#after having read some books on the middle ages and now seeing this art in context i finally feel like i Get it

[itmightrain]

Saw a cool cathedral today (Aarhus, Denmark)

[art]

Creator Spotlight: @tinypaint

My name is Michelle Fus. I’m a Jewish, non-binary artist. I graduated from the School of Visual Arts for Computer Art and Animation in 2011. I’ve interned at Pixar and worked for a few years at Dreamworks Animation. Over the past ten years, I’ve self-published two books and have run three successful Kickstarters. I now work with Skybound (The Walking Dead, Invincible) in developing my webcomic, Ava’s Demon, as a physical book series for stores. I like hiking, cultivating plants, caring for my cats, and hanging out with my beautiful husband. You can read my webcomic at avasdemon.com.

Check out our interview with Michelle below!

How did you get your start in art, and more specifically, with Ava's Demon?

I’ve always been into art since I was very young. I started to gravitate towards it in first grade, where we were required to keep a daily journal. I found myself drawing in it more than actually keeping entries. From there, I got more and more interested in honing my skills as an artist. I started making my own comics for fun. I signed up for classes outside of school and put together a portfolio for the School of Visual Arts, where I majored in Computer Art and Animation. After getting my first job in the field, I realized that it wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life. After working my day job, I would come home and work towards building a career in comics for myself by creating and uploading my webcomic, Ava’s Demon.

What is one habit you find yourself doing a lot as an artist?

Looking things up to learn more before I make art or write. For instance, how many livable planets are in a Galaxy? What does a black hole actually look like, and can it give off light? How long would it actually take to travel through space if you had the fastest ship possible? I look up all of these things and then ignore most of them for the sake of writing a fun story and making fun art.

From idea to final piece, how long does it take for you to create something?

It depends on the feeling I want to convey. Sometimes I’ll work for a whole week on a drawing and then delete it because I just don’t feel good about it. Other times I’ll make something in a day that I absolutely love from beginning to end. Some drawings I never delete nor finish, and instead, the files just kind of sit in a folder. The time it takes varies a lot.

Over the years as an artist, what were your biggest inspirations behind your creativity?

I really love good stories. So movies and books with captivating stories usually motivate and inspire me; stories that stay with you permanently, with twists and turns that you can’t stop thinking about. I also love finding characters whose struggles I can deeply relate to. I try to hold onto those feelings and emulate them through my art.

What is the hardest part of your process?

Actually finishing a drawing. The anxiety of it piles on me sometimes. I’ll work for a while on a drawing and constantly ask myself, “Is this drawing really finished? What terrible things about it am I not seeing?”. My desire to avoid making something terrible can sometimes put me in a mental prison where I keep chipping away at a drawing until I no longer know what I am looking at.

What is one interaction you had from a fan of yours that has stuck with you over the years?

In general, I like letting young artists in middle school, and high school know that I wasn’t very good at art at their age (I really wasn’t, I didn’t have the same resources they have now, and I didn’t have any perspective on what it takes to have a career in art, it’s a different world). Kids have come to me at conventions with their work for critique and advice, and I have to tell them that they’re already miles ahead of what I could make at their age. I have to tell them that it’s okay if they can’t make what all the professionals make online, to know that they have SO much time ahead of them to work at what they love. If you love making art, do it often, study art throughout history, and over time you’ll be able to create everything your heart desires.

What is something other people find hard to draw that you find enjoyable?

I have no idea. Sometimes it feels like drawing anything is suffering, even if you like what you’re making.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

@loish has been consistently inspiring me since my days in high school. Every new painting has so much grace and power and is so excellent to look at. Her skill in shape and form seems limitless, and I hope to someday achieve even a small fraction of her understanding of art. Seeing her new work on my timeline also makes my dopamine spike, so I’m always looking forward to updates from her.

Thank you so much for stopping by and sharing, Michelle! Be sure to check out their Tumblr blog over at @tinypaint and follow their webcomic, Ava’s Demon, over at avasdemon.com.

[imponderabillia]

David Sylvian - Perspectives (Polaroids 82-84)

”In the early part of 1982 I had, for numerous reasons, decided to take a rest from songwriting. This was to be the first break I had had since I’d started as a child at the age of 12. It was therefore not surprising that to relieve the subsequent frustration caused by this action, I turned to the only other creative outlet I’d known, and which had been my main preoccupation until my discovery of music, drawing.

The freshness brought on by this change, the naive pleasure of working and learning in a virtually unexplored area for me opened many doors.

Not least of which being my new found appreciation of the world of the arts. Drawings, paintings, sculpture, ceramics, a universe of creativity which had always been hidden from me, suddenly came to life. I had of course been aware of works by various famous artists before, but although I was able to appreciate a lot of what I had inadvertently seen, I had never felt anything emotionally from the work in the way that I could quite naturally feel from music.

Now all was changed. I first realised this whilst visiting a major exhibition by a painter living and working here in England, Frank Auerbach. The depth and intensity of emotion I experienced surpassed anything I had felt in music for a very long time, if at all. I explain this because through these and various other similar experiences my outlook on life and work changed (or maybe matured would be more appropriate) at quite a dramatic pace. In the midst of these changes came my first attempts at Polaroid montage.

It was during a visit to Hong Kong, one of the stops towards the end of a rather lengthy tour, that I first started working with Polaroid film. As was my routine throughout the tour, I would return to my hotel after the day’s performance and there I would stay for the remainder of the evening, reading and drawing sketches. On our arrival in Hong Kong we found ourselves with a day free. However, having been there fairly recently, and not having particularly enjoyed the place, I decided to spend the day at the hotel, and among other things write some letters and complete some rawings. By evening, having filled all the paper space available with notes and sketches and wishing to continue working on ideas formed while drawing, I turned to the only materials available to me at that time, the Polaroids. This is how it started and so it has continued since, constantly developing, trying to find different uses for the same materials, and when a new technique shows itself using it to the advantage of creating interesting photographs/pictures. I feel I must point out that although looking back I know there were other artists working with Polaroids in the same, or similar areas as myself (most notable of these being D. Hockney), at this time (the remaining months of ’82) I was working totally by means of self-discovery as I had no other possible guides. I gradually became more aware of the work of others towards the middle of ’83. Sometimes consciously (and I hope with humour) I place references in my work to that of others.

Prior to my work with the SX-70, my interest in photography was to be found in areas of concept and design. I never intended or expected to become personally involved in photography, indeed even now my knowledge of the practical side of the art is extremely limited. For this reason and also because of the nature of the work I do, I would not begin to think of myself as a photographer. I have far too much respect for the people who spend a large part of their lives working with the camera (Brassai, Kertesz, Riboud, Benton, McBean and Ray) and who give true meaning to the word.

I do not see the work in this book as an end in itself. Essentially I believe that there are only a handful of pictures I have produced which transcend the techniques used and show a possibility of standing up to time. The remainder are either very personal pictures and ‘or show and explore germs of ideas which may be followed up in the future by work in other mediums.

My experimenting with Polaroids is about at an end. Although I’m still working with the techniques I’ve developed in an attempt to produce pictures of a more lasting quality. I’ll soon be turning my interests to new areas, using, along with new ideas, the more valuable I have learnt from working with Polaroids."

[faithfromanewperspective]

gotta say it now bc i've been spending so much time in the 5sos fandom where we're all super protective of our creators: I know supporting an author isn't the same. I know cassie doesn't put herself out there in the same way as zillennial musicians. and I know there are things people in the fandom disagree with her on and I'm not here to minimise that.

but everywhere I interact with the fandom and it's been like this for years now, jokes and things about how old we'll be when the series is finished and yeah it's funny to some extent but as someone who knows what pressure to create does to me, who knows how much it dries my creativity, she's on tumblr. she's seeing some of this. and we gotta tow this line and be careful: careful as to how we're treating her and also careful for the sake of fans ourselves--we don't want to be acting in ways that incidentally result in content being delayed and lower quality because she's been burnt out for ages and we're just giving so much pressure to read twp, read tbvotd and read whatever else she'll doubtless come up with after because she loves the shadowhunters world, she always ends up writing more for it even when she says she won't. and aren't we lucky for that? we love the tsc universe. and if we're old by the time it's all finished, that's the result of her loving this universe she created so much that she just kept writing for it. it's a blessing.

and maybe i sound like an aussie who grew up under a rock in the middle of the bush (which I am) saying this but. when my only queer representation was a singular jacqueline wilson book until i was 14 and read malec's story in tmi, when i've never seen another author portray such a diverse range of realistic neurodivergent characters, when i'm a half white poc with grandparents from borneo which is partially in indonesia and magnus is indonesian, I do find in myself some appreciation for her: the author who created a world of characters I see myself in and I do hope she's okay and I want her to recover from burnout, I know how much it sucks, and it still kinda baffles me how she'll share bits and pieces of her mental health experiences (and she's my parents' age!! and a lot more emotionally aware than most gen x's I know which I so appreciate) and we don't, largely, as a fandom, seem to care. like i get we're in a fandom for the characters and stories she created not her, herself, but like ???

I love seeing the artist behind the art they create. I love it when they're human and imperfect and yet we can still see the good in them that they put out to impact the world with, a legacy, and when we see their imperfections and we can acknowledge this all together, acknowledge and come together for the fans who have been hurt by these mistakes, oversights, harmful views, that are mixed in with the good. and I love it when we can still come together after this and be like, I support this creator, I want them to be okay, I want them to keep discovering love and I want to see it in their writing. and this I don't think should only apply to conventionally attractive twentysomething men who sing! maybe i'm biased in the observation that it is usually where I see the most artist support. or maybe it's actually a trend and as feminists, as people who see our dignity in more than being fuckable and more than being Perfect Leaders, we can do better.

and so i don't care when the wicked powers come out. i'll have finished my masters' degree before I finish that book series and hear the rest of kit and ty's story i started reading in high school. but that's okay. if that's what it takes to get a good story. i don't care when we get the final tec book, even though i've got two copies of the other two on my bookcase and don't know if the cover art will even be the same when the third one comes out. because we love pretty timely things but we're not owed them. and I have to say, this isn't completely true. I do care. I do want to know. I do want to experience that joy. but much more than that I want cassie to write at her own pace and I want her to enjoy it and I want her to keep discovering her own creativity and the proof is honestly in the pudding that every artist I've seen decide to do things at their own rate has ended up way more productive than before they decided that. and artists are people after all. it's what makes their art so good and forms the basis for the fandoms we're in. so I hope she knows it's okay to take her time.

[separatist-apologist]

Straight To My Head

I want to be where you are

Summary: All Nesta wants is to live outside of London in peace. She would like nothing more than days filled with books and quiet- a dream made impossible by the Scotsman determined to relive past battle glories on her front lawn

Big thanks to @dustjacketmusings who gave me the idea of LARP-ing Cassian, and @the-lonelybarricade for being my UK consultant once again.

Part 1/2: I Want To Be Where You Are | Read AO3

Six months before:

“Your Uncle Rupert has died.”

Nesta didn’t bother looking up from her book, despite how terribly rude it was to read at the dinner table. Beside her, Feyre was scrolling through her phone, a frown pinching her face. It left only Elain to set her spoon neatly against a folded napkin and ask, “Uncle Rupert?”

“He was your mothers uncle,” their father replied, drawing both Nesta and Feyre’s attention toward him. He looked absurd in his polo get up, an aging man trying desperately hard to fit in. He reminded her of the girls from school and their lack of personality outside of whatever the latest trend was. It was all terribly boring. 

And so was he. 

“Oh. How terribly tragic,” Elain, ever dutiful, waited to see if there was anything else expected of her. Nesta knew Elain well, and though she was far too polite to ever show it, she cared just as little as Feyre and Nesta did. 

“He’s left you girls an inheritance,” their father continued, drawing a soft sigh of annoyance from Feyre. 

“Oh?” Elain questioned, examining her immaculate nails that held the garishly ugly diamond Graysen had given her. Nesta was biding her time, certain her younger sister would realize was a dull, preening asshole he was and call it off…but just in case, Nesta also intended to throw Elain an intervention under the guise of a bachelorette party. 

She had time. At least a year.

Maybe more, depending on what this inheritance was.

“Castles. Three castles—one for each of you.”

“Why would he do that?” Feyre asked bluntly, echoing both Nesta and Elain’s thoughts. Their father only shrugged.

“Perhaps he was hoping to elevate the three of you.”

Nesta scoffed. Of course their father would think so. All he cared about was more. More money, more power—more than they could ever need, could ever use. Nesta wanted no part of it. 

“Where are these castles, exactly?” Nesta asked, finally setting her book down to look him dead in the face. 

“I think I’ll turn mine into a bed and breakfast,” Elain murmured, eyes shining as she mentally began planning.

“You don’t even know where it is,” Feyre interrupted. “What if it's crumbling? What if it’s in the middle of nowhere or what if it’s filled with ghosts. What if—”

“Feyre,” Elain interrupted, eyes wide. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure we weren’t given the crumbling wreckage of some haunted estate.”

Now:

Famous last words. 

Nesta often thought of Elain’s certainty. While Feyre and Elain began remodeling, Nesta hadn’t needed to. Of the three, hers was in the best condition, though it needed a heating source outside of fireplaces, and she’d used the money their uncle had also left for renovations to revamp the electric.

After that, Nesta had wasted all of the rest of that obscene allowance on furniture and art, furnishings for the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the kitchen—and the library. Nesta had poured so much time and attention into her library that some nights she fell asleep in the oversized white chair just beside the window. 

She’d never imagined herself anywhere but London.

Now she was certain she’d never go back. She’d fallen in love with the solitude, with the Scottish Highlands and the town that existed at the base of the hillside her castle had been built upon. It was as old as the stones themselves, and the people were far nicer than anyone in London on their best day. 

Nesta would often walk down the steep pathway where she’d have lunch in the little tavern and buy a book at the shop, which was well-stocked with romance, before making her way to the loch where she’d fall asleep on a blanket, reading the new book she’d purchased. 

It was exactly like one of her stories.

Save for him, of course.

All books needed a romantic hero. A man who was both handsome and interesting. Cassian MacDougall was certainly the first—at least six foot five and built like a warrior of old, with dark brown hair that hung against broad shoulders, and hazel eyes that were more brown than green. 

Not that Nesta was paying that much attention. Not of the closely trimmed beard against the sharp cut of his jaw. Certainly not of his tattooed arms and chest, which were often bare, his golden brown skin gleaming with sweat given he so often forewent a shirt. He did wear a kilt—a red and blue plaid that offered a rather nice view of his muscled knees.

The problem with Cassian was his personality. Before she’d moved in, Cassian had taken to staging loud battles on her front lawn—it was, apparently, the sight of a very famous Scottish victory in some long forgotten battle against the English. 

Nesta had merely asked him to stop doing it so close to her window. She wasn’t even unreasonable the first time. 

Could you move further down the hill? She’d asked him, intimidated by his largeness, by how obscenely handsome he was.

He’d shot her a grin, and then turned to his friends. “Did ye hear that, lads?! The Englishwoman wants us to clear out!”Everyone had laughed, and Nesta had been humiliated. 

Now it was a battle of the wills between them. The nearby town of Killin was swarmed with tourists during the Spring and Summer months, and Cassian made some of his money by taking tourists on a trip through Scottish history—or so Emerie, the woman who owned the local grocery store, had told Nesta. Spring had officially arrived just that morning, and Nesta was wholly unprepared for the sounds of violence wafting through the open windows. 

She was going to kill him. It wasn’t even eight in the morning. Rising from her chair in the empty dining room table, Nesta marched through the quiet halls of her castle. Had her uncle known about this when he’d given her this cursed place? Had she angered him once when she’d been a child?

Nesta didn’t know how to reconcile her love of her home with her hatred of Cassian. He was just as willful, just as stubborn, and perhaps worst of all, determined to push her out. 

She’d embarrass him right back. She swore she would. If he’d taken money from people and led them up here, she’d ruin his reputation on Yelp, too. She’d read them—just to know how best to ruin him—and everyone liked Cassian. 

Everyone but her.

He was there, in his kilt and a sword and, mercifully, a breezy white shirt. He’d brought all his friends with him, some dressed in the stuffy red and white uniforms that had once belonged to the English. They had bayonets attached to guns, none of it sharp enough to wound, and somehow, someone had managed to roll a replica cannon onto the immaculate grass. 

She froze, heart hammering at the sheer scale of what was happening—it was fake, and yet her brain and body reacted as though it were real. Not far from her, an Englishman fell to the ground with a groan, clutching at this chest before going utterly silent. 

Nesta couldn’t take her eyes off him. Memories of her mothers death flooded through her, as vivid as the battle raging around her. No one else had been in the room when her mother took those last, rattling breaths but Nesta, who had been only eleven. Nesta had spent those six months caring for their mother while she fell victim to aggressive, incurable cancer. Back then, she hadn’t understood that it would take far more than her love and devotion to save her mother. 

Elain and Feyre had been too young to take on that burden, and their father too buried and work and grief. It left only Nesta to witness death, to be there in the final last moments. 

She’d refused to speak about it, and rarely allowed herself to even think about death. Something had solidified that day, had become hard and Nesta’s will was unbreakable.

And right then, in the early morning sun, she felt it fracture. Just a little, just enough to empty out her mind. Nesta forgot why she’d gone out in the first place, or what she was doing until warm, strong hands lifted her up in the air and began moving her.

A breath of fear wooshed out of her, palms slapping against a muscular back. Cassian—his shirt plastered to his sweat soaked skin—was carrying her across the grounds as he announced, “And we’d take any English lass for our own!” 

Revulsion flooded through her. 

“Put me down!” she ordered, afraid he was going to accidentally flash a crowd of tourists with her underwear. 

Cassian did as he was told, grinning ear to ear. “Everyone applaud for Lady Nesta. She’s a good sport, playing the part of stuffy English broad.”

Tourists in fanny packs, Hawaiian shirts, and thick socks to their knees, offered her a round of polite clapping. She’d come here to humiliate him, and as he so often did, it was Cassian who’d gained the upper hand. Nesta tried to turn, to leave him there, but his hand shot around her waist, holding her firmly against him. 

He rattled off battle facts for a solid ten minutes, fingers digging against the fabric of her blue maxi dress. It was only when he finished, and one of his friends began herding people toward the path that Cassian turned to face her.

Nesta’s heart raced. “What do ye think ye’re doing?” he demanded, dropping his hand as though she disgusted him. 

“Me?” she replied, adopting an imperiously cold tone in order to mask her own fear. “This is my home, Cassian.”

He scoffed. “For how long, Nes?”

She hated when he called her that. Hated the familiar, intimate nickname of the fact he’d given her one at all. No one had ever dared. 

“Excuse me?” she demanded.

He flinched as if she’d slapped him. “How long,” he repeated, enunciating his words with that faux British accent she hated. He was forever mocking her. “How long before you pack up and move out? Another couple months?”

“I’ll be here forever,” Nesta hissed, hoping he believed her. “I’ll be chasing your children off this lawn one day.”

Cassian’s laugh was humorless. “Oh, I believe ye will. I hope ye’re ready for that. I intend tae be prolific.”

“You’d have to find a willing woman, first,” she replied, holding his stare. “And from what I’ve seen, they don’t find you charming. I wonder why that is?”

“So concerned about my bedroom habits, are ye?”

She’d kill him. “What’s to be concerned about? A man in love with his hand is terribly common.”

Cassian took a step toward her, staring down his nose. He was terribly handsome, a brutal prince with that scar slashed over his thick eyebrow and those eyes that she swore saw right through her.

“If ye want to know what I’m like in bed, ye only have to ask.”

“I don’t fuck animals,” Nesta snapped, praying he couldn’t tell how quickly her heart was beating. She turned, not daring to continue this conversation. It was far too dangerous. 

Nesta made it all of two steps before his fingers curled around her wrist, turning her so roughly she stumbled into his chest. Nesta inhaled without thinking, drinking the scent of snow capped wind and cedar and the way the sun smelled against the salt of his skin.

She reached with her free hand and slapped him as hard as she could, right against his jaw. 

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she ordered. Cassian’s eyes widened, dropping her as he reached for the blooming mark of red against his skin. 

Nesta marched off, though it hardly felt like victory. She was certain she’d lost far more than just her side of that argument. Cassian’s booming laughter chased her back in doors, where Nesta remained even after he returned that afternoon. 

She couldn’t face him.

And she certainly couldn’t face herself—or her memories.

-*-

“I heard a rumor about ye,” Emerie called as Nesta browsed the shelves of her shop. 

“Oh?” Nesta replied, putting a bag of pasta in her little shopping basket.

“I heard Cassian made ye part of his reenactment last week.”

A groan slipped from Nesta before she could stifle it. “Bragging, is he?”

Emerie’s laugh was a pretty sound. “Of course. He’s tae stupid to realize the reason ye bother him so much is because he has a crush on ye. Like a schoolboy tugging on yer braids.”

“Gross,” Nesta responded. Though, Emerie had grown up with Cassian. Surely she could shed light on why he was so…so…Cassian? “Why is he single?”

Emerie’s brown eyes danced with delight. “Thinking about him, tae?”

“Nope. Just curious, that’s all.”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t be curious? Maybe ye should ask him. I’m sure he’d tell ye all about it…maybe over candlelight and—”

“Okay, that’s quite enough,” Nesta grumbled to more laughter. She collected the rest of her groceries while Emerie filled her in on gossip that didn’t center around Cassian, before bidding her a good day. Nesta had never had true friends, and wasn’t sure if Emerie could even be counted as one. She might have, if Nesta could muster the courage to ask her to do something—anything. 

But she couldn’t. So Nesta left knowing a little more about the people of Killin and the sense that some of her loneliness was self-imposed. She couldn’t even pretend it was her mothers death that had made her cold. Even as a child, no one had wanted to play with her. None of the other children liked her. 

“Ah, mo chridhe,” Cassian called, jogging up the path that led from the edge of the village toward the castle. “I’ve been looking for ye.”

“I can’t see why,” Nesta sniffed, even as Cassian pulled her heavy canvas bag filled with her groceries and slung it over his broad shoulder. “Do you intend to hold my groceries hostage, too?”

“I’ve come to talk with ye,” he replied, one hand thrown up in defense. “About business.”

“I have no business with you.”

“C’mon, Nes,” he pleaded, drawing her attention toward him. “I’ve been staging battles at Killin Castle for five years now.”

“There is land all around you, Cassian. Surely you can move it.”

“Aye, I could, but the castle adds a certain majesty. And it allows me tae charge more—hold on, don’t look at me like that. I’ll give ye a percentage for your trouble.”

“Fifty percent.”

“Take my fucking balls too,” he grumbled. “Thirty.”

“Thirty percent of your total profits just so you can pretend to kill the English on my lawn?” Nesta asked, arching a brow. 

“Forty if ye let me haul you off again.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine. Thirty it is, then. In exchange, ye’ll leave me be while I’m working—”

“And you’ll stay further away from the windows,” Nesta replied, pausing to both catch her breath and stare him down. Cassian didn’t seem winded at all, lovely beneath a waning sun.

“Fine.”

“And I want a schedule,” she said, hands on her hips.

“Anything else? My fucking cock and balls on a silver tray, tae?”

“You can keep those,” she sniffed, not wanting to think of either. Cassian didn’t protest, didn’t offer her a filthy remark. He was grinning, as if he’d gotten everything he wanted. Nesta hated to see him so happy.

“This is time limited, Cassian. Just until the summer is over. And then I want you gone. Out of my life.”

“It’s a small town, Nes,” he replied with mock solemnity. “I cannae leave.”

“You can avoid me.”

“What makes ye think I’d want that?”

Having reached the top of the hill, and the end of her patience, Nesta reached for her bag. Cassian pulled just out of reach, eyes searching her own. She didn’t like the look of contemplation on his face, or how serious he’d suddenly become. 

“What about what I want, Cassian? Which is peace, and a moment free of the chaos you drag with you.”

“Ye might like it, mo chridhe.”

Nesta glared. “We could have had an amicable relationship months ago. This is all we have now, Cassian. Give me my things.”

He handed her the bag with a rueful smile. “It’s a pleasure working with ye.”

“If only I could say the same, Cassian.”

He merely grinned, which annoyed her more. She took off, daring only once to glance over her shoulder. Cassian remained at the top of the hill, his dark hair blowing around his face while he watched her. He raised a hand in a wave, one Nesta did not return. She didn’t trust this new, helpful Cassian.

Whatever angle he was working would only hurt her if she chose to believe it.

Nesta had learned that lesson with Tomas not a year before.

Nesta wasn’t going to learn it again. 

-*- 

The thing about Cassian, Nesta learned, was that he woke early. He scheduled his mock battles every day at nine am like clockwork. Nesta was rarely up that early and no matter how she tried, could not fall back asleep. He’d taped his schedule to her front door rather than knock and wake her up, which detailed a seven day schedule in which he reenacted two battles monday through friday, and four on saturday and sunday. It seemed brutal, and yet when he came by, sweaty and grinning that Sunday night with a check, Nesta stopped complaining. 

If that was thirty percent, no wonder Cassian had been adamant about continuing. Nesta tucked it away, strangely uncomfortable with taking his money. All through spring, Cassian faithfully left money in the little mailbox, and from April to June, Nesta did her very best to avoid him entirely. 

She was avoiding everyone. Even herself. Most days, Nesta left her phone uncharged so she didn’t have to see the incoming messages from Elain. Elain, planning her wedding and somehow managing to deal with what seemed like an incredibly irritable tenant of the castle she’d been left, still checked in. Still asked after her—still wanted to know what had happened to chase Nesta out of London so abruptly.

The joke about becoming a bog witch had never meant to shape her reality. Sometimes she wondered if Elain hadn’t heard. If she didn’t know about Tomas, what he’d said.

What he’d tried to do. 

As the weather warmed, and more people flooded into the town, Nesta retreated further into the castle where no one could see her. The mere idea of going out filled Nesta with trembling fear. There was too much left to chance, too much chaos and in response, Nesta found herself practically eating in the library. It was the only place that felt safe anymore.

That. And somehow, Cassian, who’d begun knocking on the front door to offer her up money.

She made her way through the open grand hall, eyeing cobwebs clinging to the overhead chandelier. She needed to find someone who could do some cleaning for her.

Nesta pulled open the old, iron handle to find Cassian, his hair half pulled off his head in a messy bun. He was in his kilt, a stable given how often he played the battle warrior, though it was paired with a plain black t-shirt that showed off both his bulging biceps and his collarbone, teased by the little vee just in the front.

“For ye,” he said, holding out an envelope. As she reached for it, Cassian ducked around her, stepping onto the stone floor. He whistled with appreciation.

“I’ve always wondered what this place looked like.” “It looks like a castle,” Nesta replied, the door still open. “Get out.”

Cassian looked her over. “Are ye eating up here?”

“How is that any of your concern?” she asked, hating how her cheeks warmed under his appraisal.

“Emerie said ye aren’t coming down as often. She’s worried about ye, asked me tae check in. I’m checking, Nes. You look tired.”

“You wake me up early,” she replied, though they both knew that wasn’t it.

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Did something happen?”

“Nope. I’m perfectly fine. I’ll see Emerie—”

“Why not let me buy ye something tae eat?” he suggested. “At tae Ensnaring Snake. A pint and something else? Whatever ye want.”

“I don’t need your charity, Cassian. I can have a drink without your leering presence.”

“Ah, but what fun would it be without me?” he asked, a roguish grin on his face. “Come down. Even if ye ignore me the entire time.”

There was no way.

“Unless,” he added casually, unaware of how her heart thudded in her throat. “Ye’re scared.”

“I’m not scared!” Nesta snapped. “Now get out, Cassian!”

“Anything, mo chridhe,” he replied, all but sauntering out. She might have believed his swaggering, male bravado, had he not turned to look at her with those worried eyes. It prompted her, once the door was slammed shut in his face, to go up to the bathroom. She supposed she had gotten a little thinner…and the circles beneath her eyes had become far more pronounced. She was paler, too, though she could blame that on avoiding the sun. Nesta couldn’t remember the last time she’d drank any water.

Or eaten a vegetable.

She showered, braiding her hair in a crown around her head like she so often did. Her hands shook as she buttoned up a pale purple dress and laced up her shoes. She couldn’t bring herself to put on make-up, or do anything else that might draw attention to herself. 

You’re so fuckint hot, Nesta. You know it, don’t you, with those eyes—those tits—

Nesta wanted to scream. Hand frozen on the handle, she almost turned around. Tomas’s voice, the feel of him pressed against her, how he’d—no. She took a breath, cleared her throat, and marched out into the waning sunlight. There was no way Nesta would let Cassian think she was afraid of going outside.

Even if he was right.

It wasn’t the outdoors that made her nervous. It was all the people, it was the things she couldn’t control. 

By the time she made it down the hill and into the center of the village, Emerie had closed up for the day. A little handwritten note told Nesta exactly where she was. 

The Ensnaring Snake. 

It had Cassian written all over it. Still, despite how it made her palms sweat, Nesta very carefully made her way toward the tavern she’d once enjoyed eating in. Back when there was no one but familiar faces and the streets were mostly empty.

Now it was packed. Nesta pushed the door open just enough to see Cassian at the far end of he room, head thrown back with laughter at something someone at the table had said. His hair was loose, and he’d foregone the kilt for a pair of regular jeans. He looked so normal—and of course he had friends. She didn’t know why that surprised her. She didn’t know why the sight of a rather pretty blonde running her finger over his bare arm made Nesta back out of the doorway.

Why she suddenly felt so stupid. She hadn’t come for him. 

She didn’t care about him. 

“Hey!” 

Nesta ignored the male voices behind her—and the jarring, American accents that seemed so wildly out of place. Arms wrapped around her body, she meant to trudge back home and pretend none of this had happened. 

“Hey,” that voice called, dragging the sound of heavy steps over cobblestone with it. A moment later, a hand was on Nesta’s shoulder. She jumped nearly out of her skin, twisting to look at three unfamiliar faces. Each of them reeked of whiskey, and were likely looking for more fun than the village had to offer. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t touch me,” she ordered, earning snickering laughs. 

“Or what?” the first, a bleach blonde with a pair of sunglasses clipped to his t-shirt, asked. “We’re just being nice.”

“Oh? Is this considered polite, where you’re from?”

More laughter. Nesta’s heart raced even as she told herself nothing was going to happen. They were having a laugh at her expense but they’d slink off when they realized they were getting nowhere.

“We could be much more polite,” that first step, lunging forward. Nesta stumbled back, falling to the ground and bashing her elbow against the rough cobblestone. Pain ricocheted through her while her eyes smarted. More humiliation, brought low by men she hated. 

Nesta scrambled back to her feet, turning without looking at any of them.

“Aw, sweetheart, come back,” they called, laughing loudly. Nesta started to turn for the castle, thinking she’d race up the hill and lock herself up until morning came. 

But they were still behind her, trailing after her while whistling and making other little sounds with their tongues and teeth. Cassian could crest that hill without breaking a sweat, but Nesta was slow—they’d catch her.

She sped up, trying to think of where she could go. Panic was making her clumsy, was making her stupid. She should have turned around and gone back into the tavern where anyone could see. Emerie was in there, she would have helped. 

Instead, Nesta picked up her steps, hoping they’d get tired of following her when they realized she was heading out of the village. And when they didn’t—when they tried to get closer—Nesta took off running. 

They followed, their shadows jumping ahead even as the sun vanished over the hillside. Nesta could only hear her pounding feet and her nervous heart. She was heading for the loch, the absolute worst place to be given there was unlikely to be anywhere out there. Just her, a body of water, and three very drunk tourists looking to have fun at her expense. 

Nesta slowed, trying to figure out her next move.

“Tired, babe?” One of them called.

“I can think of something else that’ll tire her out,” another replied. Nesta was inching closer and closer to the dock, wondering if she could swim far enough out that they’d finally leave. Or if that was stupid, and they’d just jump in after her where she’d be well and truly fucked. 

She couldn’t go past them. Glancing over her shoulder saw the three of them walking in a solid line. They’d catch her. 

“Please stop,” one of them called, jogging after her. Nesta surged forward, her feet touching the dock before she felt those fingers on her arm again. “Why are you running?”

She wanted to die. “You’re chasing me.”

“You don’t have to run. We don’t want to hurt you,” he lied, his eyes absolutely betraying him. She’d seen that look before, had watched another man’s gaze dip below her chin, taking in her body, wondering what it would feel like to just have her, regardless of her own feelings on the matter.

“Take your hands off me.”

The other two laughed and laughed. “Or what?”

“Or—”

“Or I’ll kill ye,” came another, familiar voice. Nesta could have sobbed at the sound, had never been happier than she was just then to see Cassian strolling up, deceptively casual. He cocked his head, dark hair spilling around him as he waited.

That first man looked from Cassian to Nesta and then, with a smile that clearly said he thought Cassian was outmatched, replied, “Oh? She’s yours?”

Cassian didn’t smile. “Find out.”

Nesta was so busy watching Cassian  that she’d stopped watching the others. She didn’t see that hand shove toward her, didn’t realize he’d decided to call Cassian’s bluff until she stumbled backwards. 

She hit the water with a choked scream. She flailed for a moment, twisting around before pushing upward. The water was dark, was colder than she’d expected, though not so cold she couldn’t still think straight. 

She broke the surface a moment before she heard a splash, and then felt him, arms around her.

“Don’t hit me,” Cassian warned breathlessly.

“Where did they go?” Nesta demanded, letting Cassian drag her back to the dock. He hoisted her up effortlessly before joining her. Water sluiced off him, though he hardly seemed to notice. His eyes burned, and when he reached for her, she saw his knuckles were bloody and had begun to swell and bruise.

“They’re gone,” he said tightly. He swallowed some unnamed emotion, looking her over.

“Unharmed,” she said, resisting the urge to draw her knees up to her chest. Instead, Nesta gingerly rose to her feet, weighed down by the heavy fabric of her dress and her wounded pride. 

“I saw ye,” he said, following her up. “In the tavern. I saw ye come in and I—”

He’d followed her. Nesta might have asked him why another night. Might have berated him for thinking she’d want his attention. Instead, Nesta forced herself to take a breath.

“Will you walk me home?”

Cassian swallowed again. “Yeah. I—is this my fault, Nes?”

“No, Cassian,” she said, suddenly exhausted. 

“I was trying to rile ye up. Get ye out of that castle. I feel like…”

“It’s not your fault,” she repeated. 

It’s mine, she nearly added, though she kept it behind her teeth.

“Why didnae ye run home, mo chridhe? Why’d ye come out here?”

“The hill,” she whispered, trying so hard not to let him see how rattled she was. Cassian looked down, eyebrows raised with surprise. 

“Can I show ye something?”

And right then, Nesta would have let Cassian do anything he liked so long as he didn’t leave her.

“Sure.”

“Cassian,” Nesta began when he opened the door to the Ensnaring Snake.

“Trust me,” he replied, placing a careful hand on her bruised elbow. Inside, music and laughter flooded Nesta’s senses, and for a moment she expected him to lead her back to his table. She almost wanted him to, though she was in no mood to make conversation. It might have been nice to hear him introduce her to his friends, to sit her down and buy her that pint like he’d promised.

He wove in and out of the tables, nodding when people called his name. His touch was light—careful. Like he knew better than to do any more.

Like he knew what she didn’t like about it. 

There was no way to explain to him that his touch had never bothered her. She’d have to tell him that she noticed his eyes, how they stayed on her face. How even when he’d been surveying her that morning, he’d been looking with concern—not desire. Not lewd appreciation. And how even when Cassian was manhandling her, his hands never went anywhere inappropriate, though it would have been all too easy for him to cop a feel and play it off like an accident.

She wondered if he even realized it. 

Cassian took her around the back of the bar, pulling open an old, wooden door that clearly led to a cellar.

“Cassian,” Nesta tried again.

“Trust me,” he repeated. Nesta opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t trust him at all. But she could see his swollen knuckles from the corner of her eye, and thought of how quick he must have been to hit them hard enough to hurt himself and jump into the water after her. He hadn’t had to do either. He could have left her. Could have walked away.

So Nesta followed him down into the musty dark, wishing she could grab his arm. 

“I used tae come here when I was wee,” Cassian explained, leading her around packing boxes and crates toward another, sturdier door. “You’ll still have to go uphill, but it takes ye right to the castle.”

Nesta was still sopping wet, exhausted and wrung out. She looked up at him, wanting him to go with her. She couldn’t ask.

“Thank you,” she said instead, turning toward that dark.

“I’ll see ye up,” Cassian said gruffly.

And together, they plunged into that darkness. 

-*-

“What do you mean, married?” Nesta demanded, phone to her ear as she stomped out of the bookshop. “How can she marry a fictional man?” “He’s not fictional,” came Elain’s patient voice. “I looked him up. Rhysand Campbell is a Duke. I guess that’s why she kept such a tight lid on him back home.”“A Duke? For Feyre?!” Nesta spluttered, trying to imagine wild, carefree Feyre marrying into ancient, outdated royalty. She’d always expected that of Elain, if anyone. 

“I’m going to meet him next week, so I’ll let you know. But he seems very accomplished, and he’s quite handsome.”

“Is she sure?” Nesta asked, not thinking about her path until she was already on it. “Marriage is just so…”

She trailed off, remembering that Elain was engaged. Hell. She hadn’t meant to insult her, though the tense, following silence made Nesta think she had. “How er…how is that going?”

“I called it off,” Elain finally said, her voice strange and small. “Just yesterday.”

“Did he do something?” Nesta demanded, readjusting the blanket she was caring beneath her arm. “Because I’ll kill him—”

“It’s all handled,” Elain assured her quickly. “I don’t expect him to give me any trouble.”

“What does that mean? Handled how?” Nesta demanded. Elain was so nice it practically made her a doormat. Nesta didn’t believe for a single second that Elain had truly handled anything, and wondered if the engagement had been called off for infidelity. Graysen wouldn’t give her trouble because he’d already moved on.

“Drop it, Nesta,” Elain replied firmly. 

“Fine. But if you need help—”

“I don’t. Everything here is fine. How are you doing? Did you ever get rid of that guy role playing on your lawn?”

Nesta started to say that she and Cassian had reached a truce of sorts, which wasn’t quite the truth and not exactly a lie, either. Instead, Nesta said, “Erm…let me call you back.” Because there, in the middle of the glittering water, stood a very shirtless, possibly naked Cassian. Gleaming in the sunlight, his head tipped back so the rays might warm his face. He didn’t look real and Nesta didn’t know what to do. 

He wasn’t alone. Along the shore, children splashed and kicked up water while others floated around him, oblivious to what Nesta was seeing. She wondered what the whorling, inked tattoos on his shoulders and chest meant.

And as she wondered, her eyes drifted down the packed muscles against his ribs, toward the carved vee of his hips. Nesta could scarcely breathe, had forgotten what she was supposed to be doing until her eyes came back to his face.

He was looking at her, too. Shit eating grin etched over his handsome face, one hand raised upward to beckon her to join him.

Hell.

Nesta turned, embarrassed she’d been caught ogling him. She would not submit to any of his humiliating taunts or those burning eyes that promised far more than Nesta thought she wanted. Of course, Cassian couldn’t bask in his victory, of knowing some diseased part of her was attracted to him, despite their strange push-pull between animosity and friendship. He was behind her in a pair of bright red swim trunks and nothing else, jogging up the path while Nesta tried desperately to escape him. 

“Why are ye leaving?” he asked, running a hand through his still wet hair. “Come swim.”

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I just remembered—”

“Oh, bullshit, mo chridhe,” he replied. “There is nothing to do but sit up at that miserable stack of rocks. Swim with me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay, then do something else with me,” he replied.

“Why would I do that?” she asked, rounding on him. That was a mistake. Cassian was far closer than she thought, and when she stopped, he kept going. He kept her from tumbling backward, wrapping a slick around her and pressing her into his chest.

She hated how good it felt to touch him. To feel him hold her, to keep her close for a moment before he let her go.

“Why not?” he asked, strangely breathless. “Ye’ve been here half a year—don’t ye want friends?”

“Is that what we are?” she asked, distracted by how close he was, by how nearly naked he was. It took no effort to try and picture what the rest of him might be like…and it would have been a lie to say she wasn’t curious if all of him was large. 

“Yes?” he asked, clearly frustrated. “I thought so.”

“I don’t want to swim,” she repeated, though in truth, Nesta didn’t want to do anything with him right now. It was too risky to be alone with him. She’d touch him, she’d get on her knees and do any number of terrible, filthy things to him. Nesta couldn’t breathe. She needed to escape him. 

“Something else?” he asked, not moving an inch. His eyes were glazed over, staring right through her. Nesta blinked.

“I er…another day, Cass.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I should—” he turned abruptly. Had she upset him? Nesta watched him for a moment before she turned, too, unwilling to get caught staring at him again. Nesta didn’t allow herself to think of him at all. For the rest of the day, every time the image of him standing in the water, Nesta banished it quickly and busied herself in some other task.

Right up until night fell, and she could crawl into bed.

Only then did Nesta allow herself to think about Cassian. 

-*-

“Rhysand is missing,” Elain whispered to Nesta. Nesta, still guarding the door where Feyre was speaking with a Duke, turned to look at her sister, eyes wide.

“I’ll kill him,” Nesta hissed, biting her bottom lip.

“His friends are here,” Elain said, running through a mental list of guests. “I’ll see if they know where he is. Don’t move,” Elain added, finger in the air.

“This whole thing is a disaster,” Nesta grumbled, hating the pitying look Elain threw her. Nesta knew, realistically, that Elain had done her best with the guest list and she was terrible at telling their father no. And Elain had called ahead of time to warn Nesta that the Mandray’s had secured an invitation.

Everyone wanted to see Feyre Archeron marry a Duke. Social parasites and other hanger-oners had flooded into the lovely castle all day, marveling over the architecture and hoping to rub elbows with real royalty.

Nesta didn’t think Elain had managed to get anyone but Duke Campbell, just as she didn’t think Feyre was aware her wedding had turned into the event of the year. Nesta was desperate to avoid the majority of London, and planned to catch a ride back with Elain in the morning. Just to the train station—she’d make the rest of the way back on her own, even if she had to walk. 

There was no way she was spending a weekend with Tomas Mandray.

Elain returned, accompanied by a familiar, grinning face. “Well, well, well,” Cassian said, running his hand down a buttoned down, black shirt. He wore that red and blue kilt and black socks that came up over his knees, a sporran around his hips.

“Do you two know each other?” Elain asked.

“This is the gentleman roleplaying on my lawn,” Nesta said. The man beside him, dressed identically, though his kilt was primarily blue plaid. 

“Role-playing, Cass?” he asked.

“This is Cassian?” Elain replied, eyebrows raised to the sky.

“Have ye been talking about me?” Cassian asked Nesta with a lopsided smile. “What else does she say?”

“That you’re exceptionally obnoxious,” Elain replied, earning a laugh from the other man.

“All true,” he murmured, before adding, “Azriel.”

They were given no more time for pleasantries before Feyre emerged, flushed and practically glowing. She didn’t seem concerned that her fiancé was missing—only annoyed. Elain ordered them to split up, which Azriel did without complaint—but Cassian did not.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said just as soon as Elain and Azriel were out of earshot. “I didnae know Feyre was yer sister. I should have guessed, I supposed, given what a hard time she’s given my brother.”

“Good for her,” Nesta replied before adding, “Brother?”

“Not in tae biblical sense. Rhys and I met when he was at a posh boarding school and trying to buy whiskey on the weekend.”

“Let me guess—you sold him the whiskey.”

“Ye know me so well, mo chridhe,” he said with a grin. “Been inseparable ever since.”

“Then why is he missing?” she demanded. Cassian pulled open a closet door, revealing a mop that fell to the floor with a loud clatter. 

There was no humor on Cassian’s face as he knelt to pick it up. “He doesn’t think he’s worthy.”

Nesta didn’t know how to take that, how to possibly respond. She didn’t know any man that had ever put a woman above himself. The idea that Rhysand would have left because he thought her sister could do? better was an anomaly. Unheard of. 

“I’ll bet they’re outside,” Nesta said after a moment. Cassian caught her by the arm, holding her still.

“Maybe they don’t want tae be found just yet,” he murmured, that burning back in his eyes.

“Cass—”

“Nesta?”

She wanted to die at the sound of that voice. Those brown eyes, that sharp, sneering face and that lean body pressed into an elegant suit. Cassian turned, looking Tomas up and down with such keen awareness on his face. She could read his every expression, the oh, I understand now. 

But he didn’t.

Nesta started to inch closer to Cassian, who, of course, immediately noticed. He took her hand in his, raising it to his lips, and ghosted a kiss against her knuckles. It was so obviously a claiming and a threat, all at once.

“Hi, Tomas.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“For my sister's wedding?” she asked archly. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

Cassian raised his brows.

“Of course I am,” he replied, staring her down with those dead, soulless eyes. “Your father said I was the son he never had.”

Cassian started to take a step forward, stopped only by Nesta’s vicious squeeze of his hand. 

“He’s still so terribly disappointed by how things happened. What, exactly, did you tell him?”

Nesta wanted to die. “Nothing,” she managed, her heart pounding in her throat. Cassian watched this power struggle—did he understand what was happening? 

“We should get together the next time you’re in London,” Tomas said, eyes flicking to Cassian with distaste. As if Cassian couldn’t have broken him clean in two. As if Cassian was someone beneath him. “Carter.”

Cassian offered an edged smile. “Hackit.”

Nesta snorted, pressing her hand against her lips. Tomas narrowed his eyes, but kept moving without insulting her. Nesta imagined he, too, realized the danger Cassian presented. Even without those swollen, bloodied knuckles, Cassian looked like a man who could fight. 

“Want tae tell me what that was about?” Cassian asked the second Tomas slipped down the hall.

“Of course not,” she snapped, wrenching her hand from his. “Don’t kiss me again.”

“No? Are ye sure about that? Because I saw ye at the loch—”

“You didn’t see anything,” Nesta insisted, heart hammering. Her two worlds were colliding unforgivably. Cassian and Tomas were not supposed to exist together, and seeing Cassian, in his kilt, call Tomas ugly in his suit, had managed to tie Nesta up in knots.

“Don’t go out there,” Cassian complained when Nesta stepped onto the lawn, still rain soaked from a recent storm. “Yer gonna ruin yer dress!”

“FEYRE!” she yelled, mostly to convince Cassian to stop talking. 

“Ye cannae end every conversation ye don’t like by running off. I’m not going anywhere, mo chridhe come back—”

Cassian hauled Nesta up over his shoulder before she could take another step.

“Cassian! Put me down!”

“No,” he replied easily, walking her back to the house. “They’ll return when they’re ready.”

“Cassian,” she pleaded. He set her back to her feet, catching that note of desperation in her voice before she had to beg, though his body blocked her path further into the castle. 

“What did he do to ye, Nes?” he asked, his fingers curling to fists at his side.

“Why do you care?” she demanded, throwing her hands up in the air. 

“Of course I care!” Cassian hissed, stepping closer, until Nesta was pressed against the stone wall. 

“I don’t understand you,” Nesta breathed, swallowing hard as he drew nearer. 

“Trust me, I don’t either,” he whispered. “Will ye tell me what he did to ye?”

“Why? So you can hit him, too?”

“Oh, mo chridhe, I will do far, far worse,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to her mouth. Nesta had lost control of the situation, of this man who she didn’t even like. Who would go back to reenacting battles on her lawn, who was beloved by the town and the son of a Duke and—

“If ye won’t tell me that, tell me something else.”

Nesta’s eyes went back to his. More brown than green. “What?” 

“Tell me the truth, Nesta Archeron. Tell me ye want me just as much as I want ye.”

“I—” he caught her lips before the lie could tumble out of them, kissing her softly. One hand cupped her cheek while the other braced the wall she was pressed against. His eyes fluttered shut but Nesta kept hers open, drinking him in. He looked so wrecked, like he’d been thinking about this for a long, long time and was finally realizing it was nothing like he imagined. 

And so she kissed him back, hands at her sides while she waited for the inevitable disappointment. The realization that whatever he’d imagined didn’t live up to reality. One kiss became two, became a third and yet Cassian didn’t pull back like they so often did. He didn’t sharpen. If anything, he became softer, more desperate with each passing kiss between them. The softness of his closely trimmed beard brushed over her jaw while his thumb rubbed a soft circle over her cheek.

Give in, she swore she heard him say. Nesta wanted to—oh, she wanted to take everything he was offering so badly it made her legs shake. If he didn’t know now, he’d figure it out soon enough. Nesta was not the kind of woman men fell in love with. She’d never been that woman, and never would be. No matter how badly she wanted to be, no matter how much she wanted to believe Cassian could push through walls made of iron and find the trembling softness beneath, he was still a man.

And at some point, she’d become a game for him. Something to conquer, regardless of the tactics it took. It was that thought that convinced Nesta to finally pull back, hands planted on his chest as she shoved. 

“That’s enough,” she said, another lie he immediately caught. 

Cassian pressed a kiss to her cheek. “It’s not,” he rumbled, reaching for the back of her neck. “Ye want me to think yer made of ice, but I know better.”

“Oh? And what am I made of, Cassian?” she demanded in that hard, imperious tone. The sort that pissed men off, that sent them running.

His eyes flashes.

“Fire.”

When he kissed her again, Nesta’s eyes slammed shut before she even realized what she was doing. This time, Nesta’s fingers raked through his neat hair, pulling him closer. She wasn’t gentle, thinking it would push him off her. She misjudged him—Nesta pulled at the strands and Cassian groaned, pressing his body hard against her. He liked this. 

Which was a fucking tragedy, because she did, too. Cassian moaned again, loud enough anyone with ears in the vicinity knew what was happening in the back hall, and Nesta, for just this once, did not care.

Her tongue swept into his mouth, tasting him like she’d wanted to the day at the loch. He tasted like whiskey and warmth and like she needed to get him out of his clothes as fast as she could, before she changed her mind. 

“Slow down, slow down,” he breathed, catching her wrist when she trailed down his chest. “Have ye done this before?”

“Does it matter?” she replied, certain it didn’t.

He huffed out a soft breath. “Of course it fucking matters.”

“I—” He was going to ruin her. He was already making a mess of things. Nesta needed the upper hand, needed a way to get what she wanted without getting hurt. If that was even possible.

There was no way to have him and remain unscathed. The smart thing to do was walk away. “This can’t mean anything, Cassian.”

His brows furrowed. “Ye don’t mean that.”

“You don’t know me–”

“Because ye make it impossible!” he replied, raking his fingers through his hair. “People care about ye, and it’s like…”

“Like what?” she asked, her throat rough and dry. She never should have stopped kissing him. She shouldn’t have said anything at all. Cassian looked down the hall, sighing a breath.

“Like ye expect us all tae leave ye, so ye leave first.”

“You don’t like me,” she said. It was a question. 

No one likes me. Why should you?

“At first,” he admitted. “I thought ye’d be like yer uncle. Stuffy…arrogant…and ye were, ye know ye were. I thought ye’d leave—hoped, I suppose. Until I started liking the sight of ye, storming out with yer braid and yer book. Fuming mad and all of it directed at me. I wanted to get tae know ye and I’ve been trying. And not just me. Emerie, tae. She thinks the world of ye. Yer sisters, tae, and probably everyone else if ye let them.”

Nesta shook her head, swallowing the wave of emotion rising. “This is all wrong. You hate me–”

“Hate,” he said, pressing both palms against the wall, caging her between his body, “is the last thing I feel for ye.”

“I wish you did,” she said.

“If all ye want is something unserious,” he began, eyes searching her own. She swore he could read her every word for the truth, that he didn’t need to hear her speak to know all the things wrong. All the secrets she held. “Then I’ll take what yer offering. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck ye in the hall.”

“Cassian—”

“Ye said, ‘I don’t fuck animals,’” he began mimicking an absurd British accent. “And I believe ye. At least, for now.” 

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, certain she was going to be picking her shattered heart up off the floor by the time they were done. Cassian brushed his lips over her own.

“When it comes tae ye, mo chridhe, I have no defenses.”

[olderthannetfic]

I'm in a fandom with a lot of virulent antis (surprise surprise, it's heavily dark source material and I don't know why they're here at all) and a lot of the pairings that aren't the main badwrong ship on ao3 now have DNI tags on them for shippers of the badwrong ship. I guess not enough to break the TOS (no direct threats?), but still full of stuff like "x shippers DNI", "get help you freaks", "You're disgusting" etc etc.

Its just... so frustrating. Like that's a pretty red flag for me that a fic probably is going to be in an immature writing style so I probably won't read it anyway, but every time I see it I just.... heave a big sigh. Why these people are in this fandom or on Ao3 at all I'll never know. Its not even helpful - the tags are there to help describe the fic, if I didn't want to see that kind of content I could just... avoid content that's tagged that way. Why even add that to a fic that's not even about those characters at all?

Honestly, my real question is.... Olderthannetfic, how do you do it?

I feel like I do it "right", in fandom, or at least I try. I always just block and move on. I don't follow the discourse where I can help it and block a lot of the relevant tags. I keep to a small circle of folks that have the same fun brainrot I do and have fun, generally. But this kind of stuff still slips through the cracks in a way that's unavoidable if you're ever online at all. To be honest, it still hurts a lot to see each time, and be reminded that some people seem to literally want me dead over reading a story. And I can't help the doubt and the self-flagellation that creeps in. Despite my best efforts, and all my research, and living to the ripe rip van winkle tumblr fandom spinster age of 27... I sometimes have a moment where I think, maybe I really am a freak or a degenerate, or an evil predator waiting to bloom.

Do you ever experience this? Does this feeling ever go away, or at least dull to a more bearable exasperated eye roll? Do you ever see these anti idiots grow up or grow out of this mindset? Is it just a matter of time, age or experience? Is there a point at which you felt like it affected you less, or perhaps it didn't affect you like that at all? Is there a secret to navigating it calmly and with confidence? Do you have any advice to give in the, er, art of not giving a fuck?

--

Why would I quail at a stupid child on the internet after coming out as queer when I was 14 in the 90s?

I grew up with very open-minded, supportive family aside from my mother's conviction that BDSM was something people were into because they'd been abused. Even then, I remember privately snickering because I was super kinky, and wouldn't that upset her given this silly world view?

I had it easy compared to most in the 90s, but I still saw a lot of nonsense, like good old Mom on the topic of kink or murders in the media. But I also spent a lot of time reading educational sexuality books that debunked myths about fantasies and kinkiness.

Maybe a firmer grounding in sexuality stuff would help you? Nancy Friday's work on women's fantasies is a common starting point. I'm partial to The Topping Book, which is full of "it's great to be a top, actually" and not "you only do it for the sub".

Getting older does usually help though. Most 20-somethings are insecure in their sense of self. Middle age is when people's fucks generally run out, and that only continues to grow. Watch a stupid child go after some 60-something zine writer lady. She's going to laugh in their faces. Some people remain insecure forever, I suppose, but not anybody who had to woman up to be in fandom in the first place.

It's not just that these little idiots are wrong about us being predators: it's that they are the morally degenerate ones for spreading the psychological equivalent of "vaccines cause autism" or "Jews want to steal your Christian babies".

This idea that The Bad People are infiltrating our minds with their propaganda overlaps heavily with anti-semitic conspiracy theory right wing fundie nutjob ideas, and yet these young fools claim to be pro-queer and pro-civil rights. They're an embarrassment to any progressive movement and it disgusts me.

When someone goes "You're not a Christian, so you're going to hell", do you have a moment when you wonder?

Because that's the level of absurdity here.

Even if they don't bully, even if they don't include threats in their DNIs, the fact that they're spreading myths about sexuality that have been thoroughly debunked many times means they're doing something unethical, anti-intellectual, and anti-science.

I'm not afraid or guilty. I'm embarrassed for them.

--

Do antis grow out of it? Yes, frequently.

They are—either literally or functionally—victims of right wing Christian cults. They have the same trajectory of realizing they've been had and slowly trying to work through the raging guilt and religious trauma.

I have limited patience but some sympathy. Like other victims who were indoctrinated to hurt people, escaping the cult is hard. It means not only giving up your false sense of safety and all of your friends but facing what you've done.

[maladaptive-jcb]

Chapter 1: Icebreaker

Jamie x female!reader fanfic

(fluff, safe for under 18)

Summary: Reader is an independent artist who lives on her own in a small town and meets Jamie, a musician, in an art studio where their budding relationship formed through shared interests of different forms of art.

Warning: There will be talks about trauma and PTSD from domestic abuse and dissociative episodes throughout the story.

A quiet groan. I can hear it from two seats away from where I’m sitting. It’s almost been a month since I started this painting class where I saw it opened two blocks away from my apartment a month ago. I thought it was a perfect way to ignite my old artistic passion again. Lucky for me, it's a budget studio class, which means I don't have to break my savings just to fill up some of my free time. I work at a local bookstore and currently renting a small apartment. I'm doing good, but not amazing while living as an independent girl in this town.

I hear another sigh coming from him. Jamie first came into class around the second week I started here. I remember it was a slow day in class. I was wondering if I should even be here in the first place until I heard footsteps coming in. The way he walked in with his tussled blonde hair and iridescent eyes captured my attention immediately. Ever since then, he never missed a class. I decided to stick around after all.

“Jamie…Jamie… What did I say?” Mr. Hayes, our art teacher stops behind him as Jamie is struggling with his work. “Always check the proportions. Sorry,” he says in a low tone voice. Subtle English accent. Disgruntled look is forming on his face as he tries fixing his painting with more acrylic. Mr. Hayes pats on his back with approval and goes along to check his other students.

He's not really the worst in class. I’ve seen his work, he did a lot of good paintings except that he hates small details and proportional work.

Should I help him more? I mean, we barely talk in class aside from the occasional “Hey,” from time to time. In fact, he barely talks to anyone in here.

He shoots up a look to me.

Shit.

I didn’t realize that I’ve been staring at him for a while.

“Y/n, you’re doing great just don’t forget to clean up your finishing touches this time,” Mr. Hayes distracted my train of thoughts. “I will. Thank you, Mr. Hayes,” I give him a quick nod. I've had such a great experience so far with Mr. Hayes. He'll find a way to make one-on-one teaching lessons feel so personal to you. He's also very patient with all of us considering most of his students came in with zero prior art knowledge. I think that’s why Jamie has improved so much in just a short period of time.

____

The morning is still early when the class ended and I'm now on a hunt for some caffeine to keep my day going. The café is just a five minutes walk down the road. It's called the Aroma Mocha. Since it's an hour away until my shift starts at the bookstore, I decide to have a brisk walk under the cool weather, taking it all in.

As I walk in, there are already five people in line ahead of me at the counter. I wait in line as I soak in the café’s inviting atmosphere. I see a few people inside with their quiet talks to each other. Another middle aged woman reading her book while sipping on a hot coffee. A dark haired teenage girl in the slightly hidden corner with headphones on while sipping on her cold drink in hand. I can't tell what it is but it makes me crave for an iced latte. In another corner, there's a tired college student staring straight into his laptop screen with the fast click-clacking sound of his hands on the keyboard. Just the right amount of calm and busy here, topped off with the aroma of freshly grinded up coffee beans filling up the air. It’s just such a nice morning to start. I've been observing everyone that I haven't noticed anyone getting in line behind me until…

“Y/n, right?”

I turn around and met with a tall lanky figure, silver rings on his fingers, blonde hair framing his cheekbones perfectly in the dim lights of the café.

“Oh yes. And you’re Jamie!”

He smiles. “Yep. Fancy meeting you outside the class.”

“I hope that’s not a bad thing.”

“Not at all. Pleased, really,” his eyes twinkles.

I don’t see the disgruntled, contorted face he always makes when painting in frustrations. He seems… sweet.

“Next!” The barista calls out to me.

“One iced latte, please…” I turn to Jamie. “…and whatever he’s having.”

“Coffee. Black,” he leans forward to respond. His subtle breath warm on my neck. “Thank you."

“You’re welcome,” I return his smile.

I’ve wanted to approach him so many times in class and chickened out. Crazy to think that this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.

Our drinks were done at the counter after a few minutes. I grab both and hands his coffee. He takes it, fingers brush against mine.

“I’ll see you again, soon?”

“Yeah. See you again, y/n.”

He smiles and raises the cup of coffee thanking me again. I nod and quickly turns my face towards the floor hiding the warmth that's rising to my cheeks. With one last wave, I walk towards the door to leave.

“Wait!”

A surge of relief going through my body. Somehow I was hoping it wouldn't just end there.

“Do you have time to sit with me?” he asks.

I hold my wrist up and check the time on my watch. My shift is not starting until 40 minutes anyways. How long can it be to sit and talk with Jamie?

“If that’s okay,” a little hint of pleading in his voice.

“Yes, of course."

____

We sit across each other at a table near the big window. His long legs brush against mine from time to time. Now that I'm actually closer to him than before, I can see his blue eyes sparkling even brighter under the sunlight streaming through the window pane. He's a little quiet at first. His fingers knotted with each other around his warm cup of coffee. It's almost as if he's wondering what to talk about. Eventually, he tries to ask me more about myself. Trying to set aside the sudden surprise of actually sitting with a new person on my day, I let myself cool down and let the conversations flow on their own. His eyes wide, yet soft as he looks at me attentively every time I tell him little things about myself. I just thought it was just out of politeness but I notice that he's actually listening to me when he chuckles and nods along to my stories. It's like every word that came out of my mouth hung around the air and he's just absorbing them all in.

"You know it's very interesting to finally hear all about the teacher's favourite in class," a teasing tone in his voice.

“Oh, stop. But you know, I've wanted to talk to you in class for a while as well."

“Is that why you’ve been staring at me?” he smirks and takes a sip of his coffee.

My heart does a somersault. He noticed that?

“Oh… I uh,” my cheeks starting to feel a little warm.

He winks.

“So what brings you to the class anyway,” my attempt at changing the subject.

“Oh, umm…” Jamie purses his lips as if he's thinking about the question itself.

"I wanted to try something new in this town. I just moved here and happened to walk by the studio and… well here I am."

“I see. I’m guessing you came all the way here from…”

“London. Yes. The accent, I know,” he laughs. Hand brushing through his beautiful locks.

“I just needed a change. What about you?”

“Oh I’ve lived here for a while. Two years now. Trying to prove to my parents that I can be independent, you know?” I tell him, quickly brushing the question off.

He nods. “You’re working?”

“Yeah. Do you know Bookworm Shack? It’s a block away from here. In fact, I should be getting into my shift in like 15 minutes now.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen it. Come on, I’ll drive you,” drinking the last bit of his coffee before he gets up.

I didn’t have time to process it. I haven’t sat in a car alone with a man for so long. Not since-

“You’re coming?” his head tilts towards me and scanning my eyes, hoping for a hint of agreement to his plan.

“I guess, there's no harm in that. Thank you."

“The least I could do for that coffee,” he gives a friendly punch to my upper arm and grinning ear to ear. Every bit of his face lights up when he does it. It feels nice to see him in a more cheerful mood than usual.

I'm not one to know much about cars. Truthfully, all cars look the same to me. If anyone would name a model of a car, no image would pop in my head at all. However, I am able to tell when a car is luxurious and expensive. Jamie's car is exactly that. At least better than the one I drove back in my hometown. It was an old car that my dad gave me after he finally saved up enough for a new one for his own. It was a little beat up but I loved it just the same. It didn't have the leg rooms as I have right now sitting in Jamie's car though. I know it wasn't the best car but it took me where I needed to and it was comfortable enough for me. Looking up at Jamie from the passenger's seat makes me feel a little shy. What do you do when someone told you to make yourself comfortable? Do they actually mean it or do they just want to be polite? Maybe I'll just play it safe and tuck my feet together and not mess with anything in here.

"Relax. The leather seat is not gonna bite you," he snickers after noticing me shifting carefully in my seat.

"Yeah, but you might," quickly giving him the same retort energy.

"Wow. Hurtful. Although, you'll never know. Hope you already got your rabid shot."

His face stays on the road but his eyes peering sideways towards me while smirking at his own joke. A giggle start escaping from my mouth and he finally lets out a big heartful laugh I've ever heard from him.

I feel myself being a lot more relaxed in my seat after that. We continue our conversations along the ride but it was cut short when Jamie pulls over in front of the bookstore. A little disappointment in my heart when I realized that I have to say goodbye to him now.

As I’m getting out of the car, he asks, “What time your shift ends?”

“6 pm. Why?” I respond back through the passenger’s seat window.

“Sounds like a good time for dinner. I’ll pick you up,” he winks again and drives away.

“Wait, I-“ Oh there’s no use. He’s gone.

_____

Chapter 2

Note: Hi! I'm new on here and I'm sharing my writing for the first time on the internet and thought that it'd be nice to start on here. I don't know if this will take off or not but I'm excited for everyone to read it. Do let me know your thoughts and reblog if you like it. If it starts picking up then I will continue posting the next chapter :)

[audreydoeskaren]

hiii there!!! i've been focused on eastern fashion for some time now and so far i haven't come across good sources for studying anything from china, let alone east asia. so this probably has been asked before but what advice do you have for new people trying to study chinese fashion?

I do have a couple personal tips! This spiralled off into a very long post which also addresses some historiographical issues, read til the end if interested.

Primary sources

Good books and articles about Chinese fashion history are few and far in between, and may not cover every time period, so primary sources are your best friends. Try to find as many artworks and texts related to fashion as possible for the time period you’re interested in, and don’t feel limited to “famous” artworks or conventional genres. “Famous” historical Chinese paintings rarely depicted realistic fashion, if they depicted people at all. Fashion should be sought in formal portraits, book illustrations, photographs, export art, figurines and burial artifacts etc.. The availability of each genre depends on the time period, the further back in time you go the more scant sources become, which is why I would recommend newcomers begin with a more recent time period, like the 19th and 20th centuries. For fashion history purposes, all visual resources are valuable as long as they depict realistic fashion, and artworks from historically less prestigious genres can be very helpful for cross referencing.

Ideally, one should have a variety of sources across genres. For example, Republican era fashion is usually studied through calendar paintings (月份牌), but these only depicted upper class women in a very specific commercialized, socially conservative context. Therefore, it would be helpful to also look at professional fashion illustrations, photographs of film stars and costumes in films for avant garde designs, as well as photographs of common women for more everyday attire. For the 19th and 20th centuries, it’s good to have artworks as well as photographs/videos, to understand both the fashion ideal and how it transferred onto real bodies.

Avant garde evening fashion on actress Hu Die, early 1930s.

Most of these things could be found online, through both reliable and dodgy methods. Since I don’t live in China, I can’t visit any museums that physically hold the artifacts, so I just pray that they have things digitized. Fashion historians and enthusiasts on Weibo and Xiaohongshu also post sources they have pretty often, so do check out those platforms. I’m afraid I can’t regularly see what people there have to say because Chinese social media platforms stress me out and give me anxiety as a Chinese person.

It is also important to be able to parcel out what primary sources are reliable for fashion history purposes, whether they depict real life fashion or something fantastical. This is most relevant for Chinese fashion prior to the 19th century, as the abundance of artworks in the 仕女 shinv genre often led people to mistake the imaginary costumes they depicted for real life fashion, because they adhered to stereotypes of “ancient” Chinese clothing cultivated in the 20th century. Shinv as a genre that specifically portrayed women gradually stopped depicting actual women’s fashion in the Late Middle Ages, and developed an “industry standard” style of fantastical costuming based on a fossilized version of Tang and Song styles (not actual Tang and Song fashion). I don’t know why this is but I know it is. Shinv artworks should NEVER be used as fashion history resources, those created after the Song Dynasty should be viewed with suspicion. Faulty understandings of pre-Qing fashion in older literature mostly stem from the inability to distinguish shinv artworks from realistic ones. With some experience of looking at these paintings, it becomes very easy to tell them apart from formal portraits and illustrations that depict real fashion. Here are some established features of shinv costuming:

The top is always tucked inside the skirt, which is contrary to real life fashion in the Yuan, Ming, Qing and 20th century.

The hairstyles are very tall and complicated, often gravity-defying

There are long, dangling decorative tassels and braids hanging from the waistband, as well as other accessories that contribute to flowiness, such as 披帛 pibo shawls

Shinv piece by Xu Beihong (1895-1953). The style of costuming is consistent with shinv artworks from previous centuries; obviously real life women did not dress like this in the early 20th century.

Use recent literature

This is a general academia thing not just fashion history, but for some reason people tend to make an exception when it comes to Chinese fashion history. DO NOT RELY ON BOOKS THAT ARE TOO OLD, especially if they’re written before the 2000s. There were a series of books on Chinese historical fashion from the 70s and 80s that were highly influential foundational works for the subject, but with the body of research that has surfaced after their publication, a significant chunk of the information in them became outdated and is now considered incorrect. New books and articles are constantly being written about Chinese fashion history, so please consult those instead of the same incorrect books from the last century. I cringe even looking at some of my older posts which were written like, a year ago, how can you expect something from decades ago to be any good.

Class difference

Most English language literature on historical Chinese fashion until very recently only ever focus on court dress, but it should be noted that most if not all historical Chinese courts had highly codified systems of dress that dictated what a person of a certain rank and standing could wear in what situation, at what time of day or year. Many types of court dress could not really be considered “fashion”, since they were ceremonial and meant to remain identical throughout the duration of a dynasty, serving purposes more symbolic and political than fashionable. Civilian fashion was much more lively and consistent in terms of rate of change. From my personal experience, both Ming and Qing are hit pretty hard by this misunderstanding, since a lot of civilian women’s fashion during the Ming is overlooked and neglected in favor of court dress with a lot of bling, and 18th century civilian Han women’s fashion is so underrepresented it’s practically invisible. Fashion had a large presence in the metropolis outside of court, especially as we draw closer to the 20th century.

18th century jifu, a kind of court dress. Apart from the overrepresentation of court dress, Qing Dynasty garments are ALWAYS displayed in this manner (laid flat instead of draped on a mannequin, because that would be too humanizing) in photographs from books and articles for maximum orientalism (no concrete evidence, just how I see it). Not that there’s anything wrong with displaying garments like this, it’s probably the best way to store them, but the severe lack of visual representations of how 2D clothes look on 3D people is frustrating.

18th century civilian fashion in a painting.

Continuity and difference

Oftentimes Chinese historical fashion is treated as sporadic episodes, people dressing themselves in one style and then suddenly changing to another one overnight when a new dynasty/decade is established. This mindset probably won’t take you very far in fashion history, because historical Chinese fashion was more like a continuous stream of development where small changes happened one after another, adding up to a major change every now and then. Seeing history as clean cut episodes marginalizes transitional periods where either important changes happened or things were simply very interesting and worthwhile to study.

When put into a postcolonial context, however, the use of clean cut time periods suddenly appears somewhat helpful. Like I explained, there are problems with the episodic view of history, but you have to admit it’s useful for representation. When people think of Western historical fashion, most can name certain periods or styles like 18th century robes a la francaise, high waisted Regency gowns, Victorian crinolines and bustles etc., which one probably learns from period dramas and the like. Whether the impressions are accurate is beside the point, as firstly there is an awareness that there were distinct periods and styles. The same cannot be said for the general perception of historical Chinese fashion, or any other non white society’s historical fashion, even though it is entirely plausible and even easy to divide Chinese historical fashion into similar distinct periods with their unique characteristics. People just think of historical Chinese fashion as “Chinese”, as if that alone is an accurate or sufficient description. As of currently, the only periods and styles represented in this way are, I think, Tang Dynasty chest-high ruqun, Qing Dynasty Manchu court dress and maybe Republican era cheongsam, which are common subjects of representation (with miserable accuracy) in period dramas. I personally would suggest people first getting into Chinese fashion history to come up with some of these time period distinctions but not take them too seriously, as they’re good for understanding the general gist of a time period and invite further research.

Narratives 

Now I would like to delve into more abstract and ideological territory.

Maybe the smart people reading this can tell me if this is postmodern or something, but I think it’s important to keep in mind that lived experiences of fashion in history often run contrary to grand narratives about fashion and society that attempt to sanction what they should look like and police the acceptable ways in which they are interpreted. There are especially many grand narratives and discourses around 19th and 20th century Chinese fashion, such as the classic colonial line about late Qing fashion being backwards and stagnant and needing Western intervention I berate every so often, the pseudo feminist line about Republican era women’s fashion being inherently liberating (I’m going to talk about this in more depth in another post I’m working on), and the Cold War era anti-communist misconception about Mao era PRC not having fashion etc.. Not to mention how many of these narratives were built upon ignorance of actual historical fashion, as fashion history did not become an established discipline until the 1970s and writers speculating before that usually misinterpreted facts or straight up fabricated them (I have a couple examples of this I’m thinking of posting later). These always make me so uncomfortable I feel like I couldn’t breathe, like they’re trying to force me to feel a particular way and put my brain into a very small and tight box.

This is because the 19th and 20th centuries were centuries of grand narratives, shaped by various phenomena and ideologies of the modern era like colonialism, nationalism, fascism and communism. These are essentialist narratives constructed by historians that often serve present and future socio-political purposes, and should be handled with suspicion. These narratives are so influential that they often lead people to carry out intricate mental gymnastics to deny reality; no number of genuine photographs, films and artworks can convince someone sold on grand narratives that many people did indeed wear nice clothes in Mao’s China, seriously I’ve tried and failed so many times. If a narrative is constantly proven wrong by pieces of evidence, maybe it’s time to ditch it.

Costumes in 1950s mainland film.

Grand narratives existed before the 19th century too, I’m just not very well versed with them and can’t comment much, though I assume the general gist is the same. A well known example off the top of my head is the dynastic cycle theory in imperial era historiography, which describes Chinese history as cycles that repeat themselves with each dynasty. This view is allowed to fester in fashion history as well, with historians often describing fashion at the beginning of a dynasty as “simple” and “conservative”, which gradually develops into more extravagant and spectacular forms as the dynasty’s political power declines. An obvious problem with this view is its equating luxury and consumption with moral degeneracy and decline, which was historically used by Chinese ruling classes as a tool to enforce Confucian ideology. The other problem is that it completely fails to explain fashion at a more detailed level when it comes to actual, tangible features like fabrics, decorative motifs, silhouettes etc., and disregards linear, continuous changes that took place across dynasties. For example, late Ming women’s fashion showed more continuity with the early Qing than earlier parts of the same dynasty, and it’s more helpful to see the Ming and Qing as a continuum in terms of textile production technology and aesthetic tastes rather than two distinct cycles. (Come to think of it, I’m not sure whether dynastic cycle theory was actually used by Chinese historians before Western colonialism, or it was assumed that it was used by historians of the 20th century. That makes quite a difference.)

This is just one example, these grand narratives are everywhere and way too rampant in Chinese history discourse (not just fashion) to simply avoid or ignore. It would be more effective to have some knowledge in historiography (the study of the study of history) and theory so you can actively unravel and deconstruct them to ensure a smooth and pleasant journey on the highway of fashion history. Out of the books I’ve read so far, the ones that helped me the most are probably Edward Said’s Orientalism (I would be nowhere without him!), Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble and Frantz Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks. These are very basic and accessible books so they’re useful outside fashion history as well. 

To save you the trouble of feeling unnecessary ways like gasping in disbelief at the sight of beautiful dresses from the 1950s mainland, I suggest not to take grand narratives seriously, as they cause too many practical problems when you want to look at things a little deeper beyond surface level. I’m not asking for objectivity as it’s probably impossible, I’m not objective at all, I’m asking for an awareness of narratives and power dynamics. It’s better to first familiarize yourself with the factual part of fashion history i.e. what silhouettes and hairstyles were popular in what year/decade, before constructing narratives, or not construct narratives at all.

High expectations

Because of the prevalence of Eurocentrism and the massive volume of literature and media already produced about historical Western fashion, as well as the relatively recent academic interest in the historical fashion of non white societies, it can give people just starting out in Chinese fashion history the wrong idea that it’s going to be a breeze compared to the highly professional and demanding field that is Western fashion history. Please don’t get into Chinese fashion history expecting it to be easy. I’ve made this mistake in the past and paid a hefty price for it (significant loss of brain cells and hair trying to figure out stuff in an extremely niche subject and time period). Most people are probably aware that China had a fashion history, but most also aren’t aware of how complex and rich it actually is. You can really afford to be as specific and pedantic as you like, narrowing down changes in styles to those within a decade or between every 2 or 3 years as is customary for the 20th century. I’m not gatekeeping or trying to scare people off, if anything it’s good that Chinese fashion history is so complex because there’s always something new to learn. It’s just that I constantly get this vibe from some people in my askbox that they think Chinese society is so primitive and simple that I can answer some of their super generalized questions in one sentence or something. That’s really counterproductive.

TL;DR use primary sources, read recent literature, be wary of grand narratives, keep an open mind, apply the same theories and criticisms from other academic disciplines, and you should do just fine. And have fun exploring Chinese historical fashion!!

[neverwritewhatyouknow]

Let’s talk about backlash and response in the Red, White & Royal Blue literary and cinematic universe.

The book:

Casey changed two things in the book when there was backlash, and honestly the fact that they were so quick to respond to these and not anything else is kinda super upsetting.

The first was the Harry Potter books that Alex (and Henry too?) read, and like obviously JKR is a fucking bad person, but… The books exist! Millions of people read the books! Mentioning them by name isn’t gonna make you a bad person, having fictional people read these books doesn’t make them bad, it means they read books that existed. Trust me, I’m in the hating JKR trenches with everyone, she’s an antisemitic TERF, but of all the things in the world to be mad at, fictional characters reading a book isn’t it. Like, I have Harry Potter books on my shelf, am I supposed to burn them all and go back through my old instagram from middle school to delete all references to Hogwarts houses? No. Because multiple things can be true at once: JKR is a terrible person, and Harry Potter books at one point were highly read and enjoyed. Like, mentioning or not mentioning a book from over 20 years ago won’t impact JKR, if you want to stand up against her, stand up against her new video game and TV show— things that will directly put money in her pocket, stand up against Cursed Child if you want, donate to valued organizations that promote the things she hates. Anyway, It was changed to the Percy Jackson series instead, which is fine, but I think changing the books was an interesting choice. Like, obviously Casey doesn’t agree with the transphobic and disgusting views of JKR, neither do the characters. (CMQ probably does agree with some of the antisemitism, but that’s another story). Regardless of my own views on this change, people were upset by it and it was changed. Casey listened and made the fix. Editing to add: I’m totally cool with the change! Like I complete understand why it was done and if I were Casey I would have done the same thing. I, very badly, wanted to show how you can separate the author from the art, but I think there are some things that maybe can be judged by the author. I hope anyone I offended by misspeaking sees this and understands that I didn’t mean to reduce your pain. You are valid and correct in wanting the book removed from the book, especially when it was an easy fix. My point was solely that Casey listened and changed things, I shouldn’t have said anything else that undermined that or caused hurt, even indirectly. Again, sorry if my misspeaking hurt you, it was never my intention

The second time the book was edited, was after some people got weird about a reference to a UN ambassador: (copied from a Slate article because this isn’t in my copy) in which a supporting character who is the president of the United States complains, “Well, my UN ambassador fucked up his one job and said something idiotic about Israel, and now I have to call Netanyahu and personally apologize.”.

This is literally so nothing it’s insane. People claimed it justified the Israel/Palestine conflict and said that America would always back Israel, which like, I’m not going to explain the conflict because it’s bigger, older, and more complex than Tumblr, but no. No. No. No. Just no. This has nothing to do with that, Israel and America are Allies, and it’s no different than someone saying something about Canada. Also, nobody likes Netanyahu except Netanyahu, so this line is actually more of a funny satirical line about how the president has to go talk to this guy who’s an ally but super annoying. This is not an invite to send me anything about the I/P conflict, because I promise I know way more on this topic than you think and I’m not getting into it. Regardless, people said stuff, Casey listened, it was changed.

The movie:

After backlash about the actors ages, Casey posted a very attitude filled and almost-guilt trippy post saying that it’s rude and wrong to say that people who are 28 or 30 are old, because that’s calling Casey old, that’s saying that people who are older can’t discover their sexualities.

None of that was what people were saying, but they wanted to save themself, so they responded.

Backlash about the actors sexualities- Casey responded.

Preemptive response to people talking about Nick’s hair color- There was a response from multiple people

Response to people talking about Taylor being Mexican-American. This one was more of a “Hey! We did it!” Positive response by multiple people from the production, mainly the director who said that they purposely sought out the correct actor for Alex so people wouldn’t say anything bad and would be happy about it.

I’m sure there’s more, but I haven’t been in the know for a longggggg time.

All that to say, there’s been a ton of backlash about how Nora’s ethnicity was erased and how antisemitic their casting decision was, and the only thing they’ve done is block and remain silent. Not to forget that the production and CMQ know about the antisemitism within the RWRB fandom and they don’t give a shit.

Funny how things can be addressed when it’s literally about anything besides their Jew-erasure.

[petalstem]

Thoughts on the new graphic novel excerpt!

This is the first time in years that I have been GENUINELY excited about something relating to canon WC. Genuinely. Like, the past few graphic novels WERE good, I'm a big fan of Winds of Change, but like. I wasn't HYPED over them. I still pirated them (I did buy Winds of Change after I pirated it though, it was on sale).

I ADORE what we've seen of the art so far, the character designs are really cute and seem very in-line both with the characters, as well as just... being good! I love Rustys little striped tail and his brown ears especially. The expressions and movement is really good as well, I love the characterization we're seeing already with Rusty and Graypaws expressions.

I LOVE the inclusion of Princess! This is great for several reasons, firstly, it shows they are willing and able to make changes, something I'll elaborate on in a bit, and it also helps with the cohesion between Into the Wild and Fire and Ice. Fireheart randomly remembering he has a sister he's never mentioned or thought about ever in the middle of Fire and Ice was just... weird. Especially given how Princess is ALSO an outdoor cat who lives nearby, it's clear that he just. Wasn't written with a sister in mind. Having Princess show up as an established character BEFORE she's relevant is a subtle change I really like.

Now. To elaborate on changes. I am desperately, DESPERATELY hoping they change some stuff from the original books. While I think arc 1 is still worth reading, and still solid books, so much of it has aged HORRIBLY, namely, all of the constant horrific ableism that goes unaddressed and unchallenged. In an ideal world, they would

1. Introduce Snowkit before his death. Preferably establishing that the idea he 'can't learn' is unfounded (It is, IN THE TEXT ITSELF, shown that he IS capable of learning, given how Dappletail communicates with him through gesture. He is ABSOLUTELY capable of learning and it's ableist of the series to continue to shove the idea that he can't).

2. Have Fireheart either not make constant comments about Cinderpaw having a miserable life for being disabled (Despite the fact she's literally happy as a medicine cat), or have someone actively challenge him on this. This might not even be that big of an issue in the graphic novel if they don't let Fireheart's thoughts show up as often as they do in the books, as it's mainly him THINKING about how 'miserable' Cinderpaw is and not outright SAYING it, but I just found him incredibly tiring with HOW often he'd sulk about Cinderpaw during scenes when she was literally acting happy and healthy.

3. Give Brightheart more agency. One of the most shockingly ableist moments in all of arc 1 is when Firestar tells Cloudtail that he has to take Brightheart as an apprentice, that she'll never be a true warrior, and that she's entirely his responsibility now. While Brightheart is sitting with them. Firestar quite literally talks to her BOYFRIEND as if she's a small child who needs to be looked after and not like the fully grown adult woman she actually is. This scene could very easily be fixed, by just having Brightheart being the one talking to Firestar, and to get rid of the comparison to her being Cloudtail's apprentice. Brightheart going "Hey Firestar, I'm ready to be a warrior again and Cloudtail and I have some ideas on how I can best hunt" solves basically 90% of the problem. Also, remove the scene of Firestar saying how Brightheart being moved to the elders den was because she was going to have to be an elder. That's literally not even true, she was moved to the elders den explicitly because the elders liked having her around, and because they needed room in the medicine den, but Brightheart still needed time to heal. Firestar's literally objectively wrong there

4. This one isn't about ableism, so it's less important, but get rid of Princess's bizarre dialogue about how she "wants to decide Cloudkits destiny" and how Fireheart needs to "make him a hero just like him". It's baffling and it's really uncomfortable, why does Princess think she "deserves" to choose her kits "destiny" because he's her firstborn.

5. Also not about ableism, but I feel this is also incredibly important, don't fucking include the lines about StarClan being the reason Clan cats are moral. It's disgusting on so many levels how BloodClan is said to not care for the young, sick, or elderly ENTIRELY because they don't believe in StarClan. This childrens series should not have the fucking moral of "religion is what makes us moral", that's revolting. Just change it to its their lack of community, not their lack of religion

Ultimately, I think things are really looking up for the graphic novel. I'm certainly buying a copy, and I'm really excited to see how it turns out. I have some hope of them changing some of the worst parts of the first arc, namely, the limited ability to see Fireheart thoughts as often as the books do will most likely cut down on how often he's able to be ableist towards his Clanmate, but ultimately, even if they don't change the worst parts, I'd guess that the art alone would still warrant a purchase!

[isfjmel-phleg]

October 2023 Books

Tales from the Oakenwyld by R. J. Anderson

A collection that makes me want to revisit these series! I'd read two of the stories before in other forms, but it was nice to have them all in one volume, and the additional material involving earlier versions of the novels was a fascinating look at how the world and characters evolved during the writing process.

The Ages of the Flash: Essays on the Fastest Man Alive edited by Joseph J. Darowski

Some of the articles were more interesting than others, and the book could have been more carefully proofread, but I really enjoyed getting to read a scholarly take on these characters, especially the discussions of them in context with the eras in which they were written. (The concept of the YJ kids and their contemporaries as innately Gen X--with Bart as an anticipation of a Millennial--is a concept I'd like to explore more, especially in light of why the current fanon versions of these characters seem almost nothing like the originals.)

Not All Supermen: Sexism, Toxic Masculinity, and the Complex History of Superheroes by Tim Hanley

An interesting overview of the history of some very relevant and persistent issues in comics. I don't see eye-to-eye with Hanley on everything, but it was refreshing to get an acknowledgement of how poorly both writing and art has depicted female characters, for instance.

The Invisible Boy by Alyssa Hollingsworth

Maybe the most Rebekah Bait book I've read in quite a while. It's told from the POV of a twelve-year-old military child with a very active imagination, a passion for journalism, and a love of comics (specifically for Lois Lane, who is her hero). She initially supposes that a mysterious boy in her neighborhood must be some kind of superhero, but as she gets to know him and pieces together more about his situation, the truth turns out to be quite dark, and she must take some difficult steps to do the right thing. The book addresses a real-world issue that is quite dark for a middle-grade novel, but Hollingsworth handles it in a way that is both informative for young readers while remaining age-appropriate.

There are well-drawn characters, and themes of misjudging others on first acquaintance, and themes of child exploitation (not only of the mysterious boy, but the protagonist herself, whose mother runs a popular blog and sometimes uses her daughter for content in ways that are invasive or embarrassing), and it sounds dark but it really is a hopeful book, and I enjoyed it a lot.

(Also the combination of the Superman motifs with the themes of child exploitation really made me want to reach into the book and ask the protagonist if she was familiar with Superboy, unintentional poster child for exploitation--the themes would interact with each other so well, and that got me wondering if what Cadmus is doing with their cloning is basically human trafficking, and...well, I have questions. And thoughts. I'll stop now, thanks for humoring me.)

The Refuge by Monica Hughes

I heard about this one from an article that discussed it alongside The Secret Garden. It's a middle-grade Canadian novel from the late 1980s that has its own take on the young-person-in-difficult-circumstances-experiences-growth-through-interaction-with-a-secret-place (in this case also a garden), and goodness knows I fall for that plotline every time. This one took a turn that was a bit unusual for this sort of story, but on the whole I enjoyed it.

The Ogre Downstairs by Diana Wynne Jones

I don't think this one is quite as well executed as some of Jones' other works, but it was enjoyable overall, and I appreciated the angle of the initially dreadful-seeming stepfamily turning out to be not so villainous after all.

The Monsters of Rookhaven by Pádraig Kenny

Creepiness warning if that's a concern, but what a delightful monster book. The world and people are dark and scary and full of hostility, but the answer is compassion and understanding, and that's beautifully portrayed.

(I don't know how you'd like the book, @brown-little-robin, but there was one character in particular--the most monstrous and yet the most human and sensitive of them all--who really struck me as the one you would like.)

Quicksand Pond by Janet Taylor Lisle

I have liked other books I've read by this author, but this one didn't do much for me. It felt incomplete, not fully developed, like reading an early draft.

The League of Regrettable Sidekicks: Heroic Helpers from Comic Book History! by Jon Morris

Exactly what it says on the tin. A light-hearted overview of the bizarre choices in sidekick-creation that comics have made over the years. A lot of what on earth.

(Apparently 1950s!Superman had a plotline in which he adopted a child who became his sidekick but for...reasons? the adoption wasn't feasible longterm, so the poor kid got left on a street corner, fate uncertain, tearfully parting ways with Superman, who tells him, "I'll never *choke* forget you, Jimmy!" ...which would have been a lot more effective if the boy's name weren't Johnny. The Silver Age was wild, guys.)

Robin and the Making of American Adolescence by Lauren R. O'Connor

You've probably already heard me rant about this one, but the short version is that O'Connor chose to examine the character/role of Robin primarily through the lenses of sexuality, gender, and race--mostly ignoring three of the Robins altogether (even if some of them would have relevant to her points), and glossing over Damian's ethnic background because it would have complicated a point she was trying to make about race with someone else. I didn't personally find this approach interesting or incapsulating of what makes these characters so effective, and I would love to see further scholarly discussion from others that would explore the Robins as characters, not just symbols of social concerns.

The Battle of the Labyrinth and The Last Olympian by Rick Riordan

I was satisfied with the ending but have nothing intelligent to say about this series and no particular interest in venturing into the spin-offs.

The House in the Square by Joan G. Robinson

A weird story, I guess, but atmospheric and compelling. I need to track down my own copy someday.

Secret of the Missing Footprint by Phyllis A. Whitney

Unlike the others I've read of Whitney's middle-grade mysteries, this one is told in first-person by the teenage protagonist, who has a bad case of I-can-fix-him with a troubled neighbor boy, and I love that Whitney absolutely demolishes that mindset, while still allowing both characters to be nuanced.

[Two books that I am omitting from naming in this list because they weren't really my taste but I know the author and don't want to give her any negative publicity]

Comics

Wayne Family Adventures Vol. 2

I read these online quite a while ago, but it's nice to have them in volume form. Don't go into this expecting characterization and relationships that accurately reflect those in the source material (these versions of the characters tend to talk more like they want to get a good grade in therapy than their comics counterparts), but it's good fluffy fun.

Stop drawing Bart as looking exactly like a young Wally, though. They are not interchangeable.

The Ray (1992 miniseries, not to be confused with the longer-running 1994 series, which I haven't read much of)

I plan to read all of DC's 90s teenage hero solos eventually, so after finishing Damage, I started this one. I'm acquainted with Ray from Young Justice and appearances in other things, and he kind of rubs me the wrong way (slapping and yelling at Bart for something trivial, repeatedly asking what's in it for him and acting put-upon when Grant turns to him for help, that sort of thing), but I was prepared to get perspective from his solo.

...and I was left with more questions than perspective. Ray has an utterly bizarre backstory--raised to believe that he had a condition that made him deathly allergic to sunlight and growing up hidden away indoors and only active at night, only to learn at age eighteen after his father's death that he has light-activated powers and his real father was a superhero. There's a lot to unpack there. But the narrative was more interested in the action and Ray's adjusting to his powers than his adjusting to life in the real, sunlit world and how his upbringing would have lingering effects to live with/work through. Maybe this gets explored more in the other solo, which I'll get to eventually. But for now I'm still in the dark on this guy.

Stars and S.T.R.I.P.E.

I know Courtney Whitmore from appearances in other things I've read. Loved her in Stargirl: The Lost Children. But in this series, which introduces the character, she is...a lot less likeable. In fact, she's rather a jerk, going beyond ordinary teenage angsty orneriness to being just plain malicious and spiteful (everything from trying to deliberately sabotage her mother and stepfather's marriage to generally being rude to everyone, even people who are on her side). Clearly character development does happen eventually, but it doesn't unfold very believably in this series, which made it a difficult read for me.

The Flash 1987 #62-118

I'm in the process of reading Mark Waid's take on Wally, and it's overall very good! Waid has an almost literary style that's atypical for similar comics and which is delightful to read. His Wally is a flawed but human and likeable character, and the stories feel grounded despite bizarre premises (for instance, Wally's backstory, as established in the Silver Age, is that he acquired his powers the same way as Barry in a massive coincidence--but Waid finds a clever way to justify even that) because characterization and emotion are handled realistically. So far, some plots have been better than others, of course, but I've been enjoying this and will keep up with it as far as it goes whenever I find time.

[projecthipster]

Fight Club, by Chuck Palahniuk

This being a stock photo is very enjoyable to me.

“We are God's middle children, according to Tyler Durden, with no special place in history and no special attention. Unless we get God's attention, we have no hope of damnation or redemption. Which is worse, Hell or nothing?”

"A bit 2edgy4u, but neat ideas about how angry men be angry. Didn’t care a lot for the terse, repetitive writing style to start but I got used to it as the threads came together to the intense climax. And it’s short, so not like it was a huge investment."

Ok, so that’s a pretty terse review. Ironically, considering that “terse, repetitive writing” was one of my criticisms. That was, directly copy-pasted, the review I posted on Goodreads after finishing Fight Club early last year. For a proper Project Hipster post I ought to expand it. And yet— I actually think that covers it pretty well. Let’s break my terse review of this terse novel down into its aspects, then, and see what I meant, in less terse words, and let’s see whether a year and a half to think things over has changed my thoughts. Terse doesn’t sound like a word anymore.

A bit 2edgy4u, but neat ideas about how angry men be angry

The aspect of Hipsterdom that I’ve never gravitated so much towards is that which stems from angsty postmodern 90s Gen X disillusionment, and as I mentioned back in my first Radiohead review, Palahniuk is kind of the epitome of that. And he does do it well.

Maybe I’m just too young to have lived through it, but I can empathize with it. The routine of life in a bullshit job under Capitalism Victorious is as mind-numbing now as it was then, I know well, and the now laughable late millennium rhetoric of the End of History must have added a particularly different sort of catalyst for mental illness. While today it’s the chaos of the world that fills us with anxiety, its seeming stability in the age of Fight Club must have created another sort of dread, living with the apparent surety that this world of fluorescence and linoleum was the ultimate aspiration of society, and now that it had arrived, it would carry on forever. I need the darkness, someone please cut the light!

Is it any wonder, then, that Palanhiuk’s pointedly nameless narrator falls into a sleepless spiral of desire for chaos, wanting to “wipe his ass with the Mona Lisa” and break beautiful things just to experience the thrill of change? That spiral leads the narrator into Project Mayhem, the anarcho-fascist cult of Tyler Durden, a mysterious, rebellious drifter who may be more than he seems, and promises an escape from monotony through rebellion, ascending over the short course of the novel from pranks to terrorism.

A lot of the discourse around this book and its adaptation centres on that always-crucial question – in stories about men lashing out in anger, how much are we meant to agree? The ending of Fight Club (the book, at least; we’ll come back to that point) makes it pretty clear that Palahniuk is hardly holding up Tyler Durden as a role model. But he comes from a place motivated by genuine criticism of a heartless society. Palanhiuk says that its’ “about a lonely person looking for some way to connect with other people." It’s a cautionary tale, then, about the fallout of loneliness and toxic masculinity, but where’s the line that morality is transcended in favour of rage? For the narrator, it’s another character’s death. For the reader, should it be the same? Or earlier? These are interesting, worthwhile questions! I have no definitive answers to them. There are interesting metaphors here, too, like how Tyler steals human fat from lipo clinics, literally the offcast fat of the fattening system, and uses it to make his weapons.

Palahniuk was himself a member of something called the Cacophony Society, which sounds a lot like Project Mayhem purely in name, but reading up on it makes it sound a lot less intense, given that it’s more of an unincorporated counter-cultural arts group. Cacophonists allegedly created Burning Man, paint Banksyesque street art, perform satirical Christmas carols, and disrupt the rush by blocking traffic to host picnics open to all visitors. Oh, and, uh, write edgy novels. Sounds fun, actually. Sounds like that’s a much healthier response to the same things that drive the characters in Fight Club to violence. Apparently the Cacophony Society itself stems from an earlier San Fransisco secret society called the Suicide Club, which focused mostly on urban exploration and the benefits of thrill-seeking.

Didn’t care a lot for the terse, repetitive writing style to start but I got used to it

Yeah, I still think this to some degree. I just prefer purpler prose, on a personal level. But I can respect Palanhiuk’s stylistic choices, to the point that they seem to be impacting these very sentences as I type them. Quotes from Fight Club in my mind are right now bleeding into the way I tackle my own keyboard. One maybe generous interpretation of Fight Club’s writing style is that it’s a window into the narrator's deteriorating mental state. When we’re working around sleepless nights, and when stress and anger are eroding reason into base fight-or-flight instinct, none of us are thinking in full sentences. It helps somehow to know that there’s a name and history for this style as well. Palahniuk was a disciple of Tom Spanbauer, who in Portland, where lives the dream of the 90s, taught the style he called “dangerous writing.” Spanbauer defines the style’s tenets as minimalism, realism, and writing from painful personal experience. In a way it’s very similar to Hemingway’s “one true sentence” approach. It’s another swing of the pendulum in the same direction, I suppose. As Hemingway was reacting against the Romantics, Spanbauer and Palahniuk were reacting to the maximalist “hysterical realism” of David Foster Wallace and Zadie Smith (who I also like.) It’s a style. Can’t fault style for consistency. In terms of repetition, I’m referring of course to the very prominent motifs, like the narrator's constant (and it is constant) reframing of the Reader’s Digest feature “I am Joe’s…”

as the threads came together to the intense climax

And what a climax. I should preface by saying that somehow I’ve still never actually seen the movie. Through cultural osmosis, though, I knew the twist. If you don’t, stop reading. Despite Publishers Weekly calling the twist “particularly bizarre,” despite the use of then-obscure dissociative identity disorder to justify its mechanics, it’s fairly simple in concept. This character seems to be the character’s secret ambitions manifested ad extremis. And it turns out that’s exactly what he is. It’s one of those devices that leads every scene to be read two ways, which is always good, and it makes the climax thrilling. I also know how the movie ends differently. I think in terms of themes I prefer the book version, but I understand why it was changed to a more visually dramatic ending for the movie. I also think it’s pretty funny that the Chinese release of the movie wasn’t allowed to show Project Mayhem succeeding, so it cuts out the end in favour of essentially telling the book ending in captions.

And it’s short, so not like it was a huge investment.

Unlike this post. Sorry. Good thing I don't write these with the assumption that anyone will ever read them.

I give this hipster book four disillusioned white men out of five.

Project Hipster is a futile and disorganized attempt to dive into the world of things that the internet has at some point claimed "are hipster," mostly through ListChallenges search results.

This review comes from the ninth list, Essential Books For Hipsters.

Next up: a more lighthearted movie that can still make you cry.

Stay deck.

[sixty-silver-wishes]

YALL I found my old diary from when I was 13 and I was NOT prepared for how much it swings between “pretentious wannabe Romantic poet” and “cripplingly self-aware middle schooler”

So right away this is hardcore. Comes with a warning that my ghost will haunt whoever reads it after my death.

“The account of Ocean Waves [for some reason, I was convinced I would be published under that name lol] ^ otherwise known by a less appealing name, is enclosed. Please do not read until you are sure my name is carved into a headstone. If I am killed for the sole purpose of reading this, however far-fetched that may seem, I will hunt you down.”

Happy reading,

- Ocean.

P.S.- You can, however, read this with permission. Good luck with that. Also, if you do decide to kill me, I would prefer a peaceful death. And by the way, I would prefer even more if you didn’t try to kill me. Oh, and if this is read while I’m still alive, I will still hunt you down.”

Already, you can see the makings of a future historian in the works.

“In this somewhat girly journal [it was Disney Princess themed] is the somewhat boring account of a 13-year-old girl. I, Sophia [last name], also known as Ocean Waves, am recording things in here in hopes of future discovery. As I will not share this to [sic] the outside world, I hope this journal will be preserved so that future civilization may find out about my time. However, as a writer and an artist, my goal is to be noticed, not especially famous.”

I give some hilarious takes here:

“I also have artist’s block. I tried drawing a picture earlier; but I didn’t feel like finishing it. I wonder if I’ll ever draw with a passion again.”

(No, younger me, you were just undiagnosed with ADHD.)

Notably, I don’t think I was the Medieval history expert I thought I was at the time:

“I don’t wish to have a boyfriend, and at 13, I don’t think I’m ready to. In the dark ages, girls my age would have already been grandmothers. I think that’s revolting.”

I get very pretentious about my English classes, although I have to say, I still agree with my criticisms of the school system.

“This is my own personal thought, and I prefer it not to be read, as I think differently at night. I think the school system does not have a very good idea of what language arts should be like. We spend hours picking apart and dissecting poems, like they are carcasses and we vultures. Poems aren’t made to be dissected, they’re made to be felt. And all we write are expository essays. Of course this is important, but there’s no way to express how we feel. After all, who decided to put “art” in “language arts” when there is no art to it at all; just mindless examining? I’m sorry for my rant [not sure why I keep apologizing to my private diary], but that’s what journals are for. Until tomorrow,

- Ocean”

I also write about my own art with self-loathing that would put a sexually-repressed 17th century Puritan to shame. You can see me dot my “i” with circles now because I saw a Buzzfeed video once that said people who do that are creative. And I get very passionate about Edgar Allan Poe for some reason:

“I experimented with my new copic markers today, and everyone who saw my drawings seemed to like them. I’m disgraced to say that I had a sense of overwhelming pride, but I’m not used to people noticing my art too often. In first period (aka so called “Language Arts”), we read “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe. Most people in the class didn’t seem to appreciate it, but I did. It tore open the hearts of both the reader + the main character, exposing his grief + longing towards Lenore, who [sic] he can never see again, so much that the stoic raven drives him to insanity and later, death. And to think that Poe got barely any recognition in his time! I’m not expecting much publicity from my books, but I do hope I’ll be able to write gripping + chilling stories like Poe did, without his own troubles (…)”

… In summary, I think 13 year old me would be very happy to know that in the years since, I majored in English, still draw, still single, and own a Poe anthology I bought while visiting the museum dedicated to him in Virginia.

[nerdy-prudes-must-age-regress]

OKAY OKAY SO here’s some misc agere!See concepts and facts for your consideration

- See does have a tendency to involuntarily age regress when he’s really stressed or frightened, especially during moments that remind them of his childhood trauma (are they really an OC if they don’t have a smidge of childhood trauma? /j)

- This guy loves Minecraft so so much, especially the Enderman in particular, so he ALWAYS holds onto their Enderman stuffed animal whenever they're regressed.

- They generally like reading children's books, especially those with more abstract / cartoony art styles so he doesn’t accidentally trigger any prophetic visions. Their favourites include the Heart and the Bottle by Oliver Jeffers, Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, and the Red Tree by Shaun Tan.

- When he regresses willingly, they spend most of his time safe and protected under a giant pile of blankets and pillows, so well-hidden you can barely see him! Though, when they end up involuntarily regressing out of anxiety or stress, his boyfriend and understanding caregiver Wes is always there to keep them snuggled up in their arms until he feels safe.

- They sometimes doodle with crayons and scrap paper, though his drawings are crude and somewhat surreal due to how their visions make him see things so they occasionally end up with stacks of stereotypical “creepy kids drawings”.

- He often winds up regressed in the middle of the night when they’re woken up by a very vivid nightmare (yay, trauma! /j). When he was alone or stuck at CCRP, they used to just spend the rest of the night crying, but now that he's with Wes, they always have someone to talk to and snuggle with after a bad dream.

Anyways good night it’s time for me to go to bed. Spent a solid 20 minutes writing these out because I really wanted to share these with someone and I’m so so glad you’re interested!

AAAAFJFKSKALA GOING CRAZY WOWIE

[claireandacat]

Simping over middle aged actors who don’t know I exist. An essay.

Maybe it’s just a general lady thing, but I have a tendency to crush on actors 10+ years older than me. Am I a lonely 26 year old lady waiting for her happily ever after while my catholic match profile is crickets?

You got me there.

But like seriously it is a general human thing to find someone attractive and to feel feels. It’s in everything, life, movies, music, ballet, art, history. Don’t get me started on my favorite Corinthians verse about love.

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a while now. I was basically inspired by Brittney Broski, who simps all the time and people relate to that and listen to her ramblings. I’m sure one other person out there is interested in hearing my simp interests. 😅😂

I have a top 5 of middle aged hot guys I absolutely love. All of these are crushes that started when I started getting crushes and I still find them attractive today as a 26 year old lady. In order of discovering and falling for them they are…

Ben Barnes

Robert Pattinson

Cillian Murphy

Sebastian Stan

Daniel Brühl

1. Ben Barnes

I was 11, snacks and dance class was life, the hormones were starting to kick in and the second Narnia movie had come out. I wasn’t much of a Narnia fan but I was forced to tag along with the after school program I was in to a showing of this movie as a last day of school celebration. Ben Barnes as Prince Caspian was FINE AF to my 11 year old eyes and heart. I fell for him like a ton of bricks and would get 11 year old girl fantasies of being Prince Caspian’s princess.

He is over 40 now and still fine as hell. His character in Shadow and Bone is amazing. He def plays dark personality characters very well. He has a singing career as well and his cover of River was in my top Spotify songs last year.

I love that he is in T-Mobile commercials now. He is perfect. He is THE ultimate hot British actor. I hope T-mobile paid him well because my man is talented and deserves to be more than just a face of T-Mobile. When I was stressed and on edge at my previous job at an urgent care, seeing his face on commercials always made my 12 hour shifts better.

I’m surprised he hasn’t been in some BBC new classic considering he is both British and adorable and would totally make a good heart throb protagonist?!

2. Robert Pattinson

I was in 6th grade and the Twilight books and craze was big at my middle school. Every other girl including myself was wearing team Edward or Team Jacob shirts. The Twilight movies also had come out. RPatz was the heartthrob of every girl. Move over Prince Caspian, Claire is grown and edgy and likes edgy hot guys that match 😂.

A couple years ago I watched his video on GQ where he takes a look into his career and decided to dive into some of these movies myself. His young self is cute as a button in the 4th Harry Potter movie even though his charming character has an unfortunate fate. He makes the perfect Batman, just add in the Chris Nolan plot and music and we got a perfect match. He totally captured the darkness and loneliness in Bruce Wayne/Batman.

Of course I HAD to see his Chris Nolan debut. If you read my other posts, you know I am a superfan for Christopher Nolan movies.

He is fine and cute in that movie. His performance is great. His performance in The King was also great. He def nailed that French accent.

He can be the American heart throb AND the British heart throb at the same time

3. Cillian Murphy

I’m 16. I’m into zombie movies and 28 days later is on BBC even though the plot and IMDb pictures are scary, I still ditch my chemistry homework to watch it. Totally fine with any nightmares I’ll probably get. Still my favorite zombie movie to this day and one of the few horror movies I’ll still watch since converting to Catholicism.

This is the first time I actually fell for an actor because of their performance and then I deep dived into other works he is casted in.

I love his intensity and dedication to roles as well as approach. Even during his small role in Dunkirk. I love the power and darkness he puts into Tommy Shelby. I mean have you seen the scenes where Tommy is in full blown rage? He goes from zero to rage effortlessly.

His performance in Oppenheimer deserves an Oscar and if he doesn’t get it I am rioting. He nailed the look. He nailed the sensory overload/overwhelmed looks. Just perfect.

I’d love to just have a Guinness with him and just discuss Irish culture and his career over.

4. Sebastian Stan

What is funny about this one is that for a bit I was a Steve Rogers stan. Like from ages 16-21 Steve was my man. That was until his friend Bucky stumbled upon in my dream one night. Originally that is how I knew Sebastian but then i stumbled upon The Devil All The Time where he has a small part as a corrupt small town sheriff and became curious.

Last summer I had a random dream about Sebastian whist I was simping on RPatz. Somehow my curiosity got me and I became a Bucky stan. Still to this day I simp over him, even though there’s another guy I’m simping over even stronger (see below).

He is just so fine and such a sweet human being. I read a buzz feed article about people who have met nice and cool celebrities and my Sebbys was on it. In that video he did for GQ of him reviewing his career, he is so humble, so genuine and always has something nice to say about everyone he works with.

And now the current middle aged actor I’m simping on…

5. Daniel Brühl

See my alienist blog post

Three words. Calm. Collected. German.

Well more like handsome, multilingual, and German 😂

Wes references aside, It all started with my curiosity with the movie Rush. I had only known Daniel as Zemo in the marvel movies so I thought let’s see his other filmography. I fell for Daniel like a pile of bricks. The eyes. The hair. The talent. It was really Dr. Laszlo Kreizler that did it for me. According to Niki Lauda himself (God Rest His Soul) Daniel is a “down to earth guy” like who doesn’t love that?! Plus being a wannabe #tradwife finds it so adorable that he has a wife and kids. I never want to cheat on those ever I’m not that lady. But there is something so cute to me about a man with a family. Then again that’s what all my fantasies are.

Like 🥹🥹🥹

He is a perf trad man vibes. Who doesn’t love that?! His character in Rush gives the same vibe too. I also love me a smart and sarcastic man like Dr. Kreizler. Then again I’ve been told Germans are just that way and being that I’m about 1/3 German I could just find that sexy in my blood 😂

In conclusion

I have one goal in common with these men. I want to see them each in a Chris Nolan movie AND a Wes Movie. Not one or the other. Both. Rpatz and Cillian are halfway there.

My top 5 of middle aged actors that I will forever simp on: honorable mentions

Matthew McConaughey - his performance in interstellar is so amazing I’m naming my son Joseph in honor of not only the OG St. Joseph himself but his character in Interstellar. Also is pro American and sometimes stars in comedies.

Adrian Brody- a Wes regular. And on Peaky Blinders. I love his variety. “I think it STINKS!!!”

Chris Evans- I was obsessed with him and Steve rogers during my late teens for a MINUTE. So he has to be included here.

Ryan Reynolds’s. He was pikachu and he is a family man and has a beautiful family with Blake Lively.

Honorable mentions but they’re actors I find hot but they’re my age (Oct 1996 or younger/older by 5 years)

Tom Holland. Fellow 1996 baby and I’m pretty sure he would’ve graduated in my class. Plus he is faithful, anti Hollywood actor, and a loveable dork. Also he does it all.

Timothee Chalamet- probs the Leo DiCaprio of my generation. Plus that jawline and hair. Hard to find a cutie with hair texture like mine.

Tony Ravilori. Also a fellow 1996 baby and Wes regular. Has a charming simplicity in his characters.

Freddie Highmore- I just love his performance in The Good Doctor.

If they’re my age I may have an expressed interest in their work because they’re my age. I’ll be seeing them in 40 years on tv looking as perfect as ever still and me with my greying hair will wonder where time went.

Harry Styles. I was a one Direction girl. Been following his solo work for a bit and he is a fellow 420 user 😂

Honorable mentions but they’re actors older than my parents

Wes Anderson. year older than my mom and he fine as hell on top of being my favorite director.

Jeff Goldblum -it’s Jeff Goldblum

I’m not too crazy about the honorable mentions but they’re still cool. I’d have a glass of wine or blunt with them. We all have our favorites on differentiating levels.

[everythingsinred]

I spent a whole day reading your Natsume analysis and am so excited to read Mikan's version. I wanted to ask about your thoughts on what Natsume was doing during the four years he was apart from Mikan. In Kageki, we learn that he took a lot of missions to get credit. But what do you think his mental state was like? Do you have any fic recs? I love making myself sad from Natsumikan angst.

hi! im so happy you read the natsume analysis! it makes me happy to hear people enjoyed it! i just recently made a table of contents for my essays and general ga postings so if you need help navigating the mikan essays, check out my pinned post <3

to answer your questions about what natsume was up to while mikan was gone, im pretty sure in kageki narumi mentioned that natsume had some negative behavior and attitude, but the extent of that is left vague. allegedly the missions he went on after she left were not alice-heavy or life-threatening but we know that one of those missions was to be toma's bodyguard and... bodyguarding tends to be dangerous? thats in the job description, pretty much literally. im not entirely sure how he was expected to bodyguard WITHOUT using his alice, but thats what they imply. did he take martial arts? did he carry a gun? who knows really. either way he should not have been permitted to continue doing any missions.

just in general, i think he was pretty depressed without mikan around. i mean natsume was in a HORRIBLE suicidal depression for two years before he met her and falling in love with her happened because she saw value in his life that he hadnt seen before. while she was there, he had developed a sense of purpose in his life and a will to live he hadnt had. it was bc of her that he started bonding with class b. now that shes gone, im sure hes very upset especially because its not certain he'll ever be allowed to see her again, granted he even lives that long.

but as much as i see him being depressed and a little miserable, he still has friends and a strong support system at the academy now. he has his best friend, plus the kids he allowed himself to befriend while mikan was around. theres pictures in the memorial book that depict middle-school aged natsume hanging out with The Boiz, and there's photographs in kageki that imply he wasnt completely isolating himself from his classmates during mikan's absence.

so with that in mind, i think he's depressed and sad about mikan being gone for sure, but he still has a will to live, a support system, and a sense of purpose (seeing mikan again) so that he isnt ENTIRELY devastated during those few years.

we can see when he reunites with her that he kinda expected her to remember him as soon as she saw him, and that gives us insight into how exactly he processed her stolen memories. (smth like, "she doesnt remember anything. so even if i did see her id probably have to make her fall in love w me again and im not even sure how i did it the first time! but she did love me right? i mean if she really loved me, she'd remember me eventually. i cant imagine forgetting her so im sure since she loved me that she'll remember as soon as she sees me!" and then he holds onto that thought so tightly that he ends up shocked that she doesnt remember). those thoughts probably kept him afloat too.

i really have mixed feelings about mikan leaving the academy in the first place though. i just dont think that plot point was executed very well so i never really got very into it.

as for fanfic recs, i cant think of many off the top of my head that have much to do with that time period of natsume on his own, but there is this one, (paths that lead home by MCaroba) which is about natsume going on a road trip with his friends!

as for angsty fics that are NOT related to that specific time period, here are some:

Ten Years to Date by November Romeo (the kids are assigned to write about their futures and natsume refuses. canon!verse one shot) (ps lots of her canon fics are in the same universe and theres a deal of angst involved there too, though her canon!verse fics take place in an alternate future of the kids in high school. i do recommend reading pretty much everything she's written for ga)

Tired by FearandLoathingXIX (hurt/comfort related to natsume's sickness. canon!verse one shot)

My Happy Ending by Little Miss Giggle (au where the kids go to a music school.... it starts off silly and fun but it gets pretty damn angsty. multichapter and one of the better known fics in the fandom)

Steal (my breath away) by Rock-n-Round (au one shot where alices exist but they're a bit weird and hard to explain. this one is EVISCERATING. and very beautiful)

Before You Hit the Ground by Ducky-san (au multi-chapter fic where mikan runs away from an abusive home and meets natsume who is in a gang against his will. i actually LOVE this fic so much... but it does contain some triggering material, like discussions of child abuse and implied sexual abuse.)

Right Before Your Eyes by pressuredtreasure (au... i don't think i can say much about this without spoiling it, but it's basically mikan missing natsume)

Oh Hello World also writes a lot of one shots, some of which are pretty angsty.

i'm really sad.... i was gonna link some other fics but i couldn't find them or remember their names and i'm scared they've been taken down. ah the pain of being in an old, less active fandom...

i also write fics too! ive only written aus so far (incidentally, not on purpose), but the angstiest is probably all things rancid and delicate, which is about mikan in a cult (it has a lot of dark elements to it)

im sorry if youre not much an au person, but i havent read much new ga ffn recently and not many good ones have survived the test of time it seems. it's all very sad. i miss reading fanfic all the time AND having lowered standards for gaffn specifically...

i hope i've answered your questions! if you have any other questions feel free to shoot me another ask! i love talking abt ga <3