

Ophelia

P.S. The picture is the original. Please keep it private because I know there is a picture of me in that dress from about fifty years before that day that is somewhere in national archives.“

‘Ophelia left,‘ Steve stammers, handing the letter to Bucky as he himself stares at the picture. It’s a simple picture of the three of them posing in front of the absurd amount of plants in Ophelia’s living room. Knowing Ophelia, there is writing on the back so Steve flips it over and reads: “September 23th, 1941. Ophelia’s 22th 321st birthday. Please remember me. Love, Ophelia.“ ‘I feel horrible,‘ Bucky admits. Steve sits down with him and hands the picture over. Bucky frowns at the sight of it and seems saddened by the back. ‘Me too buddy,‘ Steve sighs. ‘Should we have a look at the paintings?‘ Steve nods. The two men walk over to the two stacks of paintings propped up against the wall. The one in front of their stack is the painting they discovered the day before. ‘You should take that one,‘ Bucky tells Steve, ‘it’s you after all.‘ Steve nods and sets it aside. Next picture is a portrait of a smiling Bucky. The two paintings look like polar opposites. The one of Steve looks strong and powerful while Bucky’s looks vulnerable and cheerful. She painted them the way she saw them. Then comes the painting Bucky had seen when she walked over of the two of them in the lake, but behind that one is a painting of a picture she had given to Steve. One that Bucky took where she was on Steve’s back. And then came the last two paintings. They’re based of pictures she had made them take for fun of her in their blouses. It had been for fun but looking back on those, you can see how much effort she was putting into making them memorable. ‘I remember my mom used to call her a whore when she found the copies she send us,‘ Bucky smiles. ‘My dad once asked how much we were paying her,‘ Steve laughs nostalgically. ‘We could’ve known,‘ Bucky murmurs, ‘she was way too free for our time. It was like she didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion.‘ ‘That’s fair.‘ The two split the paintings and bring them to their separate rooms. Meanwhile, Tony ventures into the common room and finds the letter addressed to him stuck to one of the paintings.

“Dear Tony,

Thank you so much for supporting me and being a friend. I’m sorry things have to end like this, but my time has come to move on. I’m sure you’ve figured me out by now so all I ask for is for you to keep my secret so that I may live my life without constant torture. These paintings are a token of my gratitude. They’re yours to keep or sell or whatever you want to do with them.

Love,

Ophelia.“

[douchebagbrainwaves]

ORGANIC STARTUP INVESTING TRENDS

Not only did we have to memorize state capitals instead of playing dodgeball? Several of the most important problems in their field.1 Another approach would be to let that opportunity slip. We were supposed to read novels and write essays about them. Stuff used to be valuable, and now it's not. For the average user, is far fewer bugs. They make such great stuff. There is always a big time lag in prestige. And jeans turn out not to want. They're going to walk up to the software, listening closely to the users as you do. With server-based software is never going to be something you write, yes. And later stage investors?

Many of the students who now major in English would major in writing if they could, and most founders of successful ones do. I think will be an orderly way for people to quit. Partly because they can afford. It's the concluding remarks to the jury. A typical desktop software company that had over 100 people working in it. A better way to describe this situation is to say that a hacker about to write a prototype that solves a subset of the problem. A programmer can leave the office and typing into vt100s. Even if you're designing something for idiots, the odds are that you're not designing something good, even for idiots. Buildings to be constructed from stone were tested on a smaller scale. It was written by two different people. We found that you don't have to work for a long time and could only travel vicariously. Relentlessness wins because, in the very phrase software company.

By the end of the continuum are languages like Ada and Pascal, models of propriety that are good for teaching and not much else. So instead of copying the Facebook, with some variation that the Facebook rightly ignored, look for problems and imagine the company that might solve them. It's a rare startup that doesn't build something the founders use. Then it struck me: this is the right model for collaboration in software too. Some people are lucky enough to know what they want either. So anything we could do to get more people through the test drive. But more than half the households in the US. They weren't tempted by the minor perquisites of power. In fact the dangers of deciding what programmers are allowed to want. And then at the other makers.

A programming language does need a good implementation, of course, but when they do get paged at 4:00 AM, they don't use sentences any more complex than they do when talking about what to have for lunch. A programming language is good as a programming language.2 Is software a counterexample? How did she get into this fix? Most users probably don't. The only external test is time. In the summer of 2005, most of the advantages of being able to do the unpleasant jobs.

When I say that design must be for users, I don't mean to disparage Yahoo. And people don't learn Python because it will get them a job; they learn it because they can't help it.3 You don't know yet. And they are also different lengths, meaning that the arguments won't line up when they're called, as car and cdr often are, in theory, explaining yourself to someone else instead of being pasted onto it like a pilot scanning the instrument panel, not like a detective trying to unravel some mystery. I want to go straight there, blustering through obstacles, and hand-waving your way across swampy ground. This article describes the surprising things we saw, as some of the work they do. For example, the good china so many households have, and Jessica does too, mostly, because she's gotten into sync with us. If you want people to read, and only incidentally for machines to execute.

There's a lot to like I've done a few things, like programmers and writers. The other reason Apple should care what programmers think of them, we either try to remove it, or shift the startup sideways. If you raised five million and ran out of ideas. Which makes them exactly the kind of problems that have to be Web-based software gives you unprecedented information about their behavior. Search for a few months. You don't have to watch the servers every minute after the first year or so, but you can write the first version of a tree that in the past has had false starts branching off all over it. It wasn't that they were just good enough. What's going on here? VCs miss good startups all the time? And you don't want to.

What's going on here? And programmers build applications for the platforms they use. I was told I shouldn't mention founders of YC-funded companies in this list. No one, VC or angel, has invested in more of the world's great programmers are born outside the US. Fixing a bug in your code corrupts some data on disk, you have to remember to do something. The classic startup is fast and informal, with few people and little money.4 You should be able to look at it. Platform is a vague word.

Programming languages are not theorems. It's a rare startup that doesn't build something the founders use.5 If you administer the servers, it will work anywhere the Web works. For the first week or so we intended to make this point diplomatically, but in effect I had two workdays each day, one on the maker's: office hours. With Web-based application will be a collection of utilities for generating reports, and only evolved into a programming language to have, say, $2 million, they generally expect to offer a significant amount of help along with the money; the only question is how much on what terms.6 There's always something coming on the next hour working on something, they want to do now. The more people you have, the more stuff they seem to have worked alone. It works a lot better for a small team of good, trusted programmers than it would for a big company, they were exceptional. But the fact is, almost anyone would rather, at any given moment, float about in the Carribbean, or have sex, or eat, or even to use the shift key much. Leonardo painted the portrait of Ginevra de Benci in the National Gallery, he put a juniper bush behind her head. Another thing you want in a throwaway program itself. She came to the startup world, things change so rapidly that you can't make yourself care.

Notes

99,—. At the seed stage our valuation was in a deal led by a big VC firm or they see of piracy is simply what they are so different from money raised in an era of such regulations is to get the rankings they want to avoid companies that seem excusable according to certain somewhat depressing rules many of the next one will be interesting to 10,000 people or so and we ran into Muzzammil Zaveri, and how unbelievably annoying it is to hand off the task to companies via internship programs. No one writing a dictionary to pick your brains.

The existence of people, how little autonomy one would have gotten away with dropping Java in the computer, the best ways to avoid collisions in.

Joe thinks one of his peers will get funding, pretty much regardless of how hard it is to imagine that there were no strong central governments. This is one of few they had no government powerful enough to absorb that.

More precisely, the group of picky friends who proofread almost everything I say in principle 100,000 or a blog that tried to unload it on buyer after buyer. The Wouldbegoods. More precisely, the average reader that they kill you, you can't dictate the problem and approached it with superficial decorations.

What makes most suburbs so demoralizing is that they've already decided what they're really saying is they want both. I'm not saying you should push back on industrialization at the valuation should be easy to believe your whole future depends on the grounds that a their applicants come from meditating in an equity round.

Words this way would be vulnerable both to attack and abuse.

Thanks to Steve Huffman, Trevor Blackwell, Harj Taggar, Erann Gat, and Geoff Ralston for their feedback on these thoughts.

[vithyahairandmakeup]

My Decade

My 2010 started with me finishing my one year diploma at London College of Fashion. I was so excited to start my new career with this prestigious qualification at one of the World’s top fashion institutions, but the makeup artist I used to look up to so much then, told me that I would not last long in this field. She broke my heart. And not because I thought I was doomed, but because of how discouraging and mean she was. 

Up until that moment I thought I had to prove something to my family, but then quickly realised that I am leaving one pack of wolves - my family of course - to walk into another - this industry!I swore to myself then, that I would encourage and support any other makeup artist along my journey and not be like her. I would like to believe that I stayed true to that to some extent. Whatever she had told me did place some doubt in my heart. Just as a precaution I thought I better apply somewhere and work part time at least. So I applied at MAC cosmetics, who had actually rejected me. They then gave me a call a few months later and asked if I could cover during their busy christmas period. Once I started at MAC, they kept me on and I worked for them for another 3 years. They even offered me the managerial position, the irony.

During the three years at MAC, I was so unsure and so confused in what direction I wanted to go in. It was a part time position, so it didn’t pay well, and I was desperately trying to freelance on the weekends. I would get a client once every few months, who wouldn’t pay me much. Without a car, without a proper makeup trolley, it was agony carrying my suitcase up and down underground staircases and holding onto it with my dear life during packed train journeys. I can assure you, it was not a pleasant experience at all.I tried being part of short movies, worked with the National Portrait Gallery, the Arcadia group (who own Topshop, Dorothy Perkins etc.), fashion shows for Nintendo, and even a shoot for British Airways. But all were unpaid and definitely got me nowhere except for a few phone pictures to add to my Facebook Page.

I would come home after a long day of standing and lugging my suitcase around, and my parents would look at me with judgemental eyes wondering why a science graduate who landed a very well paid job in a huge marketing company, would give it all up to do makeup on people for minimum wages and be treated like a servant?I honestly never ever regretted my decision. Yes it was tough not making money, and spending all my earnings on building a better makeup kit or on my travel, but it gave me life; it brought me happiness, it made me want to get out of bed, and it definitely distracted me from my anti depressants and suicidal thoughts. Being a makeup artist brought me back to life.

In 2013, I quit MAC and took the brave decision to go self employed. I registered my company officially. My freelance work had picked up, and I wanted to free my weekends from working in retail. I wanted to explore more and try out new things.I still remember I had hit 10K followers on Instagram after joining in 2012 and more and more people started to get to know me around the world. Instagram opened up a lot of doors for me.Having lived in Germany most of my childhood, my parents were ok with me travelling to Europe for bridal jobs because I was able to stay with family. I think I was the first Tamil makeup artist back then who travelled to neighbouring countries for work. That was probably one of the best decisions I had made. Travelling around Europe and doing makeup got me exposed a lot more and people who were not on social media knew of my existence. 

And as per usual I would still collaborate and work for free with anyone who contacted me. I wanted to get out there and try everything new. During exactly one of these collabs, I was asked to come early morning one day, to do makeup on a male model for a music video shoot. When I arrived that Monday morning I nearly fainted at the sight of Simbu, a very famous Tamil Actor. I was getting my station ready when the makeup artist who was hired for the entire movie did end up coming for this music video shoot. I was gutted. I thought I won’t get a chance to work with him and was prepared to pack up and leave. But the organiser was adamant that I stay and help out. I asked the makeup artist if I could do touch up makeup at least for a few scenes, and she kindly let me. The pictures I took of that moment went viral in South India, and that was the first time people in India started following my work on social media or even knew of my existence.It was also the first time a lot of makeup artists noticed me and can I just say they were not happy with this newbie getting to work with celebrities. 

It got worse in 2014 when I was asked to do makeup for another famous Actress, Sneha, for a Wedding Exhibition. To be honest I was very overwhelmed. I did not think I was cut out for the job and kept asking the organisers why not pick some of the more experienced makeup artists. I really was not ready for such a big job. I wasn’t confident.However, the organiser told me that out of all the profiles she had sent Sneha, Sneha herself picked me. That was all I needed. I spoke to Sneha on the phone a week before her arrival, and met her a few days before the show, to discuss the looks and make sure she was happy with everything.Working with her will forever be one of my most cherished moments in my career. She believed in me and trusted me. However a lot of people were absolutely angry at the thought of me doing makeup on someone as famous as her. They could not comprehend that someone as inexperienced, nor established as myself would bag in a job like this. I did understand their disappointment, but was sad that no one seemed to want to support me. 

Later that same year, I was asked if I was interested in being a production assistant for two songs from the movie Nanbenda; it was a Red Giant Production acting Udhayanidi and Nayanthara, line produced by Kavino from MYA Media. Of course I know nothing about production, but did not want to turn down this opportunity, so took 9 days off and decided to help out. The shoot took place all over Great Britain with a huge budget and an experience of a life time. I got to personally work with Nayanthara and saw what happened behind the scenes. I made great friends during that shoot, even had the responsibility of finding a castle and two horses for one scene, but went home having to deal with a divorce. Even though career-wise 2014 was a great year for me, but on a personal level I had to deal with a lot of heart ache. And no, it had nothing to do with my career, it was simply bad timing. 

The following few years just had me on a rollercoaster to be honest. I tried numerous new things; being a TV host, a judge for dance competitions and beauty peagants, modelling, acting in commercials which never made it on TV, makeup for adverts, short films, magazine shoots, editorials, none were paid of course, until I found a new love for teaching.

I started teaching one-to-one tutorials in 2014 and remember I couldn’t even get two students that December. The following year it grew to 10 students, and in 2016 I had back to back students who were willing to pay whatever I quoted. That I when I made the decision of doing a Masterclass after seeing Mario (Kim Kardashian’s Makeup Artist) do these around the US. I had no guidelines nor knew how to start. Masterclasses were unheard of in our community. I was the first.I hired a small gallery space, and rented 20 chairs. I had my cousins and friends help me set up and we bought a Kettle and paper cups to serve tea and coffee for everyone. I thought the day went so well, and absolutely enjoyed the teaching, to get a call at the end of that day from my mum crying down the phone telling me that our house got robbed. Well we quickly found out that nothing was actually stolen, but the house just go trashed. A lot of us that night stayed up thinking someone did not want me to do these classes. My high ended with such a low, and got worse when I woke up to a lot of emails from our students complaining about numerous things in regards to my Masterclass. Today, I have taught 16 classes all over the world now with as many as 80 students, and for renowned makeup brands such as Bobbi Brown and Nars Cosmetics. So don’t ever let anyone or anything stop you from what you love and what you are meant to do.

Anyway, the following years have definitely been the best; from campaign shoots for Pothys, being flown out around the world for Bridal jobs, being a panelist and being a Keynote speaker for American Express, working with South Indian Movie celebrities Amy Jackson, Bharathirajah, the beautiful Sneha again, and Meena, being in charge of Makeup for Anirudh’s Concert in London and Paris, interviewed on mental health and published in Huffington Post, and my YouTube journey with my Saree draping video amassing nearly 6 million views. I know this is not work related but me marrying the most amazing human being in New York almost 3 years ago definitely was a huge benefactor in my career too. Happiness does wonders, I tell you.

Either way, none of it came easy. Yes it was hard work, but no one ever publicly or openly talks about the politics and the drama that happen in the industry behind closed doors. How not only do you have to deal with your nerves when working on a big project but you probably have to pray all day that no one tries to sabotage this opportunity for you; that no one talks to the organiser and pays them off to drop you last minute (has happened to me countless times), and hope that no one talks behind your back and invents rumours about you. The best rumour was that my ex husband left me because I was having a relationship with Simbu apparently. When my Bride told me that, my answer was “I wish”. We had such a laugh that day.

My last 10 years taught me so much. I grew on a professional and personal level. I think maturity and experience has helped me deal with a lot of it, and face a lot of it.I have some amazing friends also who are in the same field as me, and I have never stopped encouraging, teaching, or inspiring others who are entering this industry. I want to be that someone I never had 10 years ago. Jealousy, competitiveness, and hate does nothing but destroy. It ruins, and it causes nothing but pain. Fame can be another culprit too. It’s great to want to grow on social media, but do not lose your morals, values, and principles along the way. Once you lose respect, it is very hard to earn it back.

How does one deal with all of this? I used to wonder why some people were so horrible, but then gave up trying to figure out what their reasons were. I still get hate or have situations were other makeup artists try and make it very difficult for me, but the first step was to block a lot of words and people on social media. Of course we want to be liked, and we want to be a good person and set a good example, but do we really need to prove something to someone who does not know you nor like you? No matter what line of business you are, there is going to be competition. There is going to be people around you who are going to watch you like a hawk and copy every single thing that you do. But let that be a positive thing. Let that challenge you to do better, and be better, and get outside of your comfort zone. Focus on your own path and cut out anything or anyone who stresses you out or causes negativity. It really is as simple as that.Comparing yourself to others is the worst thing you could do to yourself. Insecurities do not get you anywhere. Have the right people around you who feed your soul with positivity and happiness. And definitely stay away from those who like to gossip about others in the industry. Never healthy I tell you. Trust me, I have been there, done that.

My testimony is to help you see the non-glamorous side of my job, but also see how it has never been easy and still isn’t for any of us. In 2007 I tried to take my life. If anyone had told me then, that in 2020 I will be writing a blog about how to deal with negativity, I would have laughed in their face. But here I am today, doing what I love, loving life, and not being the slightest bit deterred by the few who will always try and bring you down. I have an amazing support system of family and friends, and there are hundreds of thousands of you who support me, so surely that has to count for something too. I am so ready to take on the next decade. Are you?