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ablizmal · 1 year ago

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hello!! this is my selfship introductory post!!!

(i’m posting two versions of this post— one with all these lovely little gifs, and one without, as i know some people can be sensitive to them <33)

my dearly beloved selfship is lawliz 🥰 (or lawlizzie if i want it to sound even cuter lol).

it’s of. uhhhhhh. me and the sweets loving detective from death note/// 👉👈

(no this isn’t suggestive, it’s just y2k in-universe and i LOVE y2k clothing lol)

some basics on the selfship!!!

we appear to be solar opposites in a bunch of different ways!

he’s calm and collected, always keeping things to himself unless he wants to ruin someone’s entire life and be painfully blunt about something HAKDJAHDSJS. whereas i seemingly am open, emotional, and spirited!!

my alias is “juliette rae ambers” (YES i created a full ass pseudo name dhsjdkajdjajajs). but to distinguish me irl and in-selfship-universe me, i’ll refer to my self insert as “juliette” whenever i talk about them.

L first met juliette through a past case, as they did some SHADY looking shit lmao. she’s just that eccentric and erratic <333

SO after spending some time with her, he eventually realizes they’re not apart of the case. like at ALL. but L basically goes “okay. wait, what the fuck’s wrong with her actually?” and continues to spend time with them because of that HAHAJDJSJSKSJS (again— juliette is eccentric and unpredictable.)

watari brings up how excited and affectionate juliette gets whenever he catches a glimpse of them together. L doesn’t get why watari is bringing this up. watari suggests that perhaps, juliette has a crush on L.

yeah, so L’s brain crashes DHSKDJSKDJAJHSAKS

he didn’t even think of that as a POSSIBILITY because he views himself as undesirable, ugly, creepy, etc (🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺)

so L brings this up with juliette. she denies it terribly (because they’re such a mess when they’re flustered), but after relenting, L reveals that he brought it up because he’s interesting in learning more about it. he has trouble identifying his own emotions and hasn’t been in love before, so he asks me to be apart of a study. it’s just information, essentially, letters detailing specific sensations and lovey dovey thoughts i get of him.

i agree to it because i LOVE psychology and have always wanted to be apart of a psychological study!

but at this point, L isn’t in love with me. he slowly falls over time, much to his mental debates on if it’s “ethical” or not. (he’s overthinking it!!! ALSO, WOW, L thinking about morals when it comes to someone?? they must be a ~special someone~ to him 🤭)

the stoic character who keeps to himself is (mutually) in love with the visually expressive, musically inclined jester!!! (does this make sense 😭)

juliette is with L throughout the entire kira case. the first time the taskforce meets L, she’s just standing to his right side (it’s a whole thing) in a lolita getup, so they assume, like watari, that juliette is a maid to L of sorts. but NO, juliette just fucking LOVES fashion lmaooooooo

ANYWAYS, what i’m trying to get to is that juliette loves music. it connects to them on such a deep level, and they love to sing and entertain. so sometimes, as a break/interlude in the kira case, she sings and plays songs. (they’re oddly captivating… just like a performer at an event.)

L can’t have the taskforce knowing him and juliette’s interpersonal relationship, so he and juliette have silently agreed to refer to each other as “associates” whenever the question comes up.

juliette talks out loud a lot as a habit. but, again, she likes to be entertaining first and foremost, so she only says things she thinks will be the most intriguing. she can keep to herself just fine. but L knows. he knows how intentional everything they do is. he can relate, and is intrigued about this part of them. and without fail, he listens, catalogues, and responds to everything she says U///U because he caaaaares 🥹🥹🥹 (much to light’s annoyance during the case lol)

once misa starts to reside in the taskforce headquarters, you fucking KNOW she and juliette would become ✨fashion besties✨ヽ(>∀<☆)ノ 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

juliette is very silly, laidback, loose, witty, thoughtful, and compassionate. will and has been promptly serious when the time calls for it.

juliette has forced L to watch rocky horror with them so. many. times. it’s now their couple movie of sorts aha <3

juliette cannot STAND light. he’s such an arrogant bitch baby, so she insults and burns him constantly (which L… enjoys 👀 JFKSJFKSJDKSJS, HE LOVES THE FACT THAT I CAN DEFEND MYSELF AND THAT I’M NOT A DOORMAT)

it’s so interesting to listen to these two talk. cause like, L is formal, a bit oddly polite in his wording, and naturally uses long words here and there. juliette, on the other hand, is very casual in speech. she casually swears, she refers to others with “dude,” “bro,” and “man,” and uses some slang words here and there. the taskforce members gawk at the sheer contrast sometimes.

so juliette’s mainly goth, right?? misa introduces her to the fashion, and she fucking loves it. her usual goth color combo is hot pink and black!!

…buuuuuut, juliette likes fashion in general, so sometimes she wear “pretty in pink” ass y2k outfits, then at other times glam rock-y, then gritty type of clothing, then elegant, they girly, then—

L loves to see whatever outfit they come up with (he for sure spoils the FUCK out of her hahajdjsjsja awwwwwwwww 😊 <333)

THEY’RE LITERALLY THE “plain boyfriend + alt girlfriend” COUPLE DHSKDHKADJKASJKASJAJA

i could go on and on, but this is an INTRODUCTORY post, soo……….. these are the basics of their dynamic!! i will post art, fics, and just ramble posts in general talking about it!!! :]

you can find more content in my “accidental emo boy meets intentional goth girl(gender neutral)” tag on here, OR on my new, selfship only account @lawliz-indulgence !

i love this little selfshipping community, xxx (✿ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)

#accidental emo boy meets intentional goth girl(gender neutral)#juliette rae ambers #self ship promo #self shipper promo #lizzie screams #radtacular art!!!#selfshipping community #self shipping community #self ship community #selfship community #cw eyestrain #cw bright colors #cw flashing lights

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malikmata · 4 years ago

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Notes from a Brown Boy - Kansas Diaries

*Author’s Note: Some people’s names have been changed to protect their identities

The rain was the first thing to greet me when I landed in Wichita. Overhead the gray clouds loomed, shadowing the farmland that yawned in the distance. Distance. At first glance, the city seemed like one long stretch of prairies and cracked parking lots, occasionally punctuated by billboards of grinning injury lawyers and lit up restaurant road signs.

If you spend enough time here amid the crumbling old buildings, watching the weeds sway in the vacant lots, you’ll feel the slow, inevitable creep of dread or something like it.

It’s easy to feel lonely here.

But, if you’re receptive enough, you’ll run into many friendly folks. Sometimes too friendly.

For example: During my first week, I went to Freddy’s, a local fast food chain, and ordered a crispy chicken sandwich with fries. The cashier, a young woman with glasses and short blonde hair, suddenly started confessing her fear that her 8-year old chihuahua wouldn’t live a long life.

“I still think of him as a teenager,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s a chihuahua. They live long lives.”

Out here, in the most middle-of-the-road cities, you sometimes get a chance to show an act of passing kindness. While waiting in line at one of the hip, new cafes downtown, a place called Milkfloat, a tall elderly gentleman recommended which coffee and pastry to get.

“My wife says this place has the best cold brew in town.” Afterwards, grabbing his pastry and coffee, he wished me a good day. Most folks here always do and you better hope it comes true. Because here, like elsewhere, a day is filled with ordinary heartbreaks.

I will simply call her “Tita.” She works as a tailor at a department store, the only tailor working there, hemming and tapering racks full of suit pants under fluorescent lights. The nature of the job requires exact measurements and a keen eye for detail. She works hard, often skips lunch, and comes home dead tired. Her husband is recovering from 4 broken ribs after a car repair job went awry. Nothing can be done but wait until he gets better.

They live in a languid suburb on Wichita’s east side, a street with few sidewalks but plenty of lawn.

And noise. Plenty of noise. The neighborhood sits next to a car dealership. The skies overhead rumble continuously with airplanes and thunderstorms. Dogs bark at anyone who gets too close. A pickup truck blasts a corny country song as the cicadas and frogs belt out their lonely mating calls. Occasionally, a child’s laughter rises above it all.

Gossip is one of the great pastimes in towns like these. Even if you shut yourself up in your home, stories trickle in.

The neighbor across the street shot himself in the head.

The elderly couple that used to live next door got committed to a nursing home.

A fellow around the corner is on his third attempt to grow weed.

A college student starves himself morning to night so that he can save money for college.

Down the street, a kid lifts weights and punches the heavy bag hanging on his front porch.

Here, dumb luck seems, more so than in the big cities, the providence of God.

A man told me he got a job installing new carpets at a friend’s house. He was in desperate need of money, having sent most of it to his mother back home, who proceeded to gamble it away. When he ripped out the old carpet, he found a bundle of $10,000 dollars just lying there. His co-worker said, “We should split it.”

“No, no, we can’t take it.” the man said. He gave the money to his friend.

Sometime later, he went to the casino and couldn’t stop winning jackpot after jackpot. He brought home close to $16,000 in one night.

“So, if you do something good,” he told me, “God will remember that.”

Many people have come to live and die here, all of them wrapped up in the melancholic churning of faded ambitions and familial obligations.

Some people here have found something that returns them to the placidity they once felt in their youth. Sometimes that’s enough to keep them going.

For example:

I met Phil Uhlik, the namesake of the music store on E Douglas. He heard me playing an old Martin acoustic in one of the rooms. He shuffled in slightly hunched over, wearing a blue paisley shirt and brown shorts. He looked at the sunburst guitar in my hands and said, “It’s got a little beauty mark there.” He pointed to a small nick just above the sound hole. “All girls have beauty marks.” He pointed to his cheeks and smiled.

Uhlik started this music store 51 years ago and enjoys every moment of it.

“When you go to work for Boeing, that’s work,” he said. “But this, it doesn’t feel like work.” He motioned to the instruments all around him.

“How’d you get started?” I asked.

“I started off playing one of these,” he said, taking one of the accordions off a nearby shelf. As he strapped it on, all the years seemed to disappear. With a big crooked-teeth grin, he breathed life into the old accordion, his hands dancing up and down the keys. The smile never left his face as we bid farewell to each other.

I wish everyone in this world were as lucky as Phil.

I’m always seeking indie bookstores when I travel. Eighth Day Books provides much needed shelter from the summer heat. The shop was built 33 years ago and used to be located about half a mile east, in Clifton Square Village. About 17 years ago they moved to their current location, a 1920 Dutch-style colonial house on the corner of E Douglas and N Erie. Its blue trimmed windows peek through the foliage of neighboring trees.

When you walk in, you’ll see shelves of books on Christianity and Theological studies, most notably in the Eastern Orthodox tradition. I’ve never seen a bookshop with a section dedicated to Iconography.

Wichita, despite its size, feels like a small place. And with that cramped spaciousness, you’re likely to run into someone you may remember or who may remember you. Here I ran into my girlfriend’s 8th grade English teacher. A bald, bespectacled man with a gentle demeanor. After a bit of catching up, he said to us with a smile, “I hope all your dreams come true.”

The short story writer, Raymond Carver, once wrote: “Dreams… are what you wake up from.”

Wichita is a land that hypnotizes you; it makes you dream, dream of something beyond the miles of strip malls and airplane factories, beyond the shocks of wheat and windswept plains, beyond the doldrums and ennui. But it also shakes you awake, reminds you that you’re in it, that you better stop dreaming.

I’m not the religious sort anymore, having survived the regime laid down by my Catholic parents. But there is something enthralling, maybe even inspirational, when I look at the rows of beautifully painted portraits of saints and martyrs. Such solemn faces surrounded by golden halos. According to the Eastern Orthodox tradition, such paintings transcend art; they’re supposed to be windows through which you can glimpse the divine. They remind me of my grandparents with their judging eyes and moral seriousness.

My book haul for the day:

Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata

The Diary of Anne Frank

Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries by Marina Tsvetaeva

Near to the Wild Heart by Clarice Lispector

In that last book, I found this lovely little passage:

…”in the Revolution, as always, the weight of everyday life falls on women: previously--in sheaves, now in sacks. Everyday life is a sack with holes. And you carry it anyway.”

From Earthly Signs, P. 40

According to the 2019 United States census bureau, 15.9% of Wichita's population lives below the poverty line. That’s higher than the state average, which hovers around 11.4%. That’s not the lowest nor is it the highest in the country. As befitting its location, Kansas is right in the middle.

The minimum wage in Kansas is still $7.25 despite efforts to increase it to $15. When Covid-19 hit, city and service workers bore the brunt of the impact. You can keep all your empty slogans like “We Love Our Frontline Workers.” Congratulate me all you want for my hard work but where’s my pay?

When you see that business here has returned to normal--people freely walking around without masks, no longer socially distancing--it still feels all too strange; we spent an entire year under lockdown. There’s still a pandemic by the way.

Loved ones fell ill, died alone, hooked up to ventilators in closed off hospital rooms. I believe every interaction now carries the weight of all those deaths. My family, like so many others, didn’t escape unscathed from the pandemic. My grandpa, Amang, caught Covid. Since he was an elderly citizen (and suffering from emphysema to boot), he was among those considered most at risk. We all feared the worst. Somehow he survived. The doctors called him a “trailblazer.”

Now, with businesses back to 100% capacity, I’m afraid that, just like the 1918 Flu epidemic, the past will fade like a nightmare upon waking. But it was so much more than that; it was an avoidable tragedy.

If you want to know what this pandemic has done to people and their livelihoods, is still doing to them, take a ride through downtown.

Things were already going bad before Covid hit. Back in 2004, the writer Thomas Frank wrote,

“There were so many closed shops in Wichita… that you could drive for blocks without ever leaving their empty parking lots, running parallel to the city streets past the shut-down sporting goods stores and toy stores and farm implement stores.”

What’s the Matter with Kansas: How Conservatives Won the Heart of America, P. 75

What led to all this blight? Frank attributes the decline to:

“the conservatives’ beloved free market capitalism, a system that, at its most unrestrained, has little use for smalltown merchants or the agricultural system that supported the small towns in the first place.”

-P. 79

The same story happens in a lot of places. A megacorporation keeps eating everything around it and leaves nothing else at the table.

The people are left hurting, a pit in their stomachs, and some asshole somewhere profits off of it.

While at the DMV, I overheard this:

“You have a good day now,” the security guard said.

“I’ll try my best,” a woman said.

My girlfriend heard them too and laughed.

“You really do have to try your best in order to have a good day here.”

At some point, we hit the town with a couple friends: Monica, and her boyfriend Will. Both are musicians trying to carve out their niche in a place that, on the surface, seems apathetic to creative pursuits.

It’s impossible to not be captured by their energy. As soon as we walk into their house, Monica, with her dark blonde hair draped over her shoulders, reached in for a hug. Will, a tall and bearded fellow with a bear-like presence, also went in for the hug.

“Ready to experience some Wichita nightlife?” Monica asked.

What is the nightlife here like? A group of high school punks wanted to fight us over a couple movie theater seats. Bored kids play rounds of “Chinese Fire Drill” at stop lights. I heard a nazi biker gang rolled into town at some point during my stay. Regular things like that.

At a low-key bar downtown called Luckys, I met a guy named Cory. He told me how he met a 15 year old kid loitering here, looking lost and forlorn.

“I don’t know what kind of advice I can give you but I’ll do the best I can,” Cory said.

This is the spirit I’ve often come across during my stay: A sort of slightly intrusive compassion. For a cynical Californian like me, the behavior seems a little strange, maybe even a little annoying. But I’ve come to appreciate the candor of it.

“Guaranteed we’ll know half the people here,” Will said.

Right away, he shook hands with the bartender—a high school friend of his—and asked him how his band was doing. Afterwards, we sat down and talked. Talking, after a year of pandemic lockdown, has become a lost art to me. But a little alcohol loosened the lips and suddenly I talked as though I’d known these people my whole life.

Will sipped his whisky on the rocks and told me:

“If everything in this world is meant to break down eventually, then any act of creation becomes an act of defiance.”

It may sound naive but to me, it’s true. I think about the words of the writer, John Berger:

Compassion defies the laws of necessity. To forget yourself and identify with a stranger has a power that defies the supposed natural order of things.

--The Shape of a Pocket, P. 179

Making art has to be, in some way, a compassion act, because it involves letting the environment and the people you meet speak for themselves, allowing a collaboration.

“When a painting is lifeless it is the result of the painter not having the nerve to get close enough for a collaboration to start… Every authentic painting demonstrates a collaboration.”

--The Shape of a Pocket, P. 16

You need to open yourself up, feel what someone is saying behind their words, and hopefully, feel what they feel.

Art, like Compassion, is defiant.

Among the 4 or so Asian markets here, you can find all the ingredients you need to cook up something good. During my first week, I stopped at a place called Grace Market. Like a lot of small Asian markets, it’s family run. A father from Taiwan. A mother from Korea. The son usually helps out when he can. Today (June 23), On this warm Wednesday morning, the son is manning the cash register.

“You’re from California? I’m from there too,” he said.

“Where at?” I asked.

“Sacramento. How about you? So Cal?”

“Nah, Bay Area.”

“Funny. That’s where my parents met.”

“Small world.”

On a different day, we met the father, a jovial man who never fails to say hi when you walk in. He came here over a couple decades ago from California, doing work for the US Army in Garden City. Once his service was over, he decided to stay in Kansas.

“I think you know why,” he said.

More and more young folks these days are leaving California. The high cost of living is presumably what’s driving this exodus. I told him I was also thinking of leaving the Golden State, as much as I love the place.

“Well, a town like this has a lot of potential if you want to save money,” he said. “If I tried to start this business in California, I don’t think I could’ve done it.”

The summer heat can, with the suddenness of a lightning flash, give way to thunderous storms. Speaking as someone from California, whose home has gone through excruciating periods of drought and wildfire, these nightly downpours are a startling yet relaxing sight.

The distant boom of thunder in the distance reminds you of how much of our lives depend on the weather, how small we are in comparison, how we are never separate from the goings-on of nature. The rain doesn’t come down lightly here. At night, it smacks and drums against the window pane with all the force of an animal trying to get inside.

But I don’t find myself frightened by it so much as awed by the combined power of wind and rain colliding against our rickety old house.

Kansas lies in the Great Plains, where layers of cool and warm air often combine into a low-level jet stream. Unimpeded by any natural obstacles on the wide flat plains, the wind roars across the expanse. Thunder growls over the prairie. And lightning flashes on the horizon in a fearsome red tinge.

The storm rages throughout the night, the only source of light in an ocean-sized plain.

“In general, the gods of the Wichita are spoken of as "dreams," and they are divided into four groups: Dreams-that-are-Above (Itskasanakatadiwaha), or, as the Skidi would say, the heavenly gods; and (2) Dreams-down-Here (Howwitsnetskasade), which, according to the Skidi terminology, are the earthly gods. The latter "dreams" in turn are divided into two groups: Dreams-living-in-Water (Itska-sanidwaha), and the Dreams-closest-to-Man (Tedetskasade)”

From The Mythology of the Wichita, P. 33

If you go downtown, you’ll see a sculpture called “The Keeper of the Plains.”

It’s almost 9 o’ clock when I get there, so large crowds have gathered to watch the ring of fire lit around its perimeter.

The statue was designed by indigenous artist and craftsman, Blackbear Bosin. Born in Cyril, Oklahoma, but living much of his adult life in Wichita, Kansas, Bosin was of Comanche and Kiowa descent and almost entirely self-taught as an artist.

When you come upon the Keeper of the Plains, standing tall on the fork of the Arkansas and Little Arkansas Rivers, you can’t help but feel a mix of admiration and sadness. It’s a striking statue, especially when set against the beautiful orange and lavender hues of the setting sun. But monuments like these end up reminding you of the Wichita peoples who were killed, displaced, driven from their land, and left to die in reservations, forgotten. The tribes that once lived here along the southern plains still show traces of their culture but now, you’ll see it mostly as a memory in a museum or as art hanging on the walls of a library.

I learned from a video by the Wichita Eagle that the last speaker of the Wichita language, Doris Jean Lamar, died back in 2016. It must be indescribably lonely to be the last speaker of a language. There is no one to have a conversation with, no one to whom you can confess your hopes or your regrets. But in the video, Lamar, even knowing that she is the last speaker, expresses hope that future generations will know what the language sounded like.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ScPkN_xGRI

Is forgiveness even possible when injustices are still committed today against native peoples everywhere?

Not enough can be said about the skies here, which seem at times so brilliantly marbled with peach and lavender colors that you begin to walk with your head perpetually craned upwards.

It’s this aspect, the overwhelming sense of the sublime, that will probably stay with me long after I’ve left Kansas.

I think again about the nature of dreams. It isn’t such a sin to dream about things, about things that haven’t happened yet, and about things that have happened. To quit dreaming seems too cynical, like admitting from the outset that everything is screwed, that you should stop trying.

During my stay here, I’ve met many people who aren’t so irony poisoned yet, people who are achingly sincere and kind. They haven’t stopped trying. There isn’t much room for cynicism here. I appreciate that a lot.

Farewell to you, Kansas, you and your clumps of cumulus and vast fields of cows and grass. I’ll see you again.

Check out Will’s music! It’s gloomy, melancholy, and LOUD!: https://teamtremolo.bandcamp.com/album/intruder

#diary #photoblog #photo diary #midwest #kansas #travel diaries

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and-then-yoi-happened · 7 years ago

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As I promised in my follower celebration post, I wanted to spread some love through a fic rec post! And now I finally came around to make it! ＼( ˵´ ♡｀˵)／

I’m sorry for not going into detail what I loved about them here or leave comments here, because I’m trying to keep the post’s length under control. All of these 17 fics (and 2 comics) deserve a commentary and a detailed recommendation post of their own and I hope I’ll find the time to do that for all of them one day.

Please share this post (and the love), so more people can see the recommendations. Also if you start reading some of these, please consider leaving the writers a Kudos and maybe even a comment. We writers love feeling recognised and cherished! It motivates us to write on ♡ The order in which I name the fics is random.

My Top Three Favourite Fics (all Multi-Chapters):

Listen, I love all three of them so much. I binge read them all when I found them. They all made me feel so many things and I might have cried now and then while reading any of them (for different reasons). Those are fics I would reread - I don’t even know how often. They are just so incredibly well done.

Empty Spaces Between Stars (WIP) by astudyinrose [ E | creator choose not to use archive warnings (mind the notes to the chapters!) | Victuuri | canon universe / AU canon divergence / fake relationship AU | 17/? | 185k ] Summary: Victor gets just as drunk as Yuuri at the Sochi Banquet, and they disappear together after the dance-offs. They wake up the morning after with rings on their fingers, and pictures of them kissing after getting married the night before are all over the tabloids... but neither of them remembers a thing. They decide to stay married for a while for the sake of Victor's sponsorships, and in exchange, Victor coaches Yuuri through nationals...

Dance of the Red Death by Strange and Intoxicating -rsa- [ M | no archive warnings (no MCD, despite the story dealing with AIDS, so read the FAQ and the tags first!) | Victuuri | canon universe / AU canon divergence | 11/11 | 80k ] Summary: Find something to live for.Viktor Nikiforov loved too much. What begins as a cough morphs into something that takes the shape of an unseen monster hiding in his very blood. With the Russian government scrambling to sweep under the rug the worst of a crisis that's been thirty-five years in the making and a society that sees his disease as a death sentence, Viktor is left with figuring out his own way to survive.It starts as a way to escape— a youtube video of music and color and light, but quickly becomes something he never expected when Yuri Katsuki teaches him that surviving is not living. Yuri teaches him that living is taking the jump into unknown and accepting all that comes with it.This is not a story of anger. This is not a story of fear. This is not even a story of pain. This is a 21st Century love overcoming the obstacles of the 20th Century's politics of fear.This is a story of life. Complete + Epilogue + FAQ

Come Out of Hiding (I’m Right Here Beside You) by osaki_nana_707 [ M/E (not rated by the author) | creator choose not to use archive warnings (check the tags & notes!) | Victuuri | Music AU / Actors AU / Broadway AU | 33/33 | 84k ] Summary: After forgetting the words to his song during a vocal competition as a teenager, Yuuri Katsuki decided singing was not for him. Instead he went to NYU to study English. He never expected Viktor Nikiforov, Broadway star extraordinaire looking to direct his first production on the stage, would ever find his up-and-coming lead... in him.

Humour/Comedy (oneshots):

All of them brought me to tears, made me wheeze and lose my voice completely - that’s how much I had to laugh. If you have difficulties with second-hand embarrassment and it ruins the fun for you, then maybe skip “Bottom’s Up”.

Nikiforov’s Law by LavenderProse [ T | no warnings | Victuuri | CSI AU | 8.1k ] Summary: “I’m a garbage monster,” Yuuri tells Phichit, staring at Viktor through the glass walls of the lab. Viktor has not been in the same room with him since what the denizens of the lab are now calling The Belle Isle Incident. “He looks at me and he thinks dumpster decomp and swamp. I hate my life.” “You’re a very pretty garbage monster,” says Phichit, watching a centrifuge work. “A garbage monster he wants to fuck.” Yuuri Katsuki is a dime a dozen CSI with the Detroit Crime Lab who has never had a conversation with Detective Viktor Nikiforov that did not end in disaster. He's beginning to think that the entire universe is conspiring to make him a fool in front of handsome blond detectives. The universe is doing nothing to prove him wrong.

The Unknown Unknown by opalish [ T | no warnings | Victuuri | Superhero AU | 7.4k ] Summary: Yuuri never meant to become a supervillain. These things just happen to him.

Night is Young and the Music’s High by opalish [ T | no warnings | Victuuri | post canon | 3k ] Summary: “Best press conference ever,” the Japanese Nationals silver medalist says when asked. “Ten out of ten, would medal again.” “I would die for Katsuki-kun,” Minami declares, with terrifying sincerity.

The Katsulanont Guide To Life (series of oneshots) by xylophones [ G/T | no warnings | Yuuri & Phichit (friendship) | pre canon | 4.2k / 3k ] Summary: College life shenanigans brought to you by Yuuri and Phichit!

Bottom’s Up by lucycamui and cryingoverspilledvodka [ T | no warnings | Victuuri | Sochi GPF banquet | 3.3k ] Summary: At the Grand Prix banquet, Victor’s been asked to sign an autograph for a very enthusiastic fan. Unfortunately, there’s a distinct lack of paper around. Fortunately, Yuuri has a suggestion. Alternatively titled, “Ever Seen An Ass So Fine You Had To Sign It ‘Mine’? or "Autograph Me (Wherever You’d Like)”

Canon Universe (oneshots):

Here’s some Fluff-therapy coming your way ღゝ◡╹ )ノ♡

Pink Leopard Print Pajamas by thishasbeencary [ G | no warnings | Victor & Yuri P. (friendship) | pre canon / developing friendship / cute tiny Yura and Victor fluff | 3.3k ] Summary: Yakov told Viktor that he had to socialize with more skaters. He didn't mean the ones who were too young to even compete as juniors. But he wasn't going to stop his top skater from inviting ten-year-old Yuri Plisetsky over to spend the night. He just... sort of thought that Yuri would refuse.

The Boy Who Watched by Rosie_Rues [ T | no warnings | Victuuri | pre canon | 12.5k ] Summary: Despite the fact they've been competing in the same competitions for years, Victor Nikiforov doesn't meet Katsuki Yuuri until the Sochi Grand Prix Final. On the other hand, there's a boy who's been watching him for years and Victor's desperate to know his name.In which Victor pines, everybody drinks too much, and Yakov deserves a sainthood for putting up with these idiots. Basically, it's a decade's worth of near misses, misunderstandings, and pure obliviousness.

Something So Wholesome About You by crossroadswrite [ G | no warnings | Victuuri | canon divergence AU / Vicchan lives | 3.5k ] Summary: It was supposed to be his year. He was supposed to-Celestino stops talking and squeezes his shoulder. Yuuri looks up at him, opens his mouth to say something when someone says his name. He freezes, holds his breath for a full second against the painfully familiar voice, not daring to hope. Then, very slowly, he turns towards the source, eyes going wide with disbelieve. “Mari?” (Or: in which Vicchan lives, Yuuri doesn't quite fail and doesn't quite get drunk, but manages to accidentally woo Victor Nikiforov anyway.)

The Way to a Man’s Heart-Shaped Smile by La_Temperanza [ T | no warnings | Victuuri | post canon | 6.1k ] Summary: In fact, it’s probably faster to list the foods that Viktor doesn’t like than all the ones he does. Except, Yuuri realizes one evening after he and Viktor are sharing a platter of gyoza and play-fighting for the last one--which Viktor wins, only because he cheated by tickling Yuuri’s ribs--he doesn’t know the answer to that, leaving a huge gaping hole in his Viktor Nikiforov database.This obviously needs to be rectified. (Or the one where Yuuri seduces Viktor with food without realizing it.)

Alternate Universe settings (oneshots):

A wild mix, but all are highly recommended!

Duetto Appassionato by astudyinrose [ E | creator chose not to use archive warnings | Victuuri | classical music AU / musician AU | 9.9k ] Summary: Yuuri Katsuki, 23, has been the Detroit Symphony Orchestra’s ace pianist for the past two years. Victor Nikiforov, violinist extraordinaire and living legend of the orchestral world, is the guest soloist for the DSO’s winter series. He asks Yuuri to play a duet he composed, titled On Love: Eros. Basically, this is shameless smutty musician au one shot (it was supposed to be a PWP, but I couldn’t resist adding in some plot) based on the Yuri!!! On Concert art that just came out. Enjoy!

Puppy Love by minsyah [ T | no warnings | Victuuri | neighbors AU / meet-cute | 15.7k ] Summary: Vicchan has a crush on their neighbor across the balcony, and so does his owner. Yuuri, certified Dog-Dad™, will do anything for his beloved poodle—even if that means constantly embarrassing himself in front of his devastatingly attractive neighbor.

Send Your Cutest Delivery Boy by domokunrainbowkinz [ G | no warnings | Victuuri | college AU / meet-cute | 2.5k ] Summary: Victor orders pizza and puts "send your cutest delivery boy" in the special instructions box, and Domino's does, indeed, send their cutest delivery boy. Based off this.

If This City Will Bloom by RennieOnIceCream (Hitsugi_Zirkus) [ G | creator chose not to use archive warnings | Victuuri | magical realism / Flower Spirit!Yuuri | 9k ] Summary: “Viktor, do you know what cherry blossoms mean?” “What they mean?” Viktor tilts his head, surprised at the sudden question. “They can mean beauty. Or a good education. Cherry blossoms generally bloom around the time the new school year starts.” Yuuri’s eyes are unwavering on Viktor, and the colors shift in the dark irises again. “But they also mean impermanence.” Impermanence -- transient. Not lasting forever.The word sends a ripple of fear through Viktor. (Or, the story where Viktor accidentally brings home a cherry blossom spirit from Japan, and his life and heart are turned upside-down.)

A Midwinter Night’s Dream (part one of a series, I’m still praying it gets continued) by persephoneggsy [ G | no warnings | Victuuri | fairy AU / fantasy AU | 7.1k ] Summary: Victor Nikiforov, Prince of the Fae Realm, meets a young blue fairy and thinks nothing of it. But then the years pass, and he meets him again.

Comics:

Because why not?!

My Reasons (WIP) by adreamorasong-art [ T (maybe E in the future) | no warnings | Victuuri | canon compliant / canon retelling ] This is an amazing comic series by my friend Mari. She draws in realistic style and completely retells season 1 (with added, missing scenes).

Bright Star by butleronice [ G | MCD (but apparently not what one would think) | Victuuri | galactic AU ] There is an accompanying fic. (I haven’t read that one yet.) Summary: Yuuri is a star, sparkling brilliantly in some far reaches of the galaxy. One day, his lonely life is changed, when a dazzling and brilliant comet enters his orbit.

Unfortunately I barely had time to read anything lately and my to-read list is... scaringly long by now. I’m thinking of making a similar post to this one, but with fics that I can’t wait to read! Anyway, you can find even more fics in my ao3 bookmarks, which I use to recommend fics. If you want to, you’re more than welcome to read my stuff as well. (ღ ´◡`)ノ♡

#yuri on ice #yoi fanfics #victuuri #my fanfic recommendations #long post #SHARE ALL THE LOVE #1k followers celebration #thank you all so much! <3

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greypatrick-blog · 6 years ago

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{ CHARLIE COX, 33, cismale, he/him, muse f } welcome friend! you know, i just saw PATRICK GREY in town. it’s good to see them. they’ve been staying in town for ONE YEAR and making a living as a WAR VETERAN. not too bad. i hear they can be a bit STUBBORN, but KIND. so, really who blames them? i hear they’ve been thinking about STARTING A NEW LIFE IN AMERICA. good for them. { Jude, 28, GTM-3, she/her }

Hello everyone. This is Jude. I’ll be joining the group as Patrick. Down below you can find his bio. I’ll soon be posting some plots I’d be interested in. However, if you want to start plotting right now feel free to hit my inbox. Please, mind the trigger warnings before reading.

Patrick is the youngest of three brothers. He was born and raised in the Ipswich, England. Their family fairly healthy, and they lived a comfortable life. As a kid he was fairly interested in music, he even took some piano lessons, but was never particularly good at it. Nevertheless, he grew up to be a talented man. Like his brother, when Patrick was old enough he was sent to London in order to attend King’s College.

Going to London opened up his horizons, and he started to explore new possibilities, he took his degree in the art department. He was following his heart, even though this wasn’t what his Parent’s expected of him, they hoped Patrick would find a job and get married and have children, like his older brothers. Instead, he met a young man named Roger Gillian, passioned by life like he was, who could play the guitar like an angel and ended up stealing Patrick's heart.

Of course, coming out as gay would be too shocking to his family. So they always kept things quiet. The lovebirds moved to a house in the suburbs. Patrick worked on the fine art department of King’s college while Roger had a part-time job at a local pub and would play around town at night. On the weekends they hosted parties and Roger would teach Patrick to play. They didn’t have much, but they loved each other. Nevertheless, when the war broke, Patrick saw himself called by duty. All his brother were signed up and were ready to fight. He couldn't be any different. He needed to protect the people he loved. He believed he was making his country a service, but little did he know this was the beginning of the end.

Roger tried to go back to his hometown in America, stay safe far from the madness Europe was. However, Roger died during a German attack on the island. Patrick was just devastated. He lost most of the joy he had in life. Honestly, he hoped he never ever did it make it out alive. Even when the war was over, he would never see another happy day without Roger to bright up his life. He thought he finally would meet his beloved one again in when one of the bays was taken, enemy’s aircraft threw bombs over the English troops. He remembers well his body being carried away by the blast, his head hitting against something hard and when it was all dark he whispered his lover’s name.

Maybe by divine intervention, maybe by chance, Patrick didn’t die that day. He was rescued in time to survive but was heavily injured. He was in a coma for several months. When he woke up, he found out that the war was over, and he didn’t have to worry about not being able to see Roger’s smile anyway. His injuries were too severe, and he lost his sight completely. People said he was lucky. That he should be dead. Patrick wasn’t so sure, though.

He was sent back his home in Ipswich where his mother told him he was the only man in the family who had made it through the war alive. And this made him feel even worse. Patrick saw himself deeply depressed. He felt useless, lacking the motivation to live another day. But he had to try it a little more, for his mother. They only had each other now. Unable to work and with so little income from the retirement, Patrick and his mother had to grow accustomed to little. The little food and lack of wood to warm up the home were probably the reason for a serious pneumony to grow into Patrick’s mother’s lungs.

Mrs Grey joined her other children some years later. And Patrick was the only one left behind. He lost Roger, his father, his brothers... and now his mother. Patrick missed them. That was what triggered him to go to a pub, and drink as much as he could. And instead of going home, he would jump out of the River Orwell bridge. However, a song started playing, "We Will Meet Again”, sang by a beautiful lady voice. The lyrics made Patrick cry and he changed his plans for the night.

Patrick decided to move to Redwater, where Roger was from had spoken so much on how great it was. He wasn’t really sure what he would do there. But he was finally done with his grief, and want to try to live again.

TL;TR version

Patrick was born in Ipswich, England.

He went to London for college.

He met a boy there, an American musician named Roger, who he fell in love with and they decided to live together.

Patrick was sent to fight in the war.

Meanwhile, Roger was killed during a German attack.

Patrick was in bombing incident and lost his sight.

He came back to Ipswich to stay with his mother.

She died some years after of pneumony.

Patrick then was planning a suicide when he heard a beautiful song that made him change his plans.

He decided to move to Redwater, Roger’s hometown, and try a new life.

WANTED CONNECTIONS/PLOTS

Hunting Past: Patrick’s late lover, Roger, was from Redriver, and although he didn’t keep much in touch with his family, there might have been someone who misses him. Someone from his family, friends, ex-boyfriends, this is totally up to you. Their relationship can be either a supportive one (sharing good memoried and going together through their grief) or a destructive one (maybe this relative/friend even blames Patrick’s for Roger’s death).

Camarades: People who Patrick had fought alongside during the war. People who have to know his worse side, and might be surprised to learn that he his actually someone sweet.

A new love interesses: Patrick is still very wounded by the things that happened to him lately. But slowly he is learning how to move forward, and it’s time for him to meet someone to love. However, this won’t be an easy task, since Patrick might be still hunted by some ghosts. (Note: this connection must be a male).

Friends: People who are kind enough to keep Patrick company. He is rather a lonely man.

A volunteer reader: someone who could stop by his place every now and then to read him the newspaper, or even a book. They would be paid on tea and biscuits, and maybe some nice conversations.

Students: Patrick knows a lot about music, and would be willing to teach people how to play the piano, the bass, accordion, and even the guitar (his personal favourite).

#redwaterintro #tw: war #tw: bombs #tw: death #tw: sucide mention

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believermag · 8 years ago

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Something Happened on the Day He Died

Jordan A. Rothacker on David Bowie

On Friday, January 8th 2016, David Bowie turned sixty-nine and his final album Blackstar, was released. I purchased it that morning, having waited for months. On the following day I sat for a black star tattoo straight from the album cover; a recent writing project was lousy with black stars and I felt more than ever that Bowie and I were on the same wave. After a weekend of listening to the album I was awoken Monday morning, January 11th 2016 by my wife, “before you look at your phone, Bowie passed away yesterday.” She was right, my text messages were as full as my Facebook feed with tearful and shocked notifications from friends, but I was glad I heard it from her first.

It took until December of 2016 for me to finally read Simon Critchley’s little book, Bowie (OR Books/Counterpoint, 2016). I’ve wanted this book since it came out in 2014 and I remember reacting, “a book by one of my favorite living philosophers on one of my favorite living everythings? Yes, please.” Luckily I put it off until this 2016 re-issue with extra chapters treating Bowie’s death and final album. Although most of the book was written more than two years ago it is hard not to read the whole thing eulogistically. His spirit goes on though, now more than ever, as the last dreadful year has come to a close. I lost of close friends and faith in my country, but now my thoughts turn back to Bowie with hope his art can carry me forward.

What have I lost in Bowie? For the most part, the same things we all have: the chance for more music, more movie appearances, and just the knowledge that he is out there being brilliant and dashing, making art, and giving a wry smile to a paparazzo. What have I lost personally? True confession time. I have always dreamed of knowing Bowie (I’ve never even seen him perform live), but more so, and more embarrassingly, I’ve always wanted him to know me. I’d hoped one day he would read one of my books and like it. That moment of mutual respect between artists, that bump to my sense of worth from an artist who has helped shape my understanding of the world, art, and myself.

This is why sometimes Critchley’s book feels like it’s talking to me or for me. I haven’t read much about Bowie. He is mine and my feelings for him and about him need not be mediated. Critchley’s book however is now added to a small list of my favorite Bowie books which also includes Hugo Wilcken’s Low and Steve Erickson’s These Dreams of You.

Critchley’s book praises Wilcken’s so I’ll start there and circle around back. Wilcken’s Low (Continuum, 2010) doesn’t need a book review; it’s kinda perfect (I say kinda since perfect is such a strong word). It’s one of the best 33 1/3s I’ve read, and I’ve read a lot. I’m a sucker for this series of tiny books on albums of music as I have always suffered from that most Cartesian of obsessions in regards to my most beloved art works, the need to know how he, she, or they did it. The reverse engineering of a work gives me faith that maybe I could also do or make something comparable. Wilcken’s Low is like the sweetest of candies; I wanted to devour and savor all at once, which is difficult with such a short book. Wilcken chose Low because it was a definitive turning point in Bowie’s body of work and during maybe the most beloved period in the myth of the artist. In 136 pages the reader experiences a thorough historical context for the album and detailed production notes for each song as well as each song. The most important moments I savor from this book are descriptions of his work ethic and the well-researched information about his time in Berlin.

After a teenage obsession with Ziggy Stardust, the Berlin years have always been my favorite period and that’s where Erickson’s These Dreams of You (Europa Editions, 2012) comes in, illustrating the Berlin years in the subplot of a larger novel. The book is about a white novelist, Alexander “Zan” Nordhoc, and his family. The narrative opens with the election of Barack Obama not long after their adoption of a little Ethiopian girl with gray eyes named, Zema (mostly called, Sheba). The structure involves small paragraph vignettes familiar from Erickson’s last Europa novel, Zeroville, but otherwise from the start of my first read I wondered, “is Steve Erickson actually writing a domestic family novel? Where is the trademarked weirdness I love so much?” My worries were for naught, for after about fifty pages it started getting weird, and oh so wonderfully weird. Ultimately it is a novel about race in America and therefore about America itself. On the second page, watching the first black president’s victory, Zan wonders, “Do I have the right… as a middle-aged white man, to hold my face in my hands? and then thinks, No. And holds his face in his hands anyway, silently mortified that he might do something so trite as sob.”

It is the only book by a white guy that I included in my African Diaspora Literature course, and only in a summer section to follow complementarily Obama’s memoir, Dreams From My Father. The book captures the spirit of Obama’s election, his place in history, but never directly names him. This is Erickson’s way of writing historical fiction since Zeroville, never naming names. But what does this have to do with David Bowie? We can only assume that he is the “British extraterrestrial in a dress” or “the man who sings the hero song [with] red hair” whom four year old Sheba/Zema is obsessed with. These Dreams of You is a complicated work that shows all of Erickson’s narrative deftness, the twisting, ellipsing Mobius strip orchestration of strands and timelines that all interweave and make total sense by the end. One of those twists that proves essential to the whole follows a black woman named Jasmine, who while working in the music business is assigned to assist a rocker who seems a lot like David Bowie. She accompanies him and his friend Jim (Iggy Pop?) to Berlin where they record music with a man called The Professor (Brian Eno?). In his not so covert way, Erickson depicts the recording of the albums Low and “Heroes” and all of the escapades of that period: the lingering Crowley occultism, the conviction to kick cocaine through copious amounts of alcohol, the transvestite clubs, the obsession with kraut-rock like Can, Neu!, and Kraftwerk. Moreover, Erickson captures what drew Bowie to Berlin, what first enticed him through the writing of Christopher Isherwood. Berlin was not just the City of Ghosts, it was the City of the Wall, both East and West, Old World and New, Weimar burlesque and pulsing kraut-rock. It was a time and place that inspired Bowie to create two of his greatest albums (and eventually Lodger, which is still pretty good) that both helped take “pop” music to a whole new place, along with great solo work from Iggy Pop (The Idiot and Lust For Life, both produced and co-written with Bowie). In the almost caricatured portraits by Erickson are a stylized ideal of the artists at work, inspired by this liminal space, the guards posted on the Wall just outside the Hansa studio windows. It is a space where maybe the most emblematic theme in Bowie’s work comes out: love as defiance. “I can remember/Standing, by the wall/And the guns, shot above our heads/And we kissed, as though nothing could fall/And the shame, was on the other side/Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever/Then we could be heroes, just for one day,” as he says in the song “Heroes.”

But now, what does this have to do with a book about race in America? The Bowie character in the book tries to explain to Jasmine why he’s in Berlin and what this new work is all about. “Look, the whole century has been about black and white fucking… New York Jews like Gershwin, Kern, Arlen cumming southern Negro music while Duke Ellington ravishes Nineteenth Century Europeans like Debussy,” he says. Erickson’s use of “Bowie” gets at the heart of another central theme in Bowie’s oeuvre, the embracing and merging of binaries.

This is why I chose the book for my class and why I believe the students responded so well to it. The narrator explains, “Zan began pondering race when he was younger only because he began pondering his country, and knew that it wasn’t possible to understand his country without pondering slavery and it wasn’t possible to understand slavery without pondering race. He considered how his countrymen from Africa were the only ones who didn’t choose to be there; Africans were compelled to come and only once they were made to come did they choose to stay. Did that make them, then, the true owners of the country’s great idea, by virtue of having accepted the country in the face of so many reasons not to? If the country is more an idea than a place then are those who were so compelled its true occupants, given how the country’s promise to them was broken before it was offered?”. This is to support a conversation Zan has about race in America a little earlier where he says, “what the zealot or the ideologue really believes in is the zealous nature itself, the devout embrace of hard distinctions—the crusade against gray.”

As this book illustrates, grayness is what Bowie was all about. This AND that. Andro and gyne. Like how gray is both black and white, Bowie was masculine and feminine, straight and gay, artist and pop star (one could be critical and declare that all of this grayness is aspirational and point out that Bowie never escaped being a white, straight male whose aesthetic endeavors were all rooted in privilege and appropriation, but right now I am most certainly here to praise Caesar). Bowie helped destroy binaries by embracing them. His place in Erickson’s wonderful novel helps express this. If you think Erickson might be alone in this sentiment some tangential support might be found in the Acknowledgements of the 2016 novel, Underground Railroad, where Colson Whitehead says, “David Bowie is in every book [of mine].”

It is especially the last duality, Artist and Pop Star, which always excited me most about Bowie. He was legit and fun. Dissertation-worthy and danceable. He was the first side of Low and the second. He was references to Greta Garbo and the Golden Dawn all in one song. Maybe this is what makes David Bowie the quintessential Pop Star to many people. In Low, Wilcken explains how “popular music as it developed in the fifties and sixties turns the cultural paradigm on its head. With pop, postmodernism always came before modernism. Pop culture didn’t actually need any Andy Warhol to make it postmodern. Rock ‘n’ roll was never anything but a faked-up blues—something that the glam-era Bowie had understood perfectly,” and then quoting Brian Eno: “Some people say Bowie is all surface style and second-hand ideas, but that sounds like the definition of pop to me.”

This now brings me back to Critchley’s book in which early on he describes the “inauthenticity” of Bowie. “The ironic self-awareness of the artist and their audience can only be that of their inauthenticity, repeated at increasingly conscious levels.” Bowie clearly understands this as is evidenced in his song “Andy Warhol” off Hunky Dory (1971) in which we find the line, “Andy Warhol, silver screen/Can’t tell them apart at all.” On this topic Critchley continues, “Art’s filthy lesson is inauthenticity all the way down, a series of repetitions and reenactments: fakes that strip away the illusion of reality in which we live and confront us with the reality of illusion;” and, “Bowie’s genius allows us to break the superficial link that seems to connect authenticity to truth.” Finally, after more Heideggerian digressions, he brings it all home with: “In my humble opinion, authenticity is the curse of music from which we need to cure ourselves. Bowie can help. His art is a radically contrived and reflexively away confection of illusion whose fakery is not false, but at the service of a felt corporeal truth.”

I might not have been able to express this better myself and that is why I’m so grateful Critchely did. He and I are of the same world, a world he describes “of people for whom Bowie was the being who permitted a powerful emotional connection and freed them to become some other kind of self, something freer, more queer, more honest, more open, and more exciting.” Critchley also helped me understand that what makes Bowie’s music so successful in reaching people is that what is at its core is a yearning for connection. For all of Bowie’s lyrics about tragic characters, dystopian settings, solitude, and loneliness, there is a romantic notion about the ability of love to triumph in some small way, to make us heroes even, just for one day. The song that ends the album Ziggy Stardust (1972), that ends the eponymous tragic character’s narrative, is called “Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide” and it sure hit a nerve with me as an angsty teenager. It can still bring a tear to my eye as the pleading bombast of final lyrics (which Critchley writes about in a short chapter titled, “Wonderful”):

Oh no love! You’re not alone No matter what or who you’ve been No matter when or where you’ve seen All the knives seem to lacerate your brain I’ve had my share I’ll help you with the pain You’re not alone Just turn on with me and you’re not alone Let’s turn on with me and you’re not alone (wonderful) Let’s turn on and be not alone (wonderful) Gimme your hands ’cause you’re wonderful (wonderful) Gimme your hands ’cause you’re wonderful (wonderful) Oh gimme your hands.

Critchley’s little book is heartfelt and thoughtful. I’ve read it twice now—almost as many times as the other two books—and it is another element in my connection to a great artist that I will never know but always love. What these three books reinforce to me about David Bowie, the thing I take the most away from him after sheer aesthetic pleasure, is a deeply committed artistic discipline. Critchley dwells on the fakeness and inauthenticity of Bowie’s artistry, and while I like what he makes of that philosophically, I’ve always understood this about Bowie to just be professionalism. Bowie wasn’t some bright shooting star of a rocker, burning himself out and dying young, although he did get to experience that with his Ziggy Stardust personae. David Bowie was a consummate artist who mostly worked in the medium of popular music and created great work until the end of his life, a year ago today.

Jordan A. Rothacker is the author of the novella, The Pit, and No Other Stories (Black Hill Press, 2015), and the novel, And Wind Will Wash Away (Deeds, 2016). He holds a PhD in Comparative Literature and a MA in Religion from the University of Georgia. He lives in Athens, Georgia.

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ablizmal · 1 year ago

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hello!! this is my selfship introductory post!!!

(i’m posting two versions of this post— one with all these lovely little gifs, and one without, as i know some people can be sensitive to them <33)

my dearly beloved selfship is lawliz 🥰 (or lawlizzie if i want it to sound even cuter lol).

it’s of. uhhhhhh. me and the sweets loving detective from death note/// 👉👈

(no this isn’t suggestive, it’s just y2k in-universe and i LOVE y2k clothing lol)