#i call this a crucial mistake only because i think it colours the way people view interacts between them and other characters

[alraunee]

the crucial mistake i think people make is looking at farcille as being in an already committed relationship before the story begins. the feelings are there but neither of those girls is equipped to confront those feelings during their dungeon exploring days. falin is too used to people being freaked out by her to imagine anyone would be romantically interested in her unless they spell it out explicitly (this is why she seriously considered toshiro's proposal,according to the adventurer's bible. she wasn't attracted to him but thought he might be the only person who'd ever feel that way about her). and marcille does not do this if she fully acknowledged how much falin has grown up at this point in time she would actually snap for real.

[primofate]

Breaking up Part 2 Albedo x gn!reader

Sorry it took so long! Haha. Yeah tumblr effed over for me. But here it is! :D

Scenario: Breaking up and getting back together again

Characters: gn! reader x Albedo

Warnings: angst, break ups, regrets, did I say angst? NOT PROOFREAD

Categories: angst in Part 1, comfort in Part 2 (It was getting too long so split it into two parts)

Read:  (Part 1) (Part 3 - Final)

“Sucrose... Do you know where Y/N went?”

5 days 3 hours and 12 minutes. He’d been counting. He’d been counting since you left. It was only today that he had the courage to ask Sucrose about it. 

Sucrose jumps at the sudden call of her name. 

Albedo had not been the same. The frequent mistakes in the lab proved it. The constant slips of the hand and test tubes shattering on the floor told Sucrose that perhaps that was how his heart looked like too.

“...No, I don’t,” Sucrose simply says, then lets the silence of the lab fill the air. Only the bubbles from their experiments hanging. It was still for a moment, Sucrose going back to her calculations and research. Albedo sat in front of his alchemy set, blankly staring at it.

He doesn’t even understand what being “tired” feels like anymore. He hasn’t had a decent sleep. Every small movement in the house, every whisper of the wind he would bolt up in bed, thinking it was you coming in from the front door. Sometimes he would hear someone shuffling, he would stop and listen for you, but then realizes that the sound was the sound of his legs under the covers, trying to keep warm without you around. 

Sucrose glances up at her mentor. He’s buried his face in his hands, his hair in slight disarray. She knew what was going to happen next. He was going to stand up and just walk away from the lab, and Sucrose was not going to see him until tomorrow again. 

Tomorrow, the cycle would repeat. 

Albedo couldn’t function. It was pathetic. He really thought that he must be such a sight right now, eyes heavy with exhaustion, hair down and clothes a little unruly. He ran away from the lab again. He abandoned his “important” experiment and went back home, retreating in his room, falling on his knees and slumping on the bed in front of him.

He buried his face into his arms and tried to piece his heart back together.

“Albedo, will you ever get tired of me?”

There was a soft hint of a frown on your face. Silly you, Albedo thought. Always worried about being apart from him. He only smiles and cups your chin in his hand, leans in close to press his forehead against yours to whisper, “Never,” 

His fists clutch at the bedsheets, the fabric scrunching up under his hands. Every.damn.time. he tried to take a break, he would be reminded of you. Every thing reminded him of you. Breathing reminded him of you. It was as if you were right beside him and yet you weren’t. 

It was him. He was supposed to be the one asking “Y/N, will you ever get tired of me?” He was supposed to be the one worried. But he hadn’t been because he had taken you for granted. He thought that you’d always just be there, waiting for him patiently as you always had but now that he was alone, he realized just how lonely this silence could be.

“You must have been lonely...waiting here for me in this silence...”

His voice was muffled by the sheets, and he didn’t know who he was talking to. He did that a lot these days. Saying things that he wished you could still hear. 

The next day, just as Sucrose predicted. It was the same. Halfway through his experiment Albedo stopped, and stared at nothing in particular. She wondered if, whenever he did that, he remembered the things he said to you that day. 

But, just as Sucrose thinks today would end up the same...

it didn’t.

“Big brother Albedo!” Klee stormed into the lab, the door slamming open really loud. “Oh...I’m sorry, I didn’t check the sign... I...” Klee stepped out to look at the door sign and found “KEEP OUT” still there. “Oh no...! I did a mistake! Sorry big brother,” the little girl fumbled with her fingers and swung from side to side to show her apology. 

A hint of a smile appears on Albedo’s face and Sucrose was thunderstruck. There had been no expression on the Kreideprinz’s face for the longest time that the smile had felt so foreign. “It’s alright, Klee. Do you need help with something?” and his voice wasn’t hoarse. If there was anything that could cheer him up, it would be Klee.

He was done prioritizing his research over the people that really mattered. 

“Look what I got! I’ve never seen such a pretty flower in Mondstadt before,” Klee showed off the blue flower to Albedo, eyes shining and wide. Albedo touched the petals as Klee held it up for him. “Ah, yes, Glaze Lilies. You can only find them in Liyue, Klee,” Albedo explains. Klee bounces excitedly.

“Ohhhh! That’s amazing! Y/N must have travelled there recently!” 

The silence in the lab was deafening. Albedo’s hand drops from the flower as he looks at Klee, confused. Sucrose had stopped what she was doing, wide-eyed, staring at the young bomber. “...What do you mean, Klee?” Albedo whispered out. 

Hearing your name said by someone else made it all the more real that you weren’t here with him anymore. 

“Oh! See, Klee was in Windrise and... I was looking at the fishes...” Klee gasped a little, “Please don’t tell Master Jean!” she whispered pointedly but continued. “I saw Y/N there, and Y/N gave me a really big hug and gave me this Guh lays Lily,” the young girl got the name wrong, but Albedo hadn’t been listening anymore. He stood up and crouched down to eye level with Klee, hands on her shoulders.  “W-When, Klee?” he clears his throat and tries again, “When did this happen?” Sucrose had also been listening and watching in bated breath.  Klee gave one of her biggest, most innocent smiles, not knowing how crucial this information had been to Albedo. “Just now! I just came back from Windrise!” 

Albedo didn’t feel the slightest sorry that he bolted out of the lab without explaining to Klee. She would understand and Surcrose was there. He sprinted towards the gates of Mondstadt like his life depended on it. In some senses, it really did.

I can make it.

He was panting hard. His footsteps thundering in his ears. His breath coming in quick ins and outs. His heart is about to fly off its cage.

I can make it. It’s just outside of Mondstadt. 

Wind rushes past him, the pigeons on the bridge outside of Mondstadt, disturbed, flying away in a frenzy. Timmie shouting after him. 

Please be there. Please.

It takes him longer than he wanted. He wanted to be faster, wanted to be there already but he was still running. Still chasing after that hope. The adrenaline he feels pumps in his veins and yet he is so out of breath that he needs to stop. His hands resting on his knees as he closes his eyes and tries to get his breathing even. 

I have to keep going.

His legs were killing him. They were strained by the sudden rush of exercise and yet he still drags both towards Windrise. He could see the large tree at the horizon, but he was too far away to see if you were there. He continues to pant, steadying his breath, preparing for another burst of energy to run towards where he so desperately hoped you were.  What if you weren’t there anymore?

What if he was too late?

What if he never saw you again?

“What if it doesn’t work...?” Albedo asks, pondering over the research and discussing it with you over dinner. He loved to talk about his experiments with you because you gave valuable insights on it, and really listened to him. You smile and give him the confidence that he needs, “Then you can try again, Bedo. You always find a way!”

He’s still panting by the time he reaches the steps leading up to the large tree. His eyes dart around. He circles around in place, wondering if you were around the area. He continues forward, stepping up to the big roots and yet again looked around, trying to spot your familiar tuft of hair/colour. 

At the corner of his eye he spots something, behind the big tree. A Crystalfly. It was flying away and his eyes automatically follow it. There was a hand trying to reach out for it, but it barely grazed the Crystalfly’s wings. You stepped out from behind the tree, a little annoyed that you couldn’t catch the Crystalfly. 

Albedo feels like he’s frozen in time. He stands there and watches the wind caress your hair. Watches as you tuck your hair back behind your ear. Watches as you turn around and start walking away. He snaps back to reality and moves forward, roots and sticks cracking under his feet as he struggles through the root laden path just to get near you. 

You, hearing the disturbance from behind, turn around and was met face to face with the lover you left a few days ago. Something shatters inside you. You weren’t ready for this. You were far from ready to see him again. Why was he out here in the middle of the day? You stood still just as he did in front of you. 

You notice how his hair is sticking to his face with sweat. The fast rise and fall of his chest. The pained look in his eyes. The closed up fists on his side. “Y/N--” his voice cracks and tears start to pool in your eyes. 

You aren’t strong enough for this and you start to turn away.

Albedo rushes forward to trap you in a hug. His arms so desperately wrapped around you as his head rests on your shoulder. “Don’t,” he pleads. “Please don’t go. Come back with me, please,” there’s a different type of hopelessness in his voice. A moment later tears are streaming down your face. 

“I-I can’t Albedo. I--” can’t put myself through that again. I can’t and don’t want to be alone at home all the time. 

His body shakes and you realize it’s a sob that wracks his body. Your shoulder is slightly wet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please.” You’ve never seen him cry. Not like this. Not as he clings to you and admits defeat. “I...I couldn’t take care of you--It’s my fault. I know, but--”

“I like Windrise. It’s very relaxing.” You say as the two of you walk around the tree, collecting materials. “Is it?” Albedo responds, stopping momentarily to look up at the tree. “You don’t think so?” you curiously ask your lover. He ponders for a moment before smiling, “I think coming home to you is a lot more relaxing,” at the early stages of your relationship hearing something like that from him would cause you to blush.

You pry his arms away and look up at him. His head is dipped low and you can’t see his face clearly, concealed by his hair. You brush his hair away and lift his head up, and you see how streaks of tears run down his cheeks. You see the sleepless nights in his eyes. The hurt that creases on his forehead. You see what your absence has done to him, and all in one moment, you think that perhaps you were too harsh on him. That you should’ve talked it out instead of leaving so abruptly but you-- “I was hurt...” your lips tremble as you try to explain. 

“I try, really hard, to make things easier for you. To care about you. I have never asked for anything grand.” You’re surprised at how level your voice is, despite feeling like you might break down just as he does. 

“I’m aware,” Albedo wipes at his face, frustrated at himself. His tears have stopped. You were talking. That must be a good sign. “I don’t--Don’t deserve you,” but he steels himself and places his hands on your cheeks. God how long had it been since he touched you like this? and wipes away the tears that were silently falling from your eyes. “But I’ll take care of you. I’ll prove your worth. I... won’t make the same mistake again,” 

And when Albedo said or promised something he was one of the few people that you believed in the most. He was trustworthy all the way, and was true to most of what he said. “You have my word... and if I do make the same error again then... Then you can leave. But right now I--” he moves to rest his forehead against yours, taking in the warmth and love that he had missed. “I’m asking for another chance,” he gulps. “Please,”

You stay quiet for a moment. Assessing the situation. But your eyes close at the closeness the two of you are in right now. There was no doubt that you still loved him. A few days would not change anything. A few days would not ruin the years that you spent together. But you were scared and guarded. You weren’t sure what would happen and if it was worth it. You were scared of being with him and being lonely. “...We... should talk and think a little bit more about this...” you conclude and give your answer, stepping away from him.

Albedo’s face grimaces in distraught, but turns into confusion when you take his hand and tugs on it slightly. “...At home, we can talk about this at home...Is that okay? Let’s go back first,” you would figure it out with him from there.

His head drops and he tries hard not to let tears escape again. He really didn’t deserve you. He didn’t deserve this kindness but he sure as hell would take it. He would take it and make it right again. He picks his head up and squeezes your hand, voice slightly soft and trembling, and smiles.

“Thank you. That’s perfect,” 

and with his hand tight on yours, because he wasn’t letting you go again, the two of you make your way back.

Should I make a part 3 with fluff and write about the aftermath and how Albedo made it up to you? Let me know :D Message me :D Love me <3

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[fatalism-and-villainy]

if you're comfortable talking about it, can you elaborate (maybe in a very general sense) on how those posts are messing up their discussion of the nb experience? I'm curious and I also don't want to make the same kind of mistakes.

Sure, I don't mind explaining further. I don't think I can do so in a general sense, though - being on Pillowfort has made me much more inclined towards using specific examples. I think that's not really the done thing on tumblr, both because it's hard to link to things here when URLs can change, and because it's tacitly considered against etiquette (or, least, I know I instinctively flinch away from doing so). But I think a lot of discussions would be less inflammatory here if people were more specific about what they were complaining about, and I think this is a topic that benefits from close reading some examples, because a lot of it is subtle stuff in the wording that betrays a lot of broader and more pernicious assumptions.

So I'm not including these examples to chastise anyone, I'm just using them because they're useful illustrations of a bigger problem.

My post that prompted this, for context:

I have seen two posts in the last few days that conflate how nonbinary people get read by others with nonbinary people’s own personal relationship to gender and the nonbinary label. I’m so so sick of this.

Alright, post #1 (and I did find a thread where some people were pointing out some of the same issues I have with it, but I saw it reblogged with this addition on its own, so it's worth pointing out). OP's post:

if you call a nonbinary person cis bc they don't perform androgyny to a level you approve of i'm omw with a big hammer to shatter your kneecaps

Note the "perform androgyny to a level you approve of" phrasing - this is about others' perception of nonbinary people and of what constitutes androgyny. Now look at this addition:

This is incredibly important to remember. Nonbinary isnt just a middle ground or a third gender. Its not being in the binary. Thats it. That means something different to every nb person. So maybe someone does lean a bit more into their assigned gender at birth, they’re still nonbinary and calling them cis just because they arent preforming for you is transphobic- Yes even if you are trans too.

I agree that nonbinary people can have some kind of identification with their assigned gender, and that this doesn't negate their being nonbinary or trans - but, crucially, that's a different topic from what the OP was about. The OP was about how people look to others, and how they meet others' standards for what a nonbinary person should look like.

And what counts as "performing" androgyny is not only very subjective, individually and subculturally, but also full of double standards. There are people who would consider simply having visible breasts, or not trying to hide my body shape, as "presenting" as a woman, or not being androgynous, even if my clothes or hairstyle would be read as "masculine" on a cis man. (Side note: the way I often wear my hair is something I've mainly seen on men, and some nonbinary people as well, but because it's long on the top a lot of people would think "feminine". The gendering of hair is weird.) Similarly, I like wearing brightly coloured lipstick. This isn't because my identity is at all "feminine" or aligned with womanhood - I just like bright colours on my lips 😂. Additionally, there are nonbinary people who might get read as "androgynous", or whose gender might be harder to visually sort into a binary category, who do, in fact, feel some affiliation with their assigned gender. These are separable categories.

While the addition is alright on its own as an observation, I think adding it here actually undermines the point of the OP. The original post argues that others' perceptions are not the determiner of whether someone else "counts" as trans, and the addition, even while in agreement that nonbinary people who aren't "androgynous enough" count as trans... also falls into using others' perceptions as a determiner of another's identity.

The second post is here:

even spicier take: “non-binary” means a thousand different things to a thousand different people and therefore anyone of any sexuality could theoretically be attracted to a non-binary person in some capacity, so if you’re gay and someone you’re attracted to says, “i’m non-binary,” you don’t actually have to redefine your entire identity, you can just drink a cup of sleepytime tea and go right on being gay and into non-binary people.

So, this starts out with "nonbinary means a thousand different things to a thousand different people", which leads me to think that this is about relationship compatibility - i.e., that there are nonbinary people whose personal version of "nonbinary" doesn't preclude gay relationships or gay-identified partners. But the following statement implies a slightly different angle - "therefore anyone of any sexuality could theoretically be attracted to a nonbinary person in some capacity." The "therefore" doesn't follow for me, because "being attracted to someone" is very different from relationship compatibility, and doesn't have anything to do with how a nonbinary person self-identifies or wants to be socially positioned.

I think this sort of confusion is part of what makes a lot of conversations about "attraction to nonbinary people" so fraught - because there are several different scenarios implied in how this post is written. Are we talking about the possibility of a gay person actually forging a relationship with a nonbinary person? Are we talking about seeing someone in passing that you think is attractive who turns out to be nonbinary? The phrasing "if... someone you're attracted to says, 'i'm nonbinary'" implies this is a scenario in which the attraction started before learning that person's gender. But is this just a passing crush, or someone you happened to notice, or is it meant to be someone you're already in a relationship with? Because those are two different scenarios! If we're talking about the possibility of a gay person having a relationship with a nonbinary person, then what being nonbinary "means" to that person is relevant. But if we're talking about a gay person just being attracted in passing to a person who turns out to be nonbinary, then the attraction itself does not say anything about, or having anything to do with, that nonbinary person's self-conception.

Look, here's the thing. It's pretty inevitable that we all visually misclassify people from time to time, even cis people. Attraction is also internal and does not affect the other person at all. I don't think the possibility that someone you happen to find attractive might not actually be your preferred gender, or might potentially find your attraction distressing, need be a source of scrupulosity - just pay attention to their signals in your actual interactions with them and treat them how they've implied or explicitly stated they'd like to be classed. Similarly, I think sexual orientation is about patterns and general trends, and one person falling outside that pattern doesn't necessitate changing one's identity. But that says fuck-all about the identity or feelings of the nonbinary person in question. The idea that it does has the (probably unintentional) implication that a gay woman finding me attractive means that I must be "woman-aligned" or comfortable being classed that way in relationships, which is not at all the case.

Like, the separate implications the wording here in this post are all points I agree with: some nonbinary people find "gay" as an identity or social position to be compatible with their conception of themselves, and being mistaken about someone's gender or having an exception to your general pattern of attraction doesn't necessitate an identity crisis. But is it clear how treating one of those things as naturally flowing from the other has troubling implications? Nonbinary people vary widely in how we want to be classed, or feel comfortable being classed, in the context of relationships. But other people's involuntary feelings of attraction are absolutely not a comment on that. And treating them as if they are is incredibly harmful.

[writingindulgence]

Illumi x F.Reader - Expectation

Pairing: Illumi x Female Reader

Story tags: Arranged marriage, typical Zoldyck behaviour, angst-ish, heavy manipulation, ILLUMI, unhealthy one-sided dependence : ) my guy just toxic

3,200+ words and why? I don’t even like the dude. Also, two points of view.

The sound of fancy porcelain tea cups clinking against the glass table is soothing, along with the warm rays shining on your face. Times like these are what you are thankful for. The smell of purposely picked flowers, arranged to please the eyes. Not the stench of trash dumped for the sole convenience of other countries. Colourful butterflies and bees, instead of flies and disease ridden rats. A home cooked meal ready for your consumption rather than scraps of rotting food that you more often than not nearly died for.

Kukuroo mountain is infinitely more beautiful compared to Meteor City.

“(Y/n) dear, it’s unbecoming of you to make noise with your tableware,” a powerful feminine voice chastates your mistake. The woman sitting opposite you is none other than Kikyo Zoldyck. Or as she forces you to call her, mother.

Your heart flutters in relief, an apologetic expression weaving onto your face. She must be in an agreeable mood since her fan hasn’t struck your hand. Sometimes you are let off with a warning if she spots a blunder on your part. Sometimes, she resorts to physical punishment. It always depends on whether or not a family member said anything to ruin her day. In fact, any matter concerning Killua will set her off in a positive or negative direction.

Just like Illumi whenever you bring up his younger brother.

“I apologise mother, I’m too excited because Illumi is returning,” you proceed to take a sip and this time around, gently settle the tea cup down.

A content hum comes from her direction, her visor flashing for a split second. “Oh (Y/n), you’ll make such a good wife one day.” She picks up a fork gracefully and stabs it into the cake she asked for from the family cook.

The compliment ignites a multitude of feelings in your chest. It spreads out, only one thought in your mind.

How immensely grateful and happy you are to hear it.

Many of your friends from when you were young, starved to death. Some were beaten up by other desperate residents. Others lost their will to fight, a state you threaded on a magnitude of times.

Being taken away by the mafia one day was what gave you back the spark, a life in the city no more out of your reach. Until you figured out what type of work they wanted to sell you and other kids for. Stories from the older girls back in Meteor City came rushing back.

Your bloodlust and instinct to survive are what happened to change your life for the better. Out of all the line-up of children, you were selected by the Zoldycks. Instead of being the pet of some old pervert, you found a home within the assassin family.

There were many times when you felt like giving up. When the training you went through was worse than simply dying. However, you promised yourself to never throw away the chance you received all those years back.

You were indebted to the Zoldycks.

Hearing words of encouragement from one of the people you looked up to the most brought tears to your eyes. You wiped them away with your thumb.

Mother is a role model to you. It helped when you found out that she originates from Meteor City too. In a sense, it is easier to place yourself in her shoes and strive to achieve what she did. Being an amazing assassin, wife and mother.

A sudden scraping of a chair brought you back to the presence, startling you into a defensive pose. The knife under your sundress clasped in your hand.

Out of the corner of your eye you notice Kalluto coming out from behind the bushes, his paper fan also ready for action.

“My Kil, what is he doing?! Quick, we have to stop him. Kalluto go call for Milluki right now!,” she orders shrilly before running into the mansion.

Without hesitation, you rush after her. It is expected of you. A nagging feeling in the back of your head also foreshadows that whatever is going on, it will have dire consequences if not stopped.

Killua is in the foyer, being kept idle by the servants. But not for long. You can see the irritation growing on his face, his muscles tensed.

You’ve known Killua since he was a baby, having been inducted as a future family member when mother was pregnant with him. There’s no doubt that if something wasn’t done, it would lead to a messy aftermath.

A few seconds after you make it inside, Milluki shows up and the servants are all dismissed.

“Kil, my little Kil, what’s wrong? Why did I hear that you’re leaving to take the Hunter’s Exam?,” mother’s voice is aghast, the idea of her favourite child abandoning the nest filling her with pain.

You too are taken aback at the news, a protective sensation coursing through you. Your fingers flex at your side.

“It’s boring here and I heard that the Exam is difficult so I’m going to test my skill,” he shrugs her worry off and spins his skateboard. Your heart begins to pound uncontrollably.

Hearing the disrespect, Milluki steps up and lashes out at Killua. “You brat, what’s with that arrogant attitude you-,”

“Stop that!,” mother’s voice sharply cuts him down.

She begins pleading with Killua to stay, her voice cracking multiple times. It pains you to watch someone you respect growing so desperate.

Killua is too young to understand what he’s putting the ones around him through. Of course, a rebellious phase is healthy-

A prickly discomfort surges through your head and you clutch it. Your unexpected movement grabs everyone’s attention. You try to brush it off, not wishing to be a burden.

It isn’t expected of you to be one.

“Killua, you should stay here. The world is a dangerous place,” your words try to reach him. “Illumi is coming home today,  why don’t we-”,

“I don’t want him around! Just leave me alone,” he angrily interrupts. The air grows heavy. Heavier than it’s been since the beginning.

Mother gasps in shock at his behaviour since Killua never really yells at you. Yes, he gets annoyed as much as any other kid but when he shouts, he doesn’t really mean it.

It’s expected of you to coerce him into calming down.

“You’ve changed during the past few weeks (Y/n), after Illumi came back before leaving again. Anyway, I will kill you all if you try to stop me,” Killua promises in a cold voice, his blue eyes a piercing ice.

This rouses an onslaught of insults from Milluki and a mix of agony and happiness from mother.

However, you’re currently stuck in your own mind, reflecting on Killua’s comment. It is true that during the past three weeks you doted on him more than ever before. Usually you try to split your attention between him and Kalluto when you have free time. What changed?

Nothing should have changed, Killua is the priority of the family.

A high-pitched scream echoes around the foyer and your clouded head awakens. The sight in front of you freezes your blood and it takes immense strength not to bite your tongue.

Mother is kneeling down on the ground, her hands covering her bloody face. Before you can take a step, Milluki rages and charges at Killua. The young boy bounces back and proceeds to plunge the knife into his older brother. Milluki curses and grabs his wound.

On impulse, your hand is already equipped with a knife and you’re ready to protect yourself as well as mother Killua.

Killua mistakes your movements as an attack and strikes his own knife across your arm. A long gash appears on your skin, the blood seeping out moments later. You take in the pain as punishment. Punishment for letting it get this far and failing.

You’re a failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.

Taking the chance to escape, he kicks his skateboard up and runs out.

And you were helpless to stop him.

*

It’s been a while since Illumi has been back home on Kukuroo mountain, his previous mission requiring him to travel across multiple locations. The target was a cautious person so they moved from place to place, leaving lousy decoys. That did not impede Illumi at all, it was simply an inconvenience at worst.

After all, nervous-wrecks are the ones who put their emotions out on display. They are the first to slip up due to the fact that they care about others.

Which is concerning because Killua is at a stage where he is showing his rebellious streak more often. It is crucial that he can snuff it out before his dear brother falls further down the slope of idiotic fantasies . In which case, it is a slight relief that (Y/n) is here. She tries to keep Killua in check in a subtle way instead of hanging over his shoulder or perpetuating his moody behaviour.

Though the last time he visited there were hints of her growing soft and losing her devotion of raising Killua to be the next head of the family. He is ashamed to confess that it irked him to some degree. It’s expected of her to put her desires down for what he wants. And he wants Killua to be the next head.

Even so, he thought that he dealt with this the last time.

However, imagine the surprise he felt when his mother came wailing to him, begging him to follow her little Kil to the Hunter’s Exam. To think that instead of a joyful family reunion, the news of his stray younger brother reached his ears before anything else.

That won’t do.

Currently, it’s close to midnight which is the time (Y/n) comes to his room to say goodnight. Why she even bothers is beyond him. The effort of keeping up with formalities could be used for better activities. It’s already indisputable that they are arranged to marry in the future at the request of his parents, so there is no reason to be close together in any romantic sense.

In fact, Killua will succeed as the head which is why there is no point in thinking about his own future.

A sigh leaves his mouth.

There is only one positive outcome that came out of this whole arrangement. He has an extra set of eyes and he’s sure that she will listen to him without question. All he has to do is play into these formalities and she’s wrapped around his finger.

An affectionate hug here, a tiny smile there...Normally he’d be concerned that a future Zoldyck , even if not by blood, would be so easy to deceive. However, since every carefully planned step is coming from him he’s not surprised in the slightest.

It’s expected of (Y/n) to be loyal, just as much as it’s expected for Killua to take over the family business.

The wooden clock hanging opposite his bed strikes 12 but there is no sign of (Y/n). She never runs late.

The fact that she hadn’t even greeted him when he came back is also unusual. Normally she’d be pacing in front of the entrance door but today his mother took over that role. He heard that she got injured by Killua but (Y/n) has experienced worse so what’s the fuss?

It’s not his problem, he’ll just take a bath before bed. She’ll come running eventually.

~

Illumi’s right arm is beginning to grow numb. He hasn’t moved from the water in over an hour. Not because he needed a break to relax, taking time off for yourself is inefficient. No, he hasn’t moved because he’s been waiting for the familiar steps and hesitant knock to come from outside his room.

Discerning who someone is from the sound of their footsteps and how they carry themselves is second nature to any professional assassin. For instance, Milluki hovers in one spot when walking while Kalluto creates soft patters with his toes.

On the other hand, (Y/n) always shuffles her feet forward just before his door. It takes her approximately 2 seconds to knock when she’s unsure, 1 second when she’s in a normal mood and 0.5 whenever she has news deemed worthy enough for him to hear. Reading the mood of someone before they see you face to face is important.

Coming to terms with the fact that today she won’t pay him a visit, he steps out of the bathtub, water dripping down his naked body. He throws on a plain black bathrobe and leaves the bathroom. Giving his bed a quick-over, he walks out the door.

Guess it’s time for him to pay a visit instead.

If he actually bothers and gives it some thought, it’s not a mystery as to why he hasn’t even seen her shadow today. She’s ashamed. Ashamed of being a failure for letting Killua go.

Her scrambled mind is most likely trying to piece together what she should say. How she should ask for forgiveness and repent.

He wonders if she’s starving herself or if she’s contemplating about going to the self-confinement room.

Normally he’d push her into whatever she makes up but a stick approach by itself won’t be enough. There needs to be a push and pull factor involved if he wants her to listen to him unconditionally.

And what better way than to appear before her, disheveled and still wet in his robe? She’ll jump to conclusions.

Further guilt will set in, how she unnecessarily worried him by skipping the usual goodnight. His state will continue feeding her imagination, connecting unrelated dots to make her believe that he cares for her.

Truly, a puppet and its real master.

Soaking footprints follow behind him on the floor, the dim candlelight making them difficult to notice. He knocks once before letting himself in and shutting the door, back turned to the only other person inside.

A small gasp penetrates the silence and a rush of steps follow suit, stopping just behind him.

“Illumi, welcome back,” (Y/n) is the first to speak. He stays silent.

A nervous shuffle. “Is..everything okay?”.

The voice quietens downs the more she speaks. That should be enough for now.

He turns around and looks down at her concerned face, with no emotion of his own. Her eyes widen a fraction after registering his condition. Before she can open her mouth to question him further, Illumi crinkles his eyes and smiles.

“It’s nothing. I was just worried since I didn’t see you today,” he gazes away, giving her enough time to fix her expression. It’ll be harder for him to get her to open up if she thinks that he sees through her lack of control.

“I missed you too-,”

Presumptuous to think that he missed her.

“-and I’m sorry for not saying anything. I just…,” she stops right before confessing her shortcoming.

He doesn’t provide her with any more time to compose herself, a full day is already generous. Grabbing the door handle he gives it a slight tug but her hand shuts it and pulls his sleeve. That’s new. (Y/n) rarely takes the initiative.

He allows her to drag him over to the bed, slightly curious about her next move. Is she trying to entertain him as an apology or simply trying to put distance between him and the door?

Both tactics aren’t half bad when it comes to simple targets.

He sits down on the covers and analyses her.

A long white nightdress, face ready for bed, barefoot, and a long knife wound going up her arm.

A shred of pride for Killua’s work passes through his head but he doesn’t showcase this. If by any chance she spotted the look, it would demolish the picture he wants to paint.

(Y/n) kneels down in front of him and takes his hand into hers. It’s warm, though not as soft as it used to be. Her breasts rest atop his knees.

His attention migrates from the sudden action to her face, looking for answers. He made sure that she will only expect affection coming from him, not the other way around. It would be too tiring to keep up a loving demeanour- no, scratch that. It wouldn’t be tiring but the expectations would eventually rise and it would result in less time spent on bringing up Killua.

Oh, he zoned out.

(Y/n)’s eyes are full of regret and desperation, the hand holding his trembling just enough to tell him that today’s event is eating at her. Is she waiting for him to say something?

Finally after what feels like an unprecedented amount of time, the scene unfolds.

Her smaller hand pulls his to her face and rests it against her cheek. The second his skin touches hers, he detects slight heat radiating. She must have not treated the cut. The knife was probably dirty too, Killua slacks off in that regard.

“I’m sorry for being a failure, I’m very sorry Illumi. I have no excuse,” the apology flows out of her mouth, bottom lip quivering. The pain of looking at someone she disappointed forces her eyes to shut close. Her free hand latches onto his thigh and she digs in before continuing.

“You can slash my other arm as punishment. Or hang me upside down in the self-containment room,” she throws out. “But please, please don’t give up on me. I can do better Illumi”.

And as if to prove how determined she is, her eyes open up again, staring deeply into his own. Unwavering. Confident.

Though the thumb that he has under her jaw gave the hammering pulse away.

1,2,3. 1,2. 1,2,3.

He stretched out the silence, pretending to ponder over his answer. The unsettling emotions influencing her thoughts will prove beneficial when he flips her assumption around.

He removes his hand from her cheek and moves the one on his thigh to her side. (Y/n) adopts a look of relief, believing that he agreed to her conditions of punishment. What he’s about to do is infinitely more cruel though.

She catches her breath when he follows her example and kneels in front of her. He pulls up the sleeve of her nightdress that’s slipping down before grabbing her shoulders, gently.

“How can I not give up on you when you give up on yourself,” he lectures her, peeking down at her wound. Make the target question their actions.

An expression of remorse adorns her face, a downward tug of the mouth.

He pulls her in, arms encircling and resting on her lower back. The material of the nightdress is light enough for him to make out the feeling of skin.

“Though I won’t give up on you.” Affirmation and a moment of reassurance.

One of his hands travels deliberately slowly up to her neck. It rests on the back of her head, fingers entangled in her hair. Illumi locates the present that he left her the last time he visited and pushes it back into her head. It has moved slightly out.

This prompts (Y/n) to hug him in response, her previously hanging arms now resting comfortably around him. Good, as for the finishing line.

“Though your failure is a disappointment, I know that you will not repeat the same mistake, because you

love me, right?”.

Her head moves to rest between the crook of his neck, nodding in agreement. She doesn’t ask him if he loves her.

It’s expected of her not to.

[natromanxoff]

Record Mirror (July 14, 1979): 119/?

THE QUEEN BACKLASH ENDS HERE

WITHOUT DOUBT Queen are among that elite number of bands universally hated by the rock press.

The rancour is, make no mistake, mutual which is understandable. If you find yourself on the receiving end of an inveterate dislike at the outset of your career and watch it being nurtured and carefully cultivated over the next six years you’re bound to retaliate.

Queen’s hatred manifests itself by their continued habit of ignoring the music press i.e. refusing to give interviews. There is the occasional token “chat”, pointless as it is innocuous, but in the main it amounts to a blanket “No.”

One of the last interviews Freddie Mercury gave was the last nail in the perspex coffin. Under a headline which boldly asked ‘Is This Man A Prat?’ the king of the leotards was demolished by one of the old school Queen haters and Freddie obviously came to the conclusion, in its wake, that interviews in future would be both superfluous (he was popular enough) and detrimental.

The curtain, velvet naturally, closed.

Roger Taylor, a little wary, a little weary, sits stiffly in an armchair. The juggernauts rattling the Chelsea Street outside create a sonorous buzz bomb hum in the room.

You expect a member of Queen to look elegant. In fact Roger is only wearing a wine colour mohair jacket, black shirt and blue jeans.

He apologises for being a little late and explains how he went to the wrong address. Roger seems to be the only member of Queen left who is prepared, albeit rarely, to open his mouth in the presence of a hack. A question springs to mind . . . why?

“We all sat around a table before I flew over from Munich to discuss the press situation and we agreed I should be the one to represent the band. Freddie is very uncompromising and refuses to have much to do with journalists.

“Obviously, he’s had a few raw deals with them in the past,” observes Taylor.

Roger himself has a rather low view of the music press.

“Most of it is rubbish. There was something I liked recently, a piece on Malcolm McLaren, but in the main I think I’m the only one of Queen to actually read the music papers.”

Why does he think the band are systemically slagged?

“I think it’s because Queen have always come across as being a rather confident band. We seemed, to other people at least, to be very sure of ourselves. I think the press may have misconstrued the confidence, mistaking it for a form of arrogance. Hence they became wary of our motives which bred a dislike for our music.”

Now that’s what I call a neat conclusion.

At the risk of being sent to Coventry by my colleagues I’d like, if I may, to come clean. I love Queen (you’re fired, Ed).

I think it all began with a simple pre-packed but indisposable line – “Dynamite with a laser beam” and has continued uninterrupted (despite the occasional flaw) right through to ‘Queen Live Killers’.

A combination of reasons, Freddie Mercury’s lascivious lisp – the most attractive intonation known to man . . . Brian May’s reel ‘em off rococo riffs that would, in his capable hands, transform the theme music for ‘Waggoners’ Walk’ into a meisterwork . . . John Deacon’s almost stoic stance, incongruous yet integral . . . Roger Taylor’s intense power, so unexpected from one so slight . . . the ability to go over the top without failing into the trap of caricature . . . a desire to give the punters what they want without pandering . . . that cast iron confidence . . . those nine glorious winter weeks of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ which kept the cold away from my soul . . .

Yes, I love Queen.

Roger explains the story behind ‘Killers’ which features just about every Queen classic which ever found its way into a silk lined memory bank.

“We always knew that one day we would make a live album. I think it was well planned. About 90 per cent of our last European tour was recorded on a mobile unit and we then spent weeks sitting through the songs in the studio.

“The result is a 100 per cent LIVE album. Nothing has been touched up in the process of selection, I think that’s pretty rare these days. Many ‘live’ albums are tampered with.”

The choice of single is unusual – ‘Love Of My Life’. “It’s not so unusual when you hear the way it came out. The song seems to have such a wide appeal. Everywhere we go the reaction to it is the same. The audience are just bursting to sing along.”

The result is Queen’s best single since ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ (that was their LAST one crawler, ED)

As I mentioned earlier the band are currently residing in Munich where they are “experimenting” in the studio.

“We are recording in a totally different way for us,” says Roger who speaks with a delicate London accent only typical of cockneys with dramatic training and David Essex.

“Every time we entered a studio in the past we had a good idea of what we were going to do. This time we started from scratch and the result is amazing. The music is nothing like anything we’ve done before, I guess you could say it’s much simpler.”

And this novel approach to their music also extends to their shows. On their next British tour – in the late Autumn – the band will be playing much smaller venues than they are accustomed to.

“In London for example we went to play to audiences of about two or three thousand in different areas. I think it’s much fairer to the fans.”

But won’t this affect their stage show which is after all a crucial factor for any powerpomp outfit?

“Not really. We will just scale down the show accordingly. Besides,” he says taking another bite out of the biscuit, “we haven’t used dry ice in years.”

The monkey on Queen’s back, as corpulent and cantankerous as ever, has been put there by those who firmly believe the band can never emulate past achievements. Roger is cognizant of its presence but refuses to unpeel its bananas.

“That all began after ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. When it stayed at number one all those weeks we were kindly informed that we would never be able to make another single to rival it both artistically and from the point of view of sales.

“Yet ‘We Are The Champions’ sold a great deal more and has since become the biggest selling single in the entire history of Elektra Asylum – our label in the States.

“We don’t do the amazingly complex things any more because we’ve moved on from that. We concentrate on the music we are doing now and we intend to do it the best we can, it’s ridiculous looking behind and and what you’ve done.

“There’s nothing like going back on the road to re-unite the bond between the four personalities and strengthening our belief in the band. We are a real working unit and, in my experience of the music business, one of the most democratic bands around today.”

A statement like that cries out to be expounded.

“People think every member of all the bands, not naming any names, are treated equally that is get the same money as their colleagues. That’s rubbish. In many bands there are a couple of guys that get all the money. The rest are on wages. Queen share the profits equally.”

And they don’t have a manager taking his cut either, John Reid departed a couple of years back and now the band themselves make all the major policy decisions. Why did they decide to dispense with the services of a manager?

“Basically because we were fed up with giving other people money. Y’know it never ceases to amaze me how naive those guys are in bands who have just had their first hit. After all this time I’ve forgotten just how naive we must have been at the beginning.

“I mean, everything seems so great when you get into the charts for the first time. You’re living on cloud nine and nothing else matters. But in truth that hit means absolutely nothing. So few people achieve any amount of financial success in this business.

“Oh, you think, you’re really living . . . for a while. Somebody gets you a flat in Chelsea and it’s all free. But one day the rent stops being paid for you and you realise you’re skint.

“Since John Reid has gone the four of us have always made a point of discussing everything together. We have various people working for us but all the important decisions are made by us alone. That way we get freedom of choice – and financial independence.”

My attention is suddenly diverted.

“FORTY-LOVE!” Wimbledon, the Persil White opiate for the hoi polloi squashed in a strawberry crush wrings out its perspiring petticoats on the TV in the next room.  Roger’s girlfriend, an extremely attractive French girl called Dominique, is engrossed. The couple have lived together for two years. Crippled old marriage questions permeate the air.

“I don’t believe in marriage,” says Roger. “It’s simply a contract and the fewer contracts I enter into the better. If you get on well with someone then there isn’t any harm in living with that person – but marriage is something else again.”

They live in a six bedroomed Victorian house just outside London, which is set in 20 acres. Roger has a “tiny” town house in Barnes as well. What’s it like having a bank full of money at the age of 29?

“I don’t hide away from life. Queen have never been one of those ‘being grabbed in the street’ type bands. It may happen when the four of us are together – but when we are out alone we are seldom bothered. That gives me the opportunity to enjoy myself. I go to clubs a lot. I like having a good time. I don’t think you could describe any of the band as leading sheltered lives.

“But I have completely lost touch with how much things cost. When you find yourself living in hotels for so long you never really deal in money as such. Everything is available whenever you want it – but you never see the cash actually being handed over.

“I’ve forgotten what it was like to be penniless which Queen were for years. I guess that must happen to many successful rock bands.”

Another thing that happens to many successful rock bands – they quit the country. But not Queen it appears.

“We have always based ourselves in England and I see no reason why we shouldn’t continue to do so. We could leave at any time but we choose to stay. People believe we are tax exiles because we spend a lot of the time out of the country recording in studios all over Europe and touring.”

And what will happen when the band finally trudge wearily down the road leading to that  ivory strewn elephants’ graveyard . . . ?

“I know it’s bound to happen one day. I suppose I’d take a long, long holiday . . . and then make a solo album.”

[stargazetheseries]

OPEN CASTING CALL FOR STARGAZE: “THE PILOT” EPISODE & TRAILER VISIT: https://stargazetheseries.com/casting-call/ FOR DETAILS OR READ BELOW: A Borken Creative Production Sept 27, 2021 STARGAZE is a queer campy sci-fi adventure short-form adventure series intended for OTT. Executive Producers: Jill Golick, Carrie Cutforth Director: Regan Latimer Writer: Carrie Cutforth Union: ACTRA TORONTO (NEW MEDIA) Shoot: The pilot will begin shooting for 5 to 6 days between October 25-Nov 17th, 2021 Location: Toronto STORYLINE: A disparate group of rookie oddballs join an elite squad commissioned to save the Queerverse (from itself) only to discover the STARGAZE program is a sham make-work initiative to keep the crew from rocking the boat by sending them out on a fool’s quest (led by two elder queer chaperones who despise each other). Think: A 2SLGBTQIA+ The Facts Of Life meets The Breakfast Club in space! *BIPOC STRONGLY ENCOURAGED TO APPLY **MUST BE 18+ TO SUBMIT EVEN IF CHARACTER IS LISTED AS YOUNGER THE STARTGAZE RECRUITS: SAF RON (she/her): Character is 20, cisgender woman, lesbian, open to all ethnicities; some physical comedy required. LEAD. Mad as hell and not going to take it anymore, Saf joins STARGAZE with high expectations. If the adults won’t save the day, she will… and finally get the credit she deserves! But can this lone wolf learn to connect with others, stop being a control freak, relax her unreasonably high expectations of others (and herself), and step into the leadership role for which she is destined? First, she’ll have to stop seeing anyone getting in her way as a mustache-twirling villain, learn to see her crewmates’ value, accept help, and open herself up vulnerably. Gets apoplectic when mad; Has a knack for creating very convoluted protest chants that no one can follow. WHIT SPRINKLES (he/him): Character is 19, cisgender man, gay, open to all ethnicities. Must be able to walk elegantly in high heels. LEAD. A social media influencer famous for his snarky and bitter ’reads,’ charismatic Whit has developed a parasocial relationship with his stans. Living life performing in the spotlight from a very young age, Whit has no idea who he really is, what his real interests are, or his beliefs outside of what his analytics tell him: “My fans are gonna love this!” Only joining STARGAZE under pressure from his stans, his inability to forge true intimate connections is exacerbated by his relationship with his mother/manager Mumsy Sprinkles, a talentless hack/narcissistic stage mother living her dreams through her kid. If Whit was a meme he would be: ‘Bitch, I dun give a fuck!’ But he does, indeed, give a fuck. ESSA T. HATCH (they/them): Character is 18, non-binary or agender, asexual, demiromantic, neurodivergent, open to all ethnicities. LEAD. Adorkable Essa is an introvert who doesn’t really ‘get’ people. The explorer among the crew with an engineering mind and a love of mapping places and spaces, they know every nook and cranny of the ship and are usually the first to forge ahead (i.e. wander off) on every expedition. Essa mostly wants to be left alone to their own devices because they actually prefer their own company (neurotypicals can be so exhausting!). This normally wouldn’t be such a problem except Essa was pressured to join STARGAZE to make friends and widen their social net out of parental concern (‘We won’t be around forever, Essa!’). Loves to knit, make Venn diagrams of relationships; speaks in emojis when emotionally drained. LEW D’SHUS (he/him): Character is 21, transgender man or transmasculine, pansexual, open to all ethnicities. LEAD. When babelicious Lew looks at you with his rapt attention and dreamy eyes, you feel like the only person in the ‘verse until his short attention span snaps away and he forgets you’re there. “Good vibes, only!” Lew will gladly give you your Tarot card reading, but not before taking the negative cards out first. With his strict ‘the universe is love, we are love,’ mantra, Lew never wants anyone to feel bad even when they are deadass wrong! His philosophy of

appeasement can cause conflict amongst the crew and his inability to take sides in crucial moments will often put them in danger. No, we cannot just hug everything out, Lew! CHRYSTRAH SNU (she/her): Character is 17 (must be 18+ to apply), cis-gender woman, identifies as ‘queer’ but just figuring it all out. LEAD. Chrystrah is a fresh-off-the-belt queer who has arrived with big expectations: ‘I’m here, I’m queer! Direct me to my spot on the rainbow carpet!’ The trauma of her homophobic upbringing has left Chrystrah without any real sense of self; her identity loosely held together like a fragile cracked egg. Any criticism, no matter how gentle, feels like an attack, causing Chrystrah to act abrasive, territorial, and defensive. She is always overcompensating in big bombastic ways because she feels so inadequate for not knowing the right words, behaviours, and codes. She is jealous of Saf (some might say obsessed) who does seem to get it all right. Fiercely loyal, Chrystrah is the first to run headlong into danger to save someone. She has a steep learning curve ahead. THE ELDER QUEER CHAPERONES: BAE TORGA (she/her): Character is late 30’s-early 40’s, cisgender woman, bisexual, bipolar, open to all ethnicities. PRINCIPAL. A war hero (or war criminal depending on who you ask), Bae sees STARGAZE as an opportunity to redeem herself in the eyes of former mentor and friend Oracle Cain. She is someone who struggles with self-loathing and self-doubt even though she’s spent her adulthood righting her past wrongs and reining in her bipolar disorder, which contributed to her past rash and reckless mistakes. Possessing a tough, gruff demeanor, Bae is outwardly sardonic but really a bleeding heart who holds back out of fear that any demonstration of affection and empathy will be seen as a commitment. ORACLE CAIN (she/her): Character is middle-aged or older, transgender woman, ambulatory wheelchair user or wheelchair user, open to all ethnicities. *Note, as this is sci-fi, younger than middle age may apply. PRINCIPAL. A founding figure of the Queerverse, Oracle has done her service, done her duty, and now she’s done. She wants a peaceful existence to guard her limited energy and manage her physical pain. Instead, she’s pulled out of retirement to command a ship full of bickering youths. She also has to contend with spoiled brat and former colleague Bae reminding her of the past that Oracle is trying hard to forget. But duty is duty and it’s not like complaining ever got her anywhere. Talking to Oracle can feel like playing a chess game where the aloof commander is always five steps ahead: you never quite know where you stand with her. ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS ELP WHIPP (they/them or xe/xem): Character is middle-aged or older, gender-fluid, open to all ethnicities. Leader of the coalition of non-profit planets (each with its own conflicting Gay Agenda) that rule the Queerverse, Elp Whipp is a career bureaucrat/bean-counter who often gets caught in the trappings of their own political web — meaning much of nothing ever gets accomplished and progress is never made. Elp will appear throughout the series in that ‘Dean of the school’ role, occasionally showing up to demand overdue reports, warn the crew that their funding is at risk, and generally throw a wrench in the works. CARDIGAN JACK (she/her): Character is 30s, cis-woman, lesbian, open to all ethnicities. Cardigan Jack is a ‘pussy-hat’ wearing neo-liberalist feminist with a pirate vibe. She is the ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ of TERFs, and Saf Ron’s nemesis. TO SUBMIT: Borken Creative is committed to diverse and inclusive casting. For every role, please submit qualified performers without regard to disability, race, age, colour, sexual orientation or gender identity, or any other basis prohibited by law, unless otherwise specifically indicated, subject to legitimate casting directives. DEADLINE: Oct 8, 2021 EMAIL: casting@stargazetheseries.com. SUBJECT LINE: Character(s) Role, Performer’s First and Last Name, pronouns. BODY OF EMAIL: Please provide contact info including phone number.

Please confirm you are 18 or over in the body of email if applying for a Stargaze recruit character. Submit headshot and resume as attachments to casting@stargazetheseries.com. Resume should be in a scannable text file format (such as .doc, .pdf, .txt). First round selects will be invited to submit either a video clip audition or zoom audition invite. Only successful candidates will be contacted.

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[drethanramslay]

Rock Bottom

Pairing: Mona X MC (Alexis Jennings)

Masterlist

Word count: 1.8 K (I really tried🤧)

Warnings: None, there is swearing, also there is a crossover 👀

Author's note: I'm taking part in @rodappreciationweek and this is my entry for day 3 (mona)

The hosts of RoDaw @client-327 @brightpinkpeppercorn and @choicesarehard are donating $5 usd to the Lebanese red cross, up to $500 for every piece of Mona content today! Please consider making/posting something for Mona today if you haven't already❤️

I'm also taking part in @wackydrabbles so you will find the prompt in bold

Forgive me if I make any mistakes

"Prisoners move back to your respective cells." The loudspeaker blared, cutting sharply through the air, giving Mona a cold splash of reality.

Until that godforsaken announcement, Mona had been sitting on the steps, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the cool breeze threading through her hair. The sun rays poured over her and she enjoyed the warmth emanating from them. She could smell the ocean and with her eyes closed, she could almost imagine standing on the shores of Santa Monica, the sound of the waves washing over her.

But there is only so much imagination one can use to forget that she was in jail.

To her darn luck, she had been transferred to Trask Island, a maximum security prison off the coast of Florida. It was one of those dreary prison where you were completely cut off from the world.

No call, no letters, no communication.

Whatever fucked up environment they created here, that was her world and Mona hated every second of it.

It was also called the 'rock' because one, it was on a island and two, it would drown all your hopes and wishes of a future, just like how a rock sinks in water.

No one has ever escaped Trask Island and no one ever will. The words of the warden echoed through her head making her scoff.

It's cute that he thinks I will be sticking around in this shit hole.

Mona was super determined to get the fuck out of here even though there were moments when she was completely and utterly lost.

She hated the orange tracksuits she had to wear. She hated the way these spiteful men dictated her life and tried to break her spirit. She hated being stuck in a tiny cell.

She longed to feel the adrenaline rush in her veins when she raced.

She longed to feel her hands gripping her steering wheel, as she drove at speeds defying gravity.

But most of all she longed for Alexis... The girl she left behind.

Mona found it ironic. After her ex ratted her to the police she swore that she would never let anyone have that power over her. That she would never wear her heart on her sleeve again. She built this impenetrable fortress around herself so that no one could enter and know the real her.

But Alexis managed to do that by just smiling at her.

The way their hands fit perfectly into each other's... The way that all her worries would go away when Alex was in her arms... The way that they both pushed each other, looked out for each other and challenged each other...

Mona had never witnessed such a feeling of companionship and she couldn't help but fall for her.

I love you Mona... Those words haunted her but at the same time motivated her to keep going through the motions of the day.

Her fantasies were abruptly interrupted by the guard kicking her combat boots. "Up and going, or do you want a month in solitary?"

And the thing she hated the most about this prison are the guards. I mean it was normal to hate them but this was some next level shit. She absolutely abhorred them to such a extent that she wanted to strangle them with her bare hands.

The number of times she was thrown into solitary was not even funny. And all of them were for the dumbest of the dumbest reasons.

Hell she was thrown in the hole for a fight she wasn't even part of.

All men are the same... Power hungry and drunk on greed. That's why girls are better.

So not wanting to risk living in the darkness for a month, she bit her tongue and got up before joining the other cellmates.

"What a dick." Eris Huang, an expert demolition muttered under her breath, so low that only Mona could hear it, causing her to snort.

In the six months she was here, she was low-key glad that she met Eris. They two met when Mona was moved into Eris' cell. Both were strong willed, hard headed and sarcastic woman so it wasn't really surprising that they became fast friends.

"Tell me about it. One of these days he is gonna piss me off so bad that I will end up castrating him with a blunt knife."

"Oof. I will hold him down and break his legs." Eris offered causing Mona to smirk. I like this girl. 

"Anyways, I have a shift at the library so meet you later." Eris spoke.

"Get me another notebook if possible."

"What are you writing? A love letter?" Eris teased which made Mona roll her eyes but she wasn't very far off from the truth.

"A lady never tells." Mona answered causing Eris to chuckle as she took a left to go to the basement.

Mona reached her cell and she felt the the cell gate close behind her with a loud clang, which resonated in her ribcage.

Sure, hanging out in the yard and working in the workshop was a welcome distraction but staying in her small cell for more than 17 hours would make a girl lonely.

So, in all these hours of loneliness, sadness and hopelessness Mona found some sort of solace in writing about her dreams, list of things she was going to do once she was out, her aspirations... But most importantly, how much she missed Alex and how she wished to be by her side.

So settling into the corner of her bunk, she opened the notebook with tattered pages so that she could write.

Dear Alex, I know I told you to not let me imprison you but that's not applicable to me because you are always on my mind. It's hard to forget you. I miss you so much....

Do you know what day it is today? It's the fifth... Or I assume so because there is no calendar here. We aren't told what date, month, year it is. It's just days which sinks into the lonely nights and the cycle continues.

It's been six months since I last saw you... And I guess it just hit me hard.

It's just cruel how little time we had together.

I still remember that night. How happy we were in that cute little prom of yours. I still remember how heartbroken you were when I betrayed you.

But you didn't let it break you.

I still remember the way you took down those bastards. I still remember how fucking proud I felt on that moment. I still remember how I took a bullet for you and the shock that coloured your face.

And I know the thoughts which ran at your head in that moment. "Someone actually cares enough for me to take a bullet for me."

I'm here to tell you that yes, I took a bullet for you and I would do it a thousand times over just to prove that I love you and I care about you. I'm here to tell you that you are worth it and you deserve all the love in the world.

I wish I could hold you in my arms and tell you all of this but... Life loves fucking with me and you got caught as collateral.

It's just... Hard some days. Sure I have made friends with some other criminals and tried to make this fuckery my new normal but I'm only human. I'm few moments away from sinking to rock bottom, as shocking as that may sound.

You always perceived me as an aloof, careless and a strong badass but that changed when I met you.

Sure I was always strong but you make me stronger. You and me... We both are like two knives sharpening each other. Pushing each other to reach new heights of awesomeness.

But, I also want to worry for you. I want to appreciate you. I want to wake up next to you and I want to love you.

I often wish how we would have met if I had not gone down the wrong path. Would we have met at some pub? Or in some Ivy League college? Or some frat party?

People often say that you shouldn't waste time thinking about the things that could have been but when you are in a prison with nothing but time, that's all you seem to do.

So yeah, you are the only thing preventing me from going insane.

I think that's enough emotional bullshit for today and I'm low-key relieved that you aren't reading these letters, of me talking like a sap.

But one thing is for sure- I love you.

Yours, Mona.

She heard the electric buzzer and the door of her cell opened. Eris walked in with an impassive face with a guard standing at the entrance. He shut the cell gate and walked away.

Mona's eyes narrowed as she sat up straight. Wait a minute-

She waited for the guard to be far away before she spoke up. "You have a plan."

Eris turned the light off of the cell and plopped on to the bed opposite Mona's.

"Smartie. Always knew I did a good job of recruiting you."

"But how? Do you remember the last time you failed and ended up in the hole for a month and a half?!"

"Yes I do remember but this is foolproof. We have outside help."

"... I'm listening."

"Do you speak thief?" She asked which made Mona scoff in disbelief.

"Obviously. I have stolen cars and kidnapped people. Obviously I'm no amateur."

Eris proceeded to explain how her friends Rye and some other chick had come up with a plan. She listened with complete attention and only stopped her to ask valid questions.

"So... Are you in?"

Mona tried weighing the pros and cons. It's sounded a tad bit unrealistic and far fetched. There were a couple of loose ends which made her hesitate.

Eris noticed that and grasped her hand. "See Mona, no escape plan is perfect. This is a rough draft and we will work out the kinks. But remember, the three crucial things an escape plan needs is- Luck, faith and determination. We don't know about what lady luck has in store but, we sure can have faith and determination."

"I know that you hate it here and I know the punishment of escaping is harsh but what's wrong in trying? We are already suffering as it is, what's a little more? And I see that fire in your eyes, M."

"The fire to break free and the fire to go back to your girl."

Mona looked up and the momentary joy of getting to see Alexis soon. Adrenaline courses through her veins, causing her heart to beat faster.

Eris leaned forward, her voice intense. "So tell me- Would you like to blow this joint or rot in here for the next five years wishing you could have atleast tried?"

Mona's eyes met hers and a smirk formed in her face. Reaching forward she shook Eris's hands, sealing the deal.  "What the hell. This is without doubt the stupidest plan you've ever had. Of course I'm in."

Don't worry Alexis, I'm coming home.

Hope you liked it 😊

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[turnupswritessometimes]

Is it Really so Bad? - Tododeku - Ch3

Title: Is it Really so bad?

Chapter: 3

Word Count: 3796

Description:   It had just slipped out. It had slipped out because his dad had gone on a rant about All Might again. That rant had turned into a rant about Midoriya and that had tickled a nerve. It had pissed Shouto off so he had said the only thing that he knew would piss his dad off more. “Don’t talk about my boyfriend like that.” That had made time stop still. His dad was staring at him with wild eyes. Shouto was staring back at composedly as he could, but he was holding his breath. He couldn’t quite believe those words came out of his mouth. What the hell was he saying - he hadn’t been thinking, that was for sure. * Todoroki impulsively lies to his father about dating Izuku, so instead of coming clean, he and Izuku decide to fake their relationship. Slowly, the lie gets out of hand and we all know what happens when you pretend to date someone…

Note: This is available on A03, and I would recommend you follow it there, as I remember to update it. I would post a link, but then Tumblr wouldn’t include it in search results.

Everything was back to normal - post Todoroki fake date. He hadn't even told Ochako - it was too awkward and embarrassing and he was scared that she wouldn't understand. She’d probably tell him it was an incredibly weird thing to do – that he should have said no to the whole thing. Or ask why Izuku would be so willing to pretend to date Todoroki anyway? And Izuku didn’t have an answer to that, not really, so he had kept quiet about the whole thing, and Todoroki hadn't mentioned it either. Back to normal -

Back to normal except the study sessions. Except the hour that Izuku spent after school with Todoroki, painfully going through his worst subject.

He'd never been particularly bad at a subject, and he wasn't bad with language - it was just so much more of a struggle. None of him wanted to admit to Todoroki that he wasn't good at something. He was smart - clever - he had gotten through the entrance exam with flying colours and had barely even used his quirk in the practical. He was a good student and he didn’t want to admit he needed help.

But if Todoroki cared about all that, he didn't exactly show it. He was the same as he'd always been, pre-Todoroki fake date. He was patient and matter of fact and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking half the time. It was completely ridiculous, but Izuku found himself missing the date. He was missing Todoroki's little smiles - missing noticing the way his voice changed ever so slightly when he was talking to his dad compared to the soft tone he had used with Izuku. This was all just weird, because it wasn't like it had even been a real date. One dinner around Todoroki's house and suddenly he felt closer to him than anyone else. Well, he supposed, he hadn't actually been around anyone else in the class's house.

It was All Might that changed this normalcy.

A week after the fake date, in their practical lessons, he had casually said, "I think it's best we break the two lovebirds up and have Young Midoriya and Young Todoroki on opposite teams."

They had both frozen. In fact, it seemed as if the whole world was frozen. Everyone, standing there and taking this information in.

Izuku's gaze went over to Todoroki. He was staring back, wide eyed.

Then whatever being was watching over them seemed to hit the play button again. The class exploded.

"Love birds?"

"Deku and Todoroki?"

"You guys are together?"

"When were you going to say?"

"I didn't even know you were gay!"

All Might blinked at the chaos, realising the crucial mistake he had made all too late. Izuku looked up at him, willing a sinkhole to appear underneath him and just swallow him whole. Ochako had grabbed his arm, though she hadn't said anything. Her face was white and Izuku couldn't meet her eye.

"Come on now, we don't have all day to stand and gossip!" All Might called, though for once he was only half-listened to. It felt as though the class was double, no, triple the size - everyone's eyes bearing against him like a barrage of sledgehammers.

All Might clapped his hands again and everyone jumped to attention, flitting this way and that to get into their teams.

Izuku was still frozen. Ochako had to pull him to one side.

"Deku?" she murmured and gave his elbow a squeeze. "Are you okay?"

Izuku nodded. No, he wasn't okay – of course he wasn't okay – nothing about this was okay. Everyone had just found out he was gay and – he wasn’t, he was bi, but he hadn’t really told anyone. And he didn’t know if Todoroki was and – he couldn’t explain it, or could he? Should he? Would he even be able to? Would he even have the words?

He was mumbling. He heard his voice - thin and weedy in his ears.

Ochako hugged him, tightly.

"Come on," she said, rubbing her hands up and down his arms vigorously, as though he was just very cold. "Let's focus on class. I'm sure no one will remember after. Bakugou-kun will probably blow up half the school and we'll all get a long lecture on controlling our quirks, yeah?"

Izuku nodded again. This time he was able to take a breath and meet her gaze for just a moment.

Ochako was wrong.

At lunch he was bombarded by questions. He knew most of his classmates were just curious, some even excited and happy about the whole thing, but they all seemed to have magnified in size. Their eager eyes and questions the only things Izuku could see or hear.

“I really don’t think who Midoryia chooses to date is any of your business.” Iida acted as a barricade, stepping in front of Izuku with outstretched arms.

Ochako linked her arm into Izuku’s and pulled him away from the rest of them, back down the corridors and into an empty classroom. She was taking this all so casually that he felt awful.

“Oh, Deku, I’m so sorry,” she said, pink in the face.

Izuku blinked at her. “Sorry that I’m –“

“No, you donut. I’m sorry that All Might outed you to everyone.”

His chest was tight as he nodded. He leant against the door, trying to remember how to breathe.

Ochako was one of the only people he had told. Izuku was bisexual. He had known for two years now – when for some reason at thirteen he’d realised he wouldn’t actually mind kissing a girl or a boy, as long as he liked them. Once he had realised that, he had realised, actually, there were a lot of guys he’d like to date.

Well, he’d told Ochako and Iida, who burst through the door moments later, looking as if he’d used his quirk to outrun the others. He slammed the door shut behind him with so much force that it rattled.

“Midoriya, are you okay?” He was still shouting, slightly.

“I’m fine.” He couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. But he did slump down on one of the desks and take a few deep breaths. It was fine – this was fine, it was just unexpected.

Well, it wasn’t fine. But being out was hardly the problem. That was actually the part he cared about the least. It was that Todoroki was out too and Izuku didn’t even know if Todoroki was gay – or if that was just part of the charade too. It was that Izuku was out and he was dating Todoroki.

And that wasn’t part of the plan.

That wasn’t part of the plan at all.

*

Shouto didn’t say anything. Luckily, he didn’t have to. He packed up his books as slowly as possible, letting everyone else file out around him. Half of them paused with open mouths, wanting to hear more details about the class gossip, but a stern look from Iida sent them slinking out of the door like scolded puppies.

He was one of the last ones out, with Midoriya trailing behind him.

They walked down the corridor in silence for a few moments. Shouto was just trying to get out of Aizawa’s ear shot, but he wondered what Midoriya was thinking. If he just didn’t know what to say. What was there to say?

“Did you tell him?” Shouto asked, when he thought the coast was clear.

Midoriya jumped slightly, as if he hadn’t been expecting the question. It almost annoyed Shouto – was he really that scary?

“No! No, I didn’t tell him – did you tell him?” Midoriya asked, turning huge green eyes onto Shouto.

“Why would I do that?”

Midoriya shrugged. They had slowed to a stop, and the bright sunlight outside turned Midoriya’s wavy hair more green than ever.

“It must have been my dad.” Shouto grimaced. He felt his fists clench. “I hate that. It means he was talking about me.”

Midoriya was quiet for a moment. He leant against the windowsill, his eyes on Shouto’s shoes.

“I kind of like when my mom talks about me. It’s normally because she’s proud of me and wants to show off about me,” he said. Colour appeared in his cheeks and that made his freckles stand out even more. Glowing – Midoriya glowed when he was like this.

“I don’t need my dad’s pride.” Shouto didn’t mean to snap, but from the way Midoriya blinked at him, he knew he had. “I mean – it wouldn’t be good if your mom told everyone you were dating someone you weren’t, right? You didn’t tell her, did you?”

And Midoriya actually laughed. “Hell no. She’d want to know everything about you – she’d probably coerce you outside the school gate and drag you home to interrogate you. She’s already asked me all about you.”

“She has?”                                        

“Well, yeah. She watched the sports festival on T.V. Ever since then she keeps asking me about you.” Midoriya paused, his gaze dropping back down to Shouto’s sneakers. He shuffled them, wondering why he was so suddenly self-conscious. “I think she half-expected us to start dating anyway.”

But we’re not. We’re not dating. It had become a mantra that horrible, awkward night at dinner. A way for Shouto to try and control his quirk. Midoriya had been sat in his house. Smiling and chatting as if there was absolutely nothing wrong. His hand in Shouto’s like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was way too good – way too good at pretending and being a total angel about it all.

Midoriya was a total angel about everything.

And maybe he wouldn’t be if Shouto admitted that he wasn’t straight. He wasn’t sure he’d go so far as to say that he was gay – but he knew that he wasn’t interested in dating girls. Maybe that would make Midoriya feel weird about the whole thing – maybe he didn’t want to pretend to date a queer boy.

Shouto blinked. He tried to get himself to focus and stop thinking about meeting Midoriya’s mom. Of being introduced at Midoriya’s boyfriend. They weren’t dating.

But the whole school thought that they were.

“A-anyway,” Shouto said. “All Might thinks we’re dating.”

Midoriya shuffled, at last looking uncomfortable. “Why don't we just tell him the truth? Then we could tell everyone he made a mistake and he’d cover for us.”

“But what if he tells my dad?” Shouto had already thought of that. Of course, he had already thought of that and it had only made him realise that lies grow uncontrollably and there’s no stopping them. There was no asking nicely out of this now, not if there was going to be no room for error.

“We could ask him not to.” Midoriya smiled slightly.

And despite himself, despite everything, Shouto felt a smile tease at his mouth. He stopped it before it became a laugh.

“You wouldn't have the guts to ask him that,” he said.

Midoriya smiled back, his eyes twinkling. Like a star, that boy was. “Well you wouldn't either.”

Shouto wasn’t about to admit that Midoriya was right. That he still struggled to talk to All Might without sounding like a complete fanboy. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and glanced down the corridor, pretending to think.

“It’s not like All Might can keep a secret, anyway,” he said, as an excuse. But it did make Midoryia raise his eyebrows and bite his lip. An ‘I know something you don’t know’ look if Shouto had ever seen one. He decided to ignore it. “Maybe we should just call it off. Stage a breakup. It'll make my father happy, but – whatever. It’ll make it easier at school as well.”

He sounded flippant and he knew it. But what else could he do? Admit that he had enjoyed making Midoriya come around his house? That he had enjoyed calling him by his first name and being able to touch him? It wasn’t like they were holding hands during their study sessions, as much as he found himself wanting to.

“Is dating me really so bad?”

Midoriya’s voice was little more than a squeak, but it made Shouto turn back. He looked almost bashful, looking up at Shouto through his curls with pink cheeks. It was an offer. An offer that he was willing to keep it up for Shouto’s sake.

And he couldn’t form a coherent thought for a long moment. Midoriya was offering to fake date him. Granted, because he had asked to fake date him first. But Midoriya was willing to go along with it, despite the stares and the questions and did Midoriya even like boys?

“No,” Shouto said. And he closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to see Midoriya’s reaction. His hert had kicked itself into overtime as it was, and he could feel frost forming on one side. “Fine. We keep it up at school.”

“Are you okay with that?” Midoriya asked. He looked so worried.

“Are you?”

“Mm.” Midoriya nodded. “Well, Ochako’s kind of mad that I didn’t tell her, but I'll just pick her up some chocolates. She'll forgive me eventually. She will still give me the third degree, though. I’ll have to make some stuff up, if that’s okay?”

Shouto blinked. It was so earnest – like he really wanted this to work.

“How are you so okay with this?” Shouto asked, completely baffled.

“Well...it's not - it's not like it's hurting anyone.” Midoriya kept shuffling his trainers, picking the white paint of the windowsill behind him. “It's just a little white lie. And I like hanging out with you, Todoroki."

There was that smile again and Shouto felt his face grow warm. He kicked his quirk into gear just too cool himself down.

"Right," he managed to say. "I guess we keep it up at school."

"Yeah." Midoriya nodded.

"Well, then,” Shouto nodded back. He realised they'd just been here, standing in the hallway. And for some reason he felt incredibly awkward about it. “I’ll see you-“

"Wanna walk to the bus stop together?" Midoriya asked. It caught Shouto so off guard that he nodded and followed him down the corridor.

"It’s just a little less awkward." Midorita opened the door to the stairs. "We can say a proper goodbye there."

"Yeah." Shouto had no idea why a proper goodbye was important. But he still walked down the stairs and out of the school alongside Midoriya. Thankfully, there were only a few students left mooching around the grounds, and none of them were from their class. They must have been hurried along by Iida. He was surprised they hadn't all received a sensitivity lecture after lunch.

It was surprisingly easy to talk to Midoriya. They were both interested in heroes - and though Midoriya knew more stats and facts than Shouto ever would, there was something fascinating about watching him gush about it all.

Shouto hadn't even realised he was staring until Midoriya blinked at him.

"What?" Midoriya asked. He was still smiling slightly, his eyes searching Shouto’s. He did that often, Shouto had noticed. His eyes would flick between the blue and the grey, showing no difference between them. As if he was trying to focus on both at the same time and just couldn’t choose between them. That was new. His father only looked at the blue, his mother concentrated on the grey.

"Nothing,” Shouto said quickly. He didn’t want to say it was the freckles or the dimples. Or the fact that it was cold enough outside for Midoriya’s cheeks and nose to turn pink in the cold.

He couldn’t admit that. He couldn’t admit that, although he didn’t want the whole school to think that they were gay – he wasn’t even sure he definitely was – there was something not completely awful about the situation. It was an excuse to be around Midoriya – he liked Midoryia. There was a  reason the lie had come so easily. There was a reason he hadn't made up more excuses to his dad that there was no way Midoriya was coming for dinner.

He definitely couldn't admit that it felt like the was a butterfly trapped in his stomach when Midoriya drones on and on about superheroes with that excited puppy dog look in his eyes.

Then Midoriya's slid away from Shouto to behind him.

"Oh, cool. There's my bus," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah."

The bus was pulling up and Shouto really wished it wouldn't. He really wished that they could stay here, like this, for a little longer.

But Midoriya was hopping up onto the step, his bus pass out and ready. He turned back, briefly and grinned.

"Bye, babe."

Shouto felt as though his quirk was kicked into overdrive. He managed to catch himself just as he was going to combust, though he did have to turn away from the bus to hide his smirk. It had made his stomach leap.

It was the kind of reason why Shouto was happy to let the school think they were dating.

*

Why the hell did he say that? What on earth possessed Izuku to call Shouto Todoroki babe? He shouldn’t even show up to school tomorrow. Never again. He could never look Todoroki in the eye again.

In those eyes that he just couldn’t stop staring at. He knew Todoroki had heterochromia, and yet, it seemed to surprise him every time he really looked. And he knew Todoroki had noticed. He was embarrassed – that was why he had turned away when Izuku had gotten on the bus.

It had been a joke. A way to make light of the otherwise awkward situation.

He didn’t think it worked. No doubt Todoroki would stage a fake break-up between them just for that.

Izuku sighed as he kicked his front door behind him, already toeing off his shoes and taking his backpack off.

“I’m home!” He tried not to sound as mortified as he really was.

“In here! Could you help me with dinner?”

It was an excuse to dump his bag by the door. He slid down the hallway and into the kitchen (it had taken him two whole years to master skidding in his socks like that), immediately picking up a knife and helping to chop veggies. Everything was normal, and that was incredibly comforting. Just chatting to his mom about his day and making dinner – which was already making his stomach growl.

Everything was normal until his mom said, “Izuku, honey, your teacher called today.”

Play dumb, play dumb, play dumb. It was Izuku’s first, and only, defence mechanism.

“Mr Aizawa?” Though he knew that wouldn’t be the answer. For once, he hoped he was failing so badly Aizawa felt the need to tell his mom about his incompetence.

“All Might.” His mom glanced up at him. She was stirring the broth on the hob and needed to look up slightly to make eye contact. When had that happened? “He said he wanted to apologise for something he said in class.”

The question was implied.

“Oh yeah, that was - it was just - it was nothing, mom.” Not his best reply. He could only hope All Might hadn’t given her the details –

“He told me what it was,” she said. She turned her eyes back to the broth, but not her concentration. It was starting to bubble against the edges of the saucepan. “He didn’t realise that he'd put his foot in it again.”

Oh God. His first instinct was to come completely clean. This was his mom and he couldn't tell a lie. She’d have to be the only person to know the truth.

And yet.

Maybe she would mention it to All Might. Maybe he would mention it to Endeavour. Maybe Endeavour would just cut the middle man out and come straight over here. Maybe he’d want to meet his son’s fake-boyfriend’s parents. Anything could happen. His mom wasn’t amazing at keeping secrets anyway. She’d always tell it to a few friends, who would tell a few friends and, well, it would get out of hand very quickly.

It wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

He'd been silent too long. His mom had turned away, flicking the stove off.

“Why didn't you tell me it was a date last week?” she asked, and sounded hurt. That made Izuku wince. He pushed the spring onion he’d chopped around the cutting board with the tip of the knife. He’d have to go along with it, now. And he’d have to be believable.

“We weren't sure whether to be official or not,” he said. It was sort of truthful, but the silence was terrible. He forced a smile on his face and tried to beam at his mom. “But I guess we are now!”

It didn’t work quite as well as he hoped it was. She nibbled on her bottom lip and said, “Oh, Izuku...”

“I'm fine, mom. It's fine,” Izuku said.

“Is it?”

“Everyone's been - well, a little excitable, but not in a horrible way.” That was the truth. “I promise, it’s fine.”

“Promise me you’ll tell me if there’s any trouble,” his mom said. “If anyone says anything that’s even a little out of line-“

“I’ll tell them that you’ll kick their ass.”

“That’s right!” His mom looked at him, her hands on her hips. She gave a short, sigh, then was suddenly crossing over to him and enveloping him in a tight hug. Her hair was in her face and he had grown, he realised. He had grown a lot because he could rest his chin on the top of her head now. Izuku’s arms went around her and she felt small. Someone he had to protect, not the other way around. “I’m so proud of you, Izuku.”

“Mom.” He didn’t know what to say. Whether to thank her or tell her to stop. He just left it at that. Just at ‘mom.’

It was fine, he told himself. They were doing fine. Even though he when he had caught Todoroki’s eye he had just seen panic, it would be fine. Todoroki had said it was fine to keep it up at school.

If he was honest, I felt a little smug about it. That everyone would think it was Izuku who was dating Todoroki. He felt a little smug that he’d be able to hang out with Todoroki more – Todoroki and his friends. They’d all be together. It would be really cool, actually, to spend time with him. As a friend.

Well, not quite as a friend.

But how difficult could pretending to be together really be?  

[jeusev]

h-hewwo it’s my dragon age oc, his name is Tarenan. He is an ancient elf who went into uthenera after the fall of Arlathan. He fought with the rebeliion along with Solas ;w; im up for RP/HCs! also english is not my first language so please excuse my grammar / vocabulary errors dshsdhhsdh 

Tarenan

Taren : Mind

Nan : Revenge

Renan : Voice

Taren was born in Arlathan, to healer parents, servants of Elgar’Nan. He was born conveniently attractive, wrapped in smooth, fair skin. Silky jade coloured hair draped along his shoulders gracefully, he was fit, slender built with average height. The glint of his emerald orbs were mesmerizing. He was unblemished. 

However, alas, it was like the universe was trying to nerf him, Tarenan was lacking the ability to wield magic, much to his dismay. Taren had 2 older brothers, so naturally, his parents did not really mind his “defect”, however the elvhen did not took it so kindly.  Slithering whispers on his back whenever he went was inevitable, and it always riled him up. The discrimination and the pity stares he received shaped him into an ambitious, prove-thirst chaotic individual. He was notorious, he’d pick a fight whenever one of his peers started to pity his inability to use magic. “I’m still better than you even if i could not wield magic.” Taren would always find a way to prove that he was indeed better than everyone, and easily enough, he realized violence solves the problem. Taren did not really care about his academic achievements, for he saw the best on academic matters would probably ended up working in the grand library doing monotone research anyways. Boring. 

So he trained, ceaselessly, with a goal in mind to become Elgar’nan’s elite warriors, so no one could ever belittle him anymore. If someone without magic like him can join the elites, then who are you to belittle him, right ? Taren was not gifted in terms of strength and muscles, but his assessment were always on point. Thus, he realized something crucial – The ancient elves... DID mind about their gracefulness when they fight. They thought so highly about having to look good even when you’re about to bathe in someone else’s blood, which is… bullshit, if Taren must say. So Taren took advantage of that, and developed his own fighting style. It was definitely.... beastly, wild, its “ugly” ; according to everyone. But he won. Mostly. Him, against elves with magic. 

Ultimately, his notorious achievement reached on Elgar’Nan’s ears, and so he was recruited and joined the legion. Even though Taren was still a rookie, he worked harder than most, and showed an indomitable determination. As a gift, Taren was given a chance to receive a “lyrium marking”, which enables those so called “defected” elves to use magic. Sometimes Elgar’nan would send his troops to the dwarven underground for the lyrium, and only the maker knows what Elgar’nan would do to those lyrium. (x) (I suspect the Tevinter / Fenris’s lyrium markings was a technique derived from the elvhen) Taren was delighted, and after a series of excruciating experiments, it finally happened. 

Strange markings appeared all over his body. Levitation was the first thing he tried to master, he was able to phase through objects, and then shapeshift, though it requires extreme concentration to be able to keep up the transformation for a long time, and ultimately, Taren were totally unbeatable in the battlefield. He soared the sky, killed Elgar’nan’s enemies as much as he could, hoisted Elgar’nan’s flag on every landmark he could see, all he did to show his loyalty to Elgar’nan. To spat, on those who underestimate him. Pride and arrogance filled his heart, it blinded him to the bitter truth he chose to ignore. Then, Taren became an arcane warrior, one of Elgar’Nan’s elite bodyguard, appointed exclusively by Elgar’Nan himself. Tarenan did not possess the tall and bulky body like other warriors. In fact, he was probably one of the smallest elite bodyguard Elgar’nan ever had. It becomes an advantage though. People unfamiliar to him would underestimate his physique. Little did they know, Tarenan was one of Elgar’nan prized champions. Taren was deadly and impeccable. Strong, boisterous, never wavering. Naturally, having such title comes with great burden and responsibilities too. As a champion, it was one of his duty to do Elgar’nan’s dirty work. Taren understands, and he tremendously enjoyed the title bestowed upon him. 

Until one day, he found a baby. Crying. Under the bed, where her supposedly parents killed by Taren. Taren had killed widows, whores, rebel teenagers, concubines, men with families, soldiers, but not…. A baby… When Taren picked her up, her crying stopped. She stared at Taren, wide eyed, curious. Using the last of his conscience, Taren decided that it was.. better that she was  brought back, rather than killed. She could become a nurse, or farmer.. and so he jumped from the window, flew to the horizon, with a baby slept soundly on his arms.

It was NEVER on his thought, to actually have a kid. He did had meaningless dangles obviously, but a family ? To become a father ? Never. But there he stood, changing her diaper. The baby started to cry whenever Taren was not around, and she looked like she was the most comfy baby when sleeping on Taren’s arms. In the end Taren decided that she will be his responsibility, because she threw the biggest tantrum when she was handled with the midwives and milk mothers, and Taren did not trust those lame ladies anyways. They treat babies as if they’re fragile creatures, must be protected at all costs. For Taren, babies had to be taught the cruel world from early ages. Let them fall when they learn to walk, so that they will understand pain and refrain from doing the same mistakes again. Besides, the baby seemed to like being handled with Taren. It cried when the midwives put her in frilly dresses, she seemed to grow fond of the lame, comfy baby onesie Taren picked for her. She giggled cheerfully when Taren threw her up on the air, and snorted adorably when she was being carried upside down by him.

Taren the savage arcane warrior ? The beast who always wore armor and kept his wings visible all the time ? 

It was a surprise, really. So Taren could not really blame them, he did not believe it at first either. People were worried about the girl’s future, about how Taren would accidentally sit on her or drop her. Or stab her with that stupid claw armor he wore all the time. Little did they know, Taren was actually a great father, and he loved his daughter, dearly, as a father should. Gold ain’t always golden, and he named her Minaya. 

Minaya grew into a sensible, gentle woman in nature. She was his pride, she was Taren’s 80% impulse control. Taren used to teach her everything, now she taught Taren about compassion, to let go of all the hate and hatred Taren kept, to find his own happiness in the harsh world they live in. It changed how Taren saw the world. Every path Taren took, he calculated how it’d affect Minaya in some ways, he realized how his path were always against what Minaya had taught him. Finally Taren was forced to acknowledge all his past misdeeds. He realized how filthy he was by doing Elgar’nan’s dirty works. He realized how despicable the lies Elgar’nan preached to comfort the soldiers when the poor souls were about to be deployed to an unjust war. He was furious at the evanuris. He was angry at how Elgar'nan’s pride could cost innocent lives, gallons of blood spilled for unworthy cause. He was enraged, for the pride he sought turned out was an illusion. Sweet lies Elgar'nan whispered on his ears, glorifying what was horrible. Exasperated, because the most guilty had the cleanest hands.

When he came back from the battlefield, the pain changed him.

Taren could not just escaped and ran away from Elgar’nan, he could not just joined the other “better” evanuris. He could not defy Elgar’nan, he could not risked Minaya. Elgar’nan was merciless, he was utterly cruel to those who oppose him. He was called a “god” for a reason. Taren was helpless against his fate.

Minaya, of course, realized it. Taren’s pain was her own, she was always there for him during Taren’s difficult times. She gave him a reason to keep thriving for a better future, to keep the fuel burning. She turned his pain into wisdom, helplessness into fortitude. His daughter was the only light in his dark path that kept him away from being astray.

Just when Taren thought about starting over, to do things right - Mythal was killed. It was a catastrophe, the world was on fire. The sounds of the blacksmith forging metals filled the sky, soldiers kept marching day and night, the whispers of prayers were heard everywhere Taren goes. Taren had to accompany Elgar’nan, and left Minaya to her own. She was already a healer at this point and she’d be safe at the shelter, while tending those who were injured. If he kept Elgar’nan close, then Taren would knew what was his enemy up to, right ? Because Taren knew, the death of Mythal was one of many Elgar’nan’s shenanigans all along. Because Taren, was indeed, involved in some ways. Elgar’nan overthrew his own father, what made people think that he would not overthrow his own wife too ? 

Mythal was justice, she cared about her people. Taren never saw Mythal soldiers being sent to an unjust war, when she waged a war it was because of a good cause. Never for her pride. Taren secretly respected her, and Mythal’s right hand too. Solas. War after war raged on, it was pointless. It never ends. Until finally Taren found out that the dread wolf led a rebellion army against the Elven gods. Taren always played the obedient pet role to Elgar’nan, so naturally, it would never occur to Elgar’nan that Taren would betray him. And so he did.

Taren joined the rebellion army, along with Minaya. He wanted a redemption, a chance to regain his dignity back after all he had done. His vallaslin was removed by Solas, for Elgar’nan was no longer his master. The path he took now was even more bloody and jaggy, but it also gave him freedom; a privilege to choose his own actions. It felt right. 

Minaya married one of the healers she worked along with. He was a great, honorable man. Taren cried during the ceremony, the joy he felt was overflowing from his chest. She told Taren to not worry about her anymore, and that he should focus on his dreams, on things that made him happy. So Taren did. He worked along with Solas, they gave the freed slave sanctuary from their tyrannical masters. His people defended the valley in which the sanctuary sat, and he protected them all. Many joined him in his fight for freedom from the gods. (x)

The war did not stop though, and at this point Taren and Solas knew that the evanuris would eventually destroy the world, because their lust for power was insatiable. Taren spent most of his life serving under Elgar’nan, he knew what the gods were capable of. So Solas came up with a solution, and he needed Taren’s help to achieve it. The price for it was tremendously huge, but Taren agreed because it was necessary. 

Kill hundreds to save thousands. It was judicious.

Eventually Solas sealed the elvhen gods within the veil, and for that Taren was utterly grateful, but he also felt intense despair and guilt as he watched the fall of Arlathan. His pain was so great, even Minaya could not made it better. She watched him cried all his tears. Taren succumbed into his depression, his life was now devoid of emotions, it extinguished the fire ignited within him.

So he went to uthenera afterwards, and slept for eternity.

Only to be awoken from his long slumber after the Inquisition disbanded. Confused and not knowing whatever happened to his world, he started his journey to relearn his new world, and to find out what happened to his daughter.

---

ps. Minaya is my Lavellan’s ancestor

[szymonwalendowski]

Othello - race and ethnicity

DEFINITIONS AND CONTEXT The play written by Shakespeare in the XVII century is the very first whose black protagonist is portrayed in a positive way, allowing the text to acquire a vital role in the history of drama. Yet the clarity regarding Othello’s race has not always been so unquestioned. As the play has been reproduced on stage thousands of times over the past centuries, so has the perception of Othello’s skin colour. Starting from the publishing of the play in 1622 the characters dark skin remained intact, up to the 1820’s when a scholar by the name of Samuel Taylor Coleridge published a paper in which he states - ,,Can we imagine him [Shakespeare] so utterly ignorant as to make a barbarous negro plead royal birth? […] It is a common error to mistake epithets applied by dramatis personae to each other as truly descriptive of what the audience out to see or know.” (Coleridge, 385). Following the release of this essay Othello was depicted as light-skinned or bronzed until the 1870’s. The problematic approach to the protagonist’s skin colour has been evident throughout history, as well as discussed in the play itself. The term moor refers to somebody from the region of Arabia, Palestine or North Africa, generally speaking - Muslims. These people had the possibility to receive high ranks and gather large fortunes (just like our protagonist did) OTHELLO VIEWED FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF SOCIETY At the time, England’s population consisted almost entirely of white Europeans, and the few black people that lived in the area were heavily associated with negative traits such as dishonestly and hostility. Thus most of the literature created before the publishing of the Shakespearean drama, rarely incorporated characters of colour, and if they did, they were presented as evil, cruel villains, with the sole purpose of causing chaos and pain. Shakespeare’s play acknowledges societies perception of black people, but does not support it. Othello is consistently judged for his race, called racial slurs and undermined by people of lower rank, that nonetheless, feel entitled to insult the man. This is most visibly conveyed in Act I Scene I of the play, before Othello is even introduced. The reader/viewer witness a conversation between Iago and Roderigo during which they discuss the ‘unlawful, socially unacceptable’ marriage of Desdemona and Othello. In fact most of the racially charged vocabulary comes from those two characters and Brabantio, who later joins the scene as well. However, it is evident that Othello has managed to gather respect in his position, as the Duke of Venice, when praising him to Brabantio claims - ,, your son in law is far more fair than black” ( 1.3.291). Said as a compliment, but still undermining the man for his blackness, this is an ideal example of what Othello was usually faced with. Common pre-existing stereotypes in the culture of XVII century England regarding black men, state that they tend to be overly jealous; are exaggeratingly passionate (hence unreasonable) and gullible. All these mentioned traits have been portrayed by Othello in his behaviour, and used by Iago to manipulate him. Fundamental concepts – • Othello is generally respected as a military man. • The Duke of Venice, a person of a very high rank, respects Othello’s opinions, treating him more seriously than his own senators, which is presented in the act 1 scene 3, where the dynamics between Othello, the Duke, and Brabantio are shown. One of the symbols of respect is that Othello was greeted first, before the senator. • Although he is positively perceived, characters do not ignore his race, which makes him an outsider despite his behavior and status. How other characters refer to Othello? Starting from Iago, the characters name derives from Santiago, which is a symbolic title for people who fight against moors ( or moor-slayers ), meaning that he is by nature supposed to be opposed to Othello. Iago, being the villain he is, insults everybody around him, but he has a designated vocabulary reserved primarily to either describe or infuriate Othello, as he refers to him as an old black ram contrasting him with Desdemona represented by an ewe. Desdemona on the other hand deeply admires her husband. Unlike what the people in her surroundings think, she is infatuated in Othello. Portrayed as one of the strongest feminine characters in Shakespeare, Desdemona opposes to her fathers will, falls in love with a man her when socially it would have been unthinkable to do so, and even follows him to war to Cyprus. Her defiant personality has led some to believe that her love for Othello was kindled by his race. Othello’s skin colour, symbolises his exoticism, creates an atmosphere of mystery and ambiguity around the man, and this is what attracts Desdemona the most. She is fascinated by him. Their love is also illustrated by the imagery of the night, representing Othello, adoring the day, symbolising Desdemona. Nonetheless, their romance will be testified against her, as Iago presents her rebellious personality as a reason for her to cheat on him, creating dramatic irony. Emilia as well as Iago directly correlate Othello’s dark skin colour with his evilness. Most characters believe a black ‘outside’, meaning physical appearance, must be related with a dark ‘inside’, accusing him of malicious intents and cruelness, solely based on his exterior appearance. Fundamental concepts - • Most of the characters in the play refer to Othello using race- and ethnicity-centered epithets, i.e. “the Moor”, “the thicklips”. • Characters that aim to present him in a negative way, like Iago, often use various animals with negative connotations, for instance “Barbary horse”, or “an old black ram”. • The dark color of Othello’s skin is used to symbolize sin and evil. For example, Iago uses the term “blackest sin”, and Emilia “blacker devil”. How does Othello refer to himself? In the face of constant judgment based on his physical appearance, it is inevitable for Othello to not think poorly of himself. In Act I Scene III, the character attributes his problems in expressing his language in a courteous manner to his years spent in the military, but as the play progresses, his insecurities start surfacing. By the time the reader reaches Act III Scene III, he states – ,,Haply (perhaps), for I am black And have not those soft parts of conversation That clamberers have” – thus blaming his racial identity for the qualities he lacks. The phrase above reflects how self-doubting the character must have been of himself, if in the moment when he is presented the biggest doubt of his life, he immediately turns to his ethnicity seeking for a part of him to blame, to point out what he was most afraid would happen. Othello, indeed, numerous times wonders why Desdemona fell in love with him, and even feels anxious about having such a lovely wife. The low self-confidence of the character ignited by years of racial marginalizing, has made him an easy target for manipulation, as Iago manages to smoothly slide into Othello’s mind, pull out his biggest doubts, and without providing an explanation leave him to his thoughts. The final monologue of Othello is also crucial in understanding his perception of himself. As he prepares the knife that will later lead to his death, he lays down his principles. He asks the witnesses to ‘’Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate/ Nor set down in malice” a final plead to be remembered by his service for the state, behavior and human, instead of skin color. Othello also makes reference to his race by including exotic metaphors, and his final sentances are as follows – ,,And say besides that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took bt th’ throat the circumcised dog And smote him – thus!” As Othello retells the sotry of one of his many victories while serving for the state, he indicates that he, himself, has become an enemy of Venice. By degrading himself to the level of those he despised most, which is visible in the vocabulary he used to describe the enemy nation, he presents himself as equally worthless as those who he killed, and subsequently stabs himself in a deadly lunge. At his moment of death he identifies himself as a foreigner that despite their biggest efforts, never managed to become part of the society that so deeply rejected him. Fundamental concepts - • Othello often acknowledges his ethnicity, often combing it with some stereotype, like saying that he is a bad speaker because of his race: ”Haply, for I am black/ And have not those soft parts of conversation” • He is conscious of the fact that he is an outsider, but he also knows that his service to Venice is important and that he is a trusted and successful soldier. • In his final monologue he uses many exotic metaphors (dropping tears as fast as Arabian trees, Indian throwing a pearl away), a reference to his background. OTHER LOCATIONS REPRESENTED o Venice - a very well prospering place due to international trade. Its location by the sea not only enabled business connections but also allowed many cultures and races mix in the city. Venetians were considered very open minded at the time, as they emphasised work and their interests rather than religious values imposed by the church. As they liked to point out – “we are Venetians first, and Christians second”. The city was a place of ambiguous morals, perhaps the only city at the current time in which an interracial marriage, such as that of Desdemona and Othello’s, would be somewhat eligible. o Florence - in Shakespeare’s time the city was considered to be the center of education. Cassio, a Florentine, speaks in a very elegant manner, which confirms this perception of Florence. A Florentine was also used to describe homosexuals, and other males with high femininity levels. o Cyprus - a place very different from Venice, as it is a fortified outpost. The island plays a very important role in the play, as the actions starts unfolding once the characters arrive. The size of the area is smaller and the political situation is uncertain enhacing the atmosphere of the island being a dangerous outpost unlawful territory, making it the perfect place for Iago to carry out his evil plan. Cyprus was also the birth place of Aphrodite, a mythological goddess of love, which ties in with the themes of love and jealous.

[mayrasportfolio]

Othello in the context of race and ethnicity

DEFINITIONS AND CONTEXT

The play written by Shakespeare in the XVII century is the very first whose black protagonist is portrayed in a positive way, allowing the text to acquire a vital role in the history of drama. Yet the clarity regarding Othello’s race has not always been so unquestioned. As the play has been reproduced on stage thousands of times over the past centuries, so has the perception of Othello’s skin colour. Starting from the publishing of the play in 1622 the characters dark skin remained intact, up to the 1820’s when a scholar by the name of Samuel Taylor Coleridge published a paper in which he states -  ,,Can we imagine him [Shakespeare] so utterly ignorant as to make a barbarous negro plead royal birth? […] It is a common error to mistake epithets applied by dramatis personae to each other as truly descriptive of what the audience out to see or know.” (Coleridge, 385). Following the release of this essay, Othello was depicted as light-skinned or bronzed until the 1870s. The problematic approach to the protagonist’s skin colour has been evident throughout history, as well as discussed in the play itself.

The term moor refers to somebody from the region of Arabia, Palestine or North Africa, generally speaking -  Muslims. These people had the possibility to receive high ranks and gather large fortunes (just like our protagonist did)

OTHELLO’S RACE VIEWED FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF SOCIETY

At the time, England’s population consisted almost entirely of white Europeans, and the few black people that lived in the area were heavily associated with negative traits such as dishonesty and hostility. Thus most of the literature created before the publishing of the Shakespearean drama, rarely incorporated characters of colour, and if they did, they were presented as evil, cruel villains, with the sole purpose of causing chaos and pain. Shakespeare’s play acknowledges society's perception of black people, but does not support it. Othello is consistently judged for his race, called racial slurs and undermined by people of lower rank, that nonetheless, feel entitled to insult the man. This is most visibly conveyed in Act I Scene I of the play before Othello is even introduced. The reader/viewer witness a conversation between Iago and Roderigo during which they discuss the ‘unlawful, socially unacceptable’ marriage of Desdemona and Othello. In fact, most of the racially charged vocabulary comes from those two characters and Brabantio, who later joins the scene as well. However, it is evident that Othello has managed to gather respect in his position, as the Duke of Venice when praising him to Brabantio claims - ,, your son in law is far more fair than black” ( 1.3.291). Said as a compliment, but still undermining the man for his blackness, this is an ideal example of what Othello was usually faced with. Common pre-existing stereotypes in the culture of XVII century England regarding black men, state that they tend to be overly jealous; are exaggeratingly passionate (hence unreasonable) and gullible.  All these mentioned traits have been portrayed by Othello in his behaviour and used by Iago to manipulate him.

Fundamental concepts – • Othello is generally respected as a military man. • The Duke of Venice, a person of a very high rank, respects Othello’s opinions, treating him more seriously than his own senators, which is presented in the act 1 scene 3, where the dynamics between Othello, the Duke, and Brabantio are shown. One of the symbols of respect is that Othello was greeted first, before the senator. • Although he is positively perceived, characters do not ignore his race, which makes him an outsider despite his behavior and status.

OTHELLO’S RACE REFERRED TO BY OTHER CHARACTERS

Starting from Iago, the character's name derives from Santiago, which is a symbolic title for people who fight against moors ( or moor-slayers ), meaning that he is by nature supposed to be opposed to Othello. Iago, being the villain he is, insults everybody around him, but he has a designated vocabulary reserved primarily to either describe or infuriate Othello, as he refers to him as an old black ram contrasting him with Desdemona represented by an ewe.

Desdemona on the other hand deeply admires her husband. Unlike what the people in her surroundings think, she is infatuated in Othello. Portrayed as one of the strongest feminine characters in Shakespeare, Desdemona opposes to her father's will, falls in love with a man her when socially it would have been unthinkable to do so and even follows him to war to Cyprus. Her defiant personality has led some to believe that her love for Othello was kindled by his race. Othello’s skin colour symbolizes his exoticism, creates an atmosphere of mystery and ambiguity around the man, and this is what attracts Desdemona the most. She is fascinated by him. Their love is also illustrated by the imagery of the night, representing Othello, adoring the day, symbolising Desdemona. Nonetheless, their romance will be testified against her, as Iago presents her rebellious personality as a reason for her to cheat on him, creating dramatic irony.

Emilia, as well as Iago, directly correlates Othello’s dark skin colour with his evilness. Most characters believe a black ‘outside’, meaning physical appearance, must be related to a dark ‘inside’, accusing him of malicious intents and cruelness, solely based on his exterior appearance.

Fundamental concepts -

• Most of the characters in the play refer to Othello using race- and ethnicity-centered epithets, i.e. “the Moor”, “the thicklips”. • Characters that aim to present him in a negative way, like Iago, often use various animals with negative connotations, for instance, “Barbary horse”, or “an old black ram”. • The dark color of Othello’s skin is used to symbolize sin and evil. For example,  Iago uses the term “blackest sin”, and Emilia “blacker devil”.

OTHELLO’S RACE FROM HIS OWN PERSPECTIVE

In the face of constant judgment based on his physical appearance, it is inevitable for Othello to not think poorly of himself. In Act I Scene III, the character attributes his problems in expressing his language in a courteous manner to his years spent in the military, but as the play progresses, his insecurities start surfacing. By the time the reader reaches Act III Scene III, he states – ,,Haply (perhaps), for I am black And have not those soft parts of conversation That clamberers have” – thus blaming his racial identity for the qualities he lacks.

The phrase above reflects how self-doubting the character must have been of himself if at the moment when he is presented the biggest doubt of his life, he immediately turns to his ethnicity seeking for a part of him to blame, to point out what he was most afraid would happen. Othello, indeed, numerous times wonders why Desdemona fell in love with him, and even feels anxious about having such a lovely wife. The low self-confidence of the character ignited by years of racial marginalizing has made him an easy target for manipulation, as Iago manages to smoothly slide into Othello’s mind, pull out his biggest doubts, and without providing an explanation leave him to his thoughts.

The final monologue of Othello is also crucial in understanding his perception of himself. As he prepares the knife that will later lead to his death, he lays down his principles. He asks the witnesses to ‘’Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate/ Nor set down in malice” a final plead to be remembered by his service for the state, behavior and human, instead of skin color. Othello also makes reference to his race by including exotic metaphors, and his final sentances are as follows – ,,And say besides that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took bt th’ throat the circumcised dog And smote him – thus!” As Othello retells the sotry of one of his many victories while serving for the state, he indicates that he, himself, has become an enemy of Venice. By degrading himself to the level of those he despised most, which is visible in the vocabulary he used to describe the enemy nation, he presents himself as equally worthless as those who he killed, and subsequently stabs himself in a deadly lunge. At his moment of death he identifies himself as a foreigner that despite their biggest efforts, never managed to become part of the society that so deeply rejected him.

Fundamental concepts - • Othello often acknowledges his ethnicity, often combing it with some stereotype, like saying that he is a bad speaker because of his race: ”Haply, for I am black/ And have not those soft parts of conversation” • He is conscious of the fact that he is an outsider, but he also knows that his service to Venice is important and that he is a trusted and successful soldier. • In his final monologue he uses many exotic metaphors (dropping tears as fast as Arabian trees, Indian throwing a pearl away), a reference to his background.

OTHER LOCATIONS REPRESENTED

o Venice - a very well prospering place due to international trade. Its location by the sea not only enabled business connections but also allowed many cultures and races mix in the city. Venetians were considered very open minded at the time, as they emphasised work and their interests rather than religious values imposed by the church. As they liked to point out – “we are Venetians first, and Christians second”. The city was a place of ambiguous morals, perhaps the only city at the current time in which an interracial marriage, such as that of Desdemona and Othello’s, would be somewhat eligible. o Florence - in Shakespeare’s time the city was considered to be the center of education. Cassio, a Florentine, speaks in a very elegant manner, which confirms this perception of Florence. A Florentine was also used to describe homosexuals and other males with high femininity levels. o Cyprus - a place very different from Venice, as it is a fortified outpost. The island plays a very important role in the play, as the actions starts unfolding once the characters arrive. The size of the area is smaller and the political situation is uncertain enhancing the atmosphere of the island being a dangerous outpost unlawful territory, making it the perfect place for Iago to carry out his evil plan. Cyprus was also the birthplace of Aphrodite, a mythological goddess of love, which ties in with the themes of love and jealousy.

[elizascharlesdanceblog]

Charles Dance: how common

Charles Dance: 'the audience feels cheated if you don't be honest about yourself'

Nigel Farndale12:15AM BST 28 Oct 2007

Army officers, worthy medicos, louche aristos, and now a donnish C.S. Lewis in 'Shadowlands' – when casting directors need 'a toff actor', Charles Dance is top of their list. It's all pretending, the secret plebeian tells Nigel Farndale, and he loves it. Portrait by Joss McKinley

Given that Charles Dance is an actor, it shouldn't come as a surprise that his manner off stage is quite actorly. Yet somehow it does. I suppose it is because he is often cast as the reserved, taciturn, patrician type, while, in person, he is tactile and garrulous. Sitting on a sofa in his dressing-room at the Wyndham's Theatre, London, he makes big theatrical, off-the-shoulder gestures, taps the wood of his dressing table – the superstitious actor – and leans forward to touch my knee occasionally, to emphasise a point. Moreover, he punctuates his anecdotes with 'darlings', 'sweethearts' and 'dears'.

Physically, he looks taller and more athletic than seems decent for a 61-year-old. He doesn't dress his age, either: his 6ft 3in frame looking rangy in faded jeans, T-shirt and heavy black boots. His hair may be thinning and becoming as pale as his skin, but his face is still strong boned, his hooded eyes still flinty. Intellectually, you suspect, there is not as much depth there as he likes to think there is, but he is friendly and engaging. Like many in his profession, he enjoys having a whinge about the actor's lot.

Don't get him on the subject of dressing-rooms, for example. He has just been touring the provinces before opening in the West End this week – 'the foreplay before the penetration,' he calls it, rather alarmingly – and the dressing-room he had in Cambridge was dark and subterranean. This one is windowless and has a fan whirring, but at least it is freshly decorated and all the light bulbs around the mirror are working. 'That's thanks to Madge,' he says. 'I was doing The Play What I Wrote here in 2002, just before Madonna did a show here and she paid for the dressing-rooms to be done up. But the funny thing was?…' he bounds up from the sofa and marches across the room to the shower area; here he describes two diagonal slashes with his arms, '…?they put crime scene tapes over the shower so no one else could use it before Madge.'

The play he did before that was Long Day's Journey into Night at the Lyric on Shaftesbury Avenue. 'In the dressing-room were little sachets of vermin poison. Pretty bloody awful. There was a mattress in there with a piece of fabric that looked like Monica Lewinsky's old dress on it. Half the lightbulbs had gone. I was there for 12½ weeks doing a play that was not a bundle of laughs, so I bought some ready-made curtains and a throw and some lightbulbs and insisted they had the room painted. They brought colour swatches of white, white or white – so I chose white.'

In his latest play, the first major revival of William Nicholson's award-winning Shadowlands, Dance plays C.S. Lewis. Although Nigel Hawthorne, on stage, and Anthony Hopkins, in the Oscar-nominated film version, are hard acts to follow in that role, Dance proves himself worthy. His struggle as the middle-aged Lewis to accept that he has fallen in love for the first time, only to lose his new wife to cancer, is mesmerising. 'It is about love in the presence of pain and suffering,' Dance says. 'C.S. Lewis believes pain is a tool. Pain is God's megaphone to rouse a deaf world.'

Presumably getting in the right reflective mood beforehand, while sitting in a pleasant dressing-room, is crucial to this performance? 'Your mood can be affected by the state of your dressing-room, and by the day you have had, but hopefully that doesn't affect the performance.'

I ask whether he can relate to the religious aspects of the play: C.S. Lewis, the devout Christian, agonises over the faith that has let him down. 'Not at all. I am an agnostic. I'm not bothered about not knowing. Religion is at the core of the play, but we pretend. It's my job. If I'm playing a murderer I don't murder people.'

And the academic aspects, the donnish world of Oxford? 'I am not an intellectual. I am reasonably intelligent, but not intellectual.' I only ask because he often plays men who are in professions that others find inspiring: Army officers, doctors and so on. When he prepares for such roles, does he ever wonder whether, by comparison, being an actor in greasepaint is somehow not quite a proper job for a grown man? He seems affronted by this question and answers in a loud and indignant voice. 'Some might think it's a job for children, but it's not! We do work very hard!'

Slightly taken aback, I say that I didn't mean to sound rude. I reframe the question in terms of the Samuel Johnson quote about every man thinking meanly of himself for not being a soldier. 'I see; well, I like pretending to be all those things. I like pretending to be someone in the military, but whether I could do it I don't know. That's why I am an actor.'

I tell him I went to see his Coriolanus years ago, the ultimate role for an actor with martial aspirations. 'London or Stratford?' The Barbican. 'Good. I was reasonably happy with it by the time we reached the Barbican.' It was a powerful and memorable performance, I say. Perfect casting.

The irony, though, was that Coriolanus is the patrician who is condescending towards the plebeians, and Dance's background is plebeian. He is the son of Nell, a former parlour-maid.

Dance returns to his actors-are-just-pretending theme: 'I just pretend. I was able to observe the aristocracy at close quarters because my mother worked for them. She certainly worked for much posher people than we were. Housekeeping. One observed it and absorbed it. My mother married above her station. She came from the East End. I'm not sure what my father did, because he died from a perforated ulcer when I was four, but I think his family had been confectioners. And I think he had been an engineer. A little further up the social scale than my mother. He used to do the occasional music hall recitation.'

Despite this background, when Dance started out in acting a fellow actor noted that he was 'a toff actor' as opposed to 'a peasant actor'. 'It's because I have a patrician face,' Dance says. He does indeed. But it is also to do with his bearing. As an actor he has a commanding presence and a certain grace. He can convey emotions with the flicker of a muscle, with the slightest movement of the eye. Two of his more polished aristocratic roles are the Earl of Erroll in White Mischief and Lord Raymond Stockbridge in Gosford Park. When he was filming the latter he told the director, Robert Altman, that he was in the wrong place, upstairs with the toffs; he should be downstairs with the servants. Altman said: 'Not with that face, Charles.'

It might be that he learnt his patrician bearing from observing his step-father, Edward, a civil servant. He had been the lodger. He drank lots of tea and did the pools. 'A fairly solitary men who seemed to have no friends or family, but quite decent. He looked after my mother. She would say, "When your father died I had 10 bob left in the world, dear".'

His mother's wasn't a happy life. Nell nursed Edward through cancer and then died from a heart attack six months after he did, in 1984, the year The Jewel in the Crown was making her son's name. They used to row a lot, mother and son. 'Terrible emotional scenes. She was a very emotional woman.'

I ask if she was socially insecure. 'She came from the servant class, which was not the same thing as the working class. The servant class is right in the middle. I'm not sure I believe there is such a thing as a middle class: it is either working class on the way up or aristocracy on the way down. She also, of course, was a lifelong Tory voter, as most people from the servant class were; you can't possibly be governed by your equals. You have to be governed by your betters.'

His brother is 10 years older, a retired naval officer who lives in France. 'He had been a difficult adolescent and my mother thought joining the Navy would make a man of him. So she marched him off to the recruiting office when he was 15, a decision my mother regretted until the day she died. I remember sharing a bedroom with him before he left for the Navy and there were books of poetry around the place and he wasn't a bad draughtsman either. All that had to go. My mother learnt from her mistake and allowed me to indulge in poetry and the arts.'

Charles Dance had been studying graphic design and photography at Leicester Art School when he got the acting bug. Steve McQueen and Peter Finch had inspired him to become a screen actor, while 'Brian Rix dropping his trousers in a farce made me want to prance about on stage'. He abandoned his course in favour of acting lessons from two retired thespians, Leonard and Martin. They were gay, but quiet about it, as society demanded at the time.

What was he like at that age? 'When I was 19, I was long-haired, going on the Aldermaston march, shagging everything in sight. The march was more fun than anything. I'm not especially political.'

Was he narcissistic as a young man? 'Not really, not until way after my teens. Mid to late twenties, possibly. I look around now and see guys who are fantastic looking and then I look in the mirror and think this is a very odd face. It doesn't bear close scrutiny. Bags under the eyes, thinning hair, I don't see a handsome man when I look in the mirror. Never have done. It is not an easy face to photograph, which is tricky in a film career unless you are in the hands of an astute and clever director of photography. I wear clothes quite well and am reasonably fit and have a good body, but I don't think I am particularly handsome. When people first started describing me as being that, at the time of Jewel in the Crown, I was surprised, but then I learnt to embrace it, a little too fondly.'

At the time, he was described as the English Robert Redford. I suggest it must have given him confidence to be told he had matinee-idol looks, even if he couldn't see it himself. 'Confidence is something I have had to acquire. This profession is littered with people, who, by their nature, are more introvert that extrovert. I can have my flamboyant moments, but I am, by nature, an introvert. I acquired confidence by giving myself severe talkings-to from time to time. I found that aspect of Coriolanus – the opening scenes where he is confident, strutting, all "I'm f---ing wonderful, and powerful", harder to act than the more vulnerable moments later in the play when it emerges that he is a mummy's boy.'

He thinks that early on in his career he may sometimes have been cast because of his looks – but not any more. 'Now I am getting more interesting roles. Mr Tulkinghorn in the BBC adaptation of Bleak House, for example. Or Ralph Nickleby [in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby]. He is a complete s---. Evil, but interesting. Whereas there are only so many ways you can play a romantic leading man. You know you are there for a reason.'

He described himself earlier as 'shagging everything in sight'; just how successful was he with women? 'Not that successful. You know how it is when you are a young man: lots of groping most of the time, nothing serious.'

For 23 years he was married to Joanna, a sculptor. They have grown-up children: Oliver, who works in film, and Rebecca, who is in publishing. Then, in 2004, they divorced. Dance's name has been linked to one or two actresses and models since, but he nevertheless worries that he might end up alone. He prefers not to think about it. Indeed, he feels uncomfortable with this conversation, not least because his ex-wife was door-stepped by the press at the time of their divorce. 'I'd rather you avoided the subject,' he says, 'but I can't blame "the business" for the breakdown of my marriage. I don't want to talk about it. If I had a choice in the matter I would say "please don't go into all that", but if you want to insert something about it I can't stop you.'

I note that actors tend to be liberal by inclination, that this is partly to do with the bohemian life they lead: the touring, the intimacy with fellow cast members, the abandonment of self-consciousness. In Dance's case, that includes appearing nude. He has no qualms about it, as he demonstrated recently in the film Starter for Ten. He turned up on set for that scene already naked. When the wardrobe assistant offered to cover him up, he said: 'No need, darling'.

'Well, if you've done it once, after that it doesn't bother you,' he says now. 'To continue the painting analogy, painters have brushes and paints, we have this.' He sweeps his hands the length of his body. 'The audience feels cheated if you don't open up and be honest about yourself. I feel I have cheated myself if I don't go that far. Having stuff in reserve is to cheat.'

Similarly, he is not fussy about what he appears in, so long as the money is good. He has done a number of forgettable Miss Marple-type dramas on television and memorably wore fishnets and a red rubber micro-skirt for the Ali G movie. 'I'll do anything for money,' he says. 'People talk about choices. What choices? The choice is to work or not to work.'

I suppose he has an additional choice in that he can also write, produce and direct. Notably, he wrote, produced and directed Ladies in Lavender, a film about two sisters, played by Dames Maggie Smith and Judi Dench, living on the Cornish coast, who take in a Polish stray just before the Second World War. 'There was a day when I was stupid enough to try to direct Judi. She came up with a line that was a bit sentimental for her and I knelt down and touched her knee and said: "Judi, it is a bit Celia Johnson-ish." And she said: "How dare you? And get your hand off my knee.".'

The film grossed more than $30million. 'But none of it found its way into my pocket. It all went to the f---ing distributors and sales agents. I see the returns. I get "0000" next to my name while they are coining it in. It was a bugger to get the financing together for that film. I had to ask Judi and Maggie to defer fees and they sweetly said "of course, darling", even though they knew deferment usually means deferred indefinitely.'

He slips on a black polo-neck and scoops up a packet of cigarettes from among the greasepaint pots. He is going to pop outside for a quick fag. As we walk through the theatre we talk about Shadowlands and its funereal themes. He says he would have loved to have gone to George Melly's funeral. 'He had a cardboard coffin which people wrote funny things on, like, 'You owe me 20 quid, George".'

As we stand outside the stage door, in the drizzle, I ask if he has thought about what form he would like his own funeral to take. 'God no,' he says, lighting a cigarette. 'Too busy trying to live, for f---'s sake.'

'Shadowlands' is at the Wyndham's Theatre, London W1, until 15 December; www.shadowlandstheplay.com, 0870 950 0925

source: telegraph

[iamtrashhenceiamhere]

Katherine (class D level 7)

Katie

“In…out…it’s gonna be ok.” Katherine repeated this over and over again, taking deep steady breathes while going over her notes again. She’d memorised them last night, but it didn’t matter because this was the real deal now. Things could easily go wrong. This History presentation was crucial to her grade and this thought had been cutting into her all week. If only she could concentrate on her damn notes! Breathing was going all over the place as it so easily did nowadays. The neatly written words and colours were going blurry as her eyes lost focus and she saw the scene play out. She’s there in front of the entire class, filled with smart people, people who could do better presentations than her, who knew more about the topic than she did. Her PowerPoint starts up and she’s stuttering her way through the first few slides before someone points out a flaw. Something wrong with the dates. Or names. Really, anything could be wrong, even though she double-checked each bit of information. They question her, interrogate her, how could she have let such an error happen, that was so stupid.

Quickly, Katie whips out her laptop, and speed-runs through the presentation once more, mentally going through everything she was going to say, checking her sources, her images and dates. Everything looked in order. But then again, what did she know? Deep breathe… one...two…

The bell rings and it’s time to get to class. Everyone packed their snacks, still laughing over some new joke, and made their way to class. Of course, everyone else was relaxed about the presentations, they were sure about what they were going to say. They were probably going to get full marks too. A small part of her wished she could relax as much as they were able to. She’d be fine once she finished it, she knew that.

Class began, the teacher set up her computer, so each student could log in quickly and just “go for it”. Katie checked the list. She was the fourth one. Damn it. There was no point in waiting, you might as well go first since you weren’t allowed to work on anything while others were presenting. A real shame at that, not only because she wanted to check her notes again, but because it would be easier to talk to the class if none of them were paying attention.

She barely registered the first two presentations, Katie’s mind was simply repeating her own notes, over and over again. Around thirty minutes into the lesson, her ears strained to hear the teacher call her name. It would look dumb if she didn’t respond to that, so she mentally prepared herself for it.

“Alright, Katie, whenever you’re ready.” She stood up. Too quick, slow down a bit. She logged into her account, hands trembling no matter how she tried to still them. The ppt appeared on the projector and she slightly cringed, what was she thinking with that font. As she read the title again, Katie realised with a sinking feeling, she messed up already. The title is supposed to be a question. It didn’t matter that her real question was on the next slide, everyone else had the common sense to put their research question at the start. It was almost as if someone was squeezing her lungs tight, it was hard to get any oxygen in. A headache began forming, but she couldn’t complain now. It would seem like she was trying to get out of it. Katie tried to ignore it.

She laughed nervously, trying to ease some of the tension building up within her, drowning her. “So…um, t-today, I’m gonna…um…” the room spun slightly. She really needed to get her breathing in control but damn it, it was so hard. She can’t faint now, that would really screw things over. She was better than this. She had to be.

“So, when…when the troops were… were rebelling against the, uh, G-General and Commander in…in charge… they- wait no, sorry, question first. Um…” her mind raced as Katie mentally kicked herself for that screw-up. She went on nevertheless. Past the first three slides, somehow remembering everything. But she could feel the seventeen pairs of eyes, following her every move, noting every hitch in her breath, every stutter, every mistake she made, judging her silently. Katie’s mind wandered to the end. Naturally the teacher would point out the many mistakes and inaccuracies. Her friends would pity her and her low grade. The others would whisper when they thought she couldn’t hear them about how she blew the whole thing. How she was a failure.

Her headache was really raging now, a wild fire, spreading from her lungs to her head, burning pain as if ropes were being tightened. It was pushing her, further and further to the edge of the cliff. She had tears welling up now as all her senses went into over drive. The room was cold, freezing cold, but it wasn’t like she could leave mid-way and put her jacket. That was look dumb and weird. Not to mention probably get her mark deducted. She wasn’t sure how, but there must be something about leaving the presentation mid-way.

With all this going on, Katie struggled to remember her next part. She stared at the screen, hoping it would show mercy and give her the answer. Nothing. The longer she stared, the more blank she felt. Tears spilled through, she didn’t care. She needed to keep going. But her mind was taken over by the pain.

And it went over the edge.

It was like emerging from the depths, taking in the first gasp of sweet air. Her mind was abruptly cleared, and she could think again. Taking a few more precious seconds to get her breathing in control, she nervously smiled at the class, hoping to do some damage-control in the last 5 minutes of her presentation. But they only stared back in horror. Her smile fell as she realised what had happened.

She’d screwed up her entire presentation with that stupid break-down. How could she think everything would be fine, that she could do some stupid “damage-control”? There was no saving her grade now, as she looked at the same shocked expression on her teacher’s face. “sorry, can-can I try again? I don’t know… it’s just been a bit sc-scattered for me, I don’t know, I’m sorry.” She muttered quietly, smiling nervously, hoping the teacher took pity on her. But instead their expression of shock grew into horror as she spoke.

“Katie…? Where did you go?” she tentatively asked as she looked around the room. The rest of class was also looking around, almost as if she wasn’t right in front of them, standing perfectly still. Even her friends in the back row were in on it. just looking around, outside the damn window even, as if she had just jumped out the damn classroom!

Her breathing grew shallow as some of them began talking worriedly amongst themselves and the teacher even went to the phone. Even if this was just a joke, they seemed to be taking the whole thing a bit too far. “He-hey, I’m right here guys… come on, what’s going on?”

Everyone’s head snapped up in her direction and they all stared worriedly at her. “Oh my God, you guys heard, that right?” someone spoke up as everyone nodded and muttered in mute horror. The room was chilled as everyone began yelling and Katie slid onto the floor and curled around herself, trying to block out the noise. Nothing was making sense. This wasn’t right. What was going on?

It was only a month after this happened that Katie understood what had happened. From the point of view of the class, Katie had simply vanished from sight. They could only hear her voice as she panicked and cried in confusion. She reappeared ten minutes later, completely still, sitting on the floor, darting her eyes around the room. She naturally didn’t accept what they said had happened. It all seemed like a cruel joke. But eventually she came to accept that she was an what the scientific world called, an Atypical.

[faintblueivy]

Close To My Heart - Borusara Fanfiction

Hello everyone! This is my submission for Borusara Fanfiction week - day 1. I was supposed to post this one shot last night but due to some mishaps from Tumblr, I wasn't able to. Mind you, this is larger than anything I've written for Borusara, yet excluding my multichapter fics . Actually, you'll find a lot of mistakes here as well, because it was written hastily and no beta-read.

Rated T

Warning - Heavy angst

Summary - "I love you." And he gave a smile so wide that his eyes closed, "--and them too."

Light breeze messes up my hair. Standing atop the Hokage Monument makes a ton of memories flash through my mind. I feel tired. I feel old. The slight wrinkles on my face and grey streaks across my hair do nothing to help.

But still...the memories make me smile.

I remember him being there for me from the beginning. Nothing reminds me that there was a time before it.

"Boruto! Stop messing around."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"You're causing troubling to Nanadaime!"

"Of course, I am. I want him to say sorry to me! I'll beat him someday."

"Heh. As if."

"Hey! Don’t underestimate me! Sarada!"

I remember us talking about our dreams and fears, about what we wanted our future to looks as. And it made my heart beat when I thought of how our goals intertwined with each other’s.

“Thank you... thanks to that I was able to reach my own goals.. so it's really I who should thank you"

"When you become the Hokage, I'll be your right-hand man! I'll guard you well!"

Little laughs and their consistent bantering was a medium to strengthen our bond. We faced different kinds of hardships. But we never faltered. We grew up faster than what our parents wished, thanks to those who wanted to disrupt the era of peace.

We fought. We struggled. We won. And we moved forward.

As the time passed by, our feelings began to change. Our friendship was as strong as ever but something about our dynamics morphed into an uncharted territory.

I realised how broad his shoulders were. His blue eyes... The ones which reflected the entire world were older. He grew tall.

But still there were a few things that still remained the same. His bright blue eyes which made attracted me were same as always. So was his smile, sunny enough to brighten up anything.

After a number of trials and tribulations we achieved peace. And then came an awkward proposal.

...

Sarada panted heavily. Her body trembled with exertion. Damn, he's gotten so strong. But she wasn't the only one tired. He was on his knees gasping for breath as well. Then he looked up, a feral grin upon his face and his eyes shining.

"God, Sarada, marry me."

Sarada rolled her eyes. She had been aware of the fact that their relationship had progressed into an uncharted territory. They have danced around the subject, always finding excuses to evade their feelings. But with the peace and tranquillity back in the land, there were not enough of the good excuses. She knew that.

"I hope you're not drunk this time." She laughed remembering a certain incident when he had proposed her because of being drunk silly.

"I'm not." He said, his voice held strength that churned Sarada's stomach. He was still on one knee when a pulled out a small black velvet box from his pocket and offered her a ring with Ruby on its centre.

"I know I'm not the best guy to be with. I've done things which I shouldn't have. But Sarada, I, I love you, I have loved you for a long time and I don't think I can stop anytime soon. It's still not enough, I know, but...Uchiha Sarada, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Sarada couldn't breathe. He...he was serious. After a few moments of silence which she was taking to gather herself, she realised he was becoming nervous. The intensity of this proposal and the change that will occur in their lives if she accepted this made her throat dry.

But she raised her hand towards him, smiling the most beautiful smile ever in acceptance.

...

Married life for them wasn't easy, especially with their busy schedules and his trips. They had arguments, broken promises, hurt and struggle.

...

"Hey! Are you ignoring me?!" Boruto yelled in her ear as he swiped the papers off her hands.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Sarada screamed, frustrated at him.

"'What the hell is wrong with me?!' I just returned back from a month mission but you're the one ignoring me!"

"Argh! Shut up! Stop whining like a kid, will you?!"

"If you didn't want me home back then I would have stayed there." He said softly before jumping out of the window of her office.

...

But at the end of the day, we would always come together with apologies.

I was happy, with the little things we did for each other. When he would make me breakfast or carry me home after a hard day at work.

Nothing changed between us but yet, everything did.

...

"Sarada, wake up. Or you'll be late for today."

Boruto shook her lightly but she snuggled closer to his warmth, burying her face into his shoulder. 

"No. I'm not going today. I took a break."

A few beats of silence before he yelled, "Really?!"

"Hai."

She let a lazy smile curl upon her lips and he felt his heart soar. 

...

With him, even the laziest mornings were happier and even mundane tasks like grocery shopping was fun.

We'd go out on dates and movies at times, no, not enough like a normal couple would but rather in our own way.

When I was finally appointed as the Hokage, he had the biggest grin on his face.

...

"Hey? Are you okay?"

"I-I don't know Boruto. It's finally happening."

"Yes, it's finally happening. It’s great, right?"

"I am nervous. My dream is about to come true and I don't know how to feel about."

"Sarada. Look at me."

"You've worked so hard for this. You deserve it. Never doubt that."

As her eyes flicked at him, she was overwhelmed with all the love and warmth in his eyes.

The conviction in his voice burned through her conscience, quenching her doubts and demons.

When she stood on the stage, accepting the Cape with pride and reverence, she could feel his spirit seep through herself, illuminating.

...

With Boruto by my side, I felt I could conquer skies. Being a Hokage wasn't easy, but the satisfaction of knowing that he was here was my greatest strength.

But, I forgot, we're shinobis. And shinobis are meant to endure.

...

She had never before experienced this much terror. As far as her eyes would go on the battlefield, there was nothing but a sea of blood and corpses. Her own people were dying and she was utterly helpless.

Her body was littered with fresh wounds and bruises. One of her lungs was punctured and her femur was broken and had torn out of her flesh, making her immobile in such a crucial battle.

"I'm the Hokage! Dammit Sarada! Get up! You have to protect everyone! Shannaro!"

She screamed at herself, as she barely managed to stand only to have her brain burned with searing pain as she collapsed on to the ground. Again. 

"Please move." she sobbed and begged to her body to not give up on her, hoping to get that little amount of strength to get up and fight, but to no avail.

As she saw the enemy forming a large concentrated mass of chakra like bomb, she felt whole body going cold with fear and horror. His aim was Konoha. And it was definitely large enough to obliterate the entire village. Her entire body was paralyzed.

It was over.

And at that moment, a flicker appeared right in front of her and a familiar black cape entered her field of vision.

“Boruto…” tumbled out of her mouth, as if her prayers have been answered. But still, the dread in her heart didn’t ease up. Something was wrong, very wrong.

Suddenly he turned towards her, giving her a brilliant smile, but there was something reflecting in his blue eyes – happiness, pain, sorrow, contentment? She was not even able to name them all. But above everything, his bright blue eyes were shining with determination. But there was something that surpassed even that.

It was love.

His eyes were glowing with love.

“Sarada. Tell my parents that I’m proud to be their son. And tell Hima that I love her. Say thanks from me to Sasuke oji-san and Sakura Oba-san for everything they've done for me. And also let our friends know that I'll think of them.

"B-Boruto?"

"I love you." And he gave a smile so wide that his eyes closed, "--and them too."

And right in front of her eyes, the chakra bomb was released, burning everything in its wake hurtling straight towards Konoha. And Boruto stood right in front of its path, undaunted.

A glowing light blue colour aura enveloped his entire body as he gave her one last smile before vanishing and letting himself be engulfed by the eruption.

Konoha was safe. The earth shattering explosion had never reached it. Boruto had not only suppressed the explosion but also destroyed the enemy.

The battle had ended and they were safe.

But Boruto...

Never returned.

Sarada had been hysterical. No matter how hard Mitsuki had tried to hold her to stop killing herself in a desperation to search for him in the mass of rubble, she wouldn't listen. So, he knocked her out.

The skies had cried that day as she had begged them to return him.

Later, she learned that the incapacitated enemy was brutally murdered by Uzumaki Naruto. ...

When she woke up, a week later, she had begged to see Boruto, knowing that he will not be there. Her father was there, though.

And after being properly fed and bathed, she was informed of something she had never imagined.

She was pregnant.

And it flashed across her mind.

He knew.

He knew that she was pregnant.

His eyes and his words blazed her conscience and she felt herself loosing her sanity.

She clutched her head as the faint shouts of "Sarada!" and "Sarada, sweetie, calm down please." echoed all around her. And then, the darkness enveloped her once again. ...

If there was a time that I could call the darkest period of my life, then it would be that. It hurt more than I could bear. My tears would not come out, no matter how much people wanted me cry.

I had not only lost my husband but also my best friend, my team mate, my rival and my pillar of strength.

I felt so alone that it wounded my heart beyond repair. 

...

During her entire pregnancy, Sasuke didn't leave his daughter's side. He had accepted his prosthetic arm in order to assist her. Sakura regularly checked upon her and looked after her requirements. Maybe it was the constant support and love from her parents and friends that Sarada was able to live through it. 

Sasuke might have been absent for a large part of Sarada's life. But he was here now, never leaving Sarada alone for a moment.

It was one day when Sakura entered their home, she fell straight into Sasuke's arms. 

"What happened, Sakura?" Sasuke rubbed her back in an attempt to ease her up.

"Sasuke. I-I analysed her recent reports. She's...she's pregnant with twins."

There was a thud and Sasuke and Sakura raced to the kitchen only to see Sarada collapsed on the floor. She was clutching her stomach, trembling. 

"He said, he said, 'I love you. And them too.' He knew. He knew that I was going to have twins and he still left me?! Why?!" She screamed at her parents as they looked upon her with sympathy and pity. 

"Papa! Mama! What did I do to deserve this?!" 

Sakura gathered a devastated Sarada in her arms, running her fingers through her hair and Sasuke crouched down as well, wrapping his arms around both of them. 

"Sarada." His voice was heavy. "Boruto did everything he could to save you and his children. He didn't want to leave you. Remember that, child."

...

Mitsuki and Chouchou would always visit me regularly and everyone else would definitely drop by once a week. 

Sometimes, I would remember that I'm not the only one who had lost someone important to me. They all have lost their sun. The man who inspired them to move forward and give their all. They had lost the person whom they viewed as a personification of courage. 

... 

In a few weeks’ time, Sarada grew larger. And sadly, to her parents' concern, her condition deteriorated. Her feet were swollen and her eyes looked sunken. Her pale skin had turned even paler.

Unlike Sakura, who glowed when she was pregnant, Sarada was a broken mess. 

One day, Hinata Uzumaki rang their doorbell. 

"I'm sorry Sarada. I'm sorry for not being there for you when you needed someone. But don't worry. I'm here now."

Her lavender eyes shine with warmth as if trying to placate not only Sarada but herself as well. 

... 

Boruto's death had left a gaping hole in the Uzumaki family as well. If there was someone who was hurt as much as I was, it was Tou-san Naruto.

The man was shattered and devastated more than he let on at the death of his son. Every moment of his life was spent cursing himself for his failure in protecting his child. He had changed a lot since the incident, becoming an empty shell of his former self. He had resumed his position of the Hokage again as Sarada was is no condition to do so.

His smiles did not hold its usual glow but rather turned damper. His words were still inspiring but now they sounded hollow.

And the entire Konoha was aware of these changes now.

…

During the last trimester of her pregnancy, Sarada was bed ridden. Her vitals were getting weaker by each passing day and it became frustratingly hard for her parents and Hinata to feed her any solid food.

As merciless rain striked against the ground, Naruto moved lethargically to the hospital to see his daughter-in-law. He froze dead in his tracks when he saw Sakura hunched over her knees, sobbing beneath a tree.

“Sakura-chan?!” he exclaimed, wrapping his cloak around her to shield her from the harsh rain.  

“N-Naruto…” she sobbed, burying her face into his shoulder.

“Sakura-chan! Are you okay?!...Is it about Sarada-chan? Or the babies?” despite everything he could not hide the tremble in his voice.

“S-Sarada’s health is getting worse with each passing day. I’m scared Naruto. I’m scared. What if she doesn’t survive childbirth?”

Naruto felt his whole body going numb. First his son and now his daughter-in-law. Life has never been kind to him. Everything he held dear was always taken away from him.

“I-I’ll-save her. You can count on me.” The faltering in his voice turned into something a little more determined, just a glimpse of the conviction he had always known to display. He refused to lose anyone he loved ever again. He might have failed Boruto but he will definitely protect Sarada, Himawari and his grandchildren.

He’s not going to give up! Not now! Not ever!

And Sakura felt ease in some corner of her mind.

...

Those days were scary. Even when I had so many people by my side, none of them were capable of filling up the void left behind in my heart because of Boruto.

I can faintly remember the first kicks of my babies. Back then. My mind was so muddled that it all felt unnecessary to notice and cherish, but I do regret the past.

…

Finally, the day came. Sarada went into labour a day earlier than expected, but Sakura was completely prepared. The entire lobby was filled with friends and well-wishers, all of them anxious. Naruto was there along with Sasuke outside as well, his senses completely trained on Sarada’s fluctuating chakra, ready to use his abilities to stabilise her life force if necessary.

“Sarada. Calm down sweetie. You’re going to be fine.” As her eyes flicked over the monitor displaying Sarada’s vitals, she wondered if she was saying this to reassure herself or her daughter.

After a labour period that lasted for about hard twenty four hours, surrounded by her mother and her best team as well as Hinata, she finally gave birth to two infants.

A boy and a girl.

The boy was her first born, older that his sister by ten minutes, born with a tuft of black hair and eyes in the same shade as hers. Onyx of his Uchiha grandfather.

Her daughter, the younger of the two, was a baby with golden hair and eyes that resembled her father so much that it made everyone shiver.

When Sakura and Hinata handed her over both the babies, the tears that had been held back for so long poured out freely. She clutched her infants to her chest carefully, relishing their warmth and existence.

At that moment she understood her father’s words more than she ever had.

‘Because you exist.’ The man had said.

“Yes, because you both exist.” She whispered this in her head over and over. Knowing that they were both a token a love from Boruto.

...

That day I realised that I had to live. For my children. They had already lost their father. I couldn’t abandon them. They deserved the love and support of at least one parent. And their presence slowly, but definitely filled the hole in my heart.

…

“Yuriki Uchiha.”

Sarada proudly declared, holding her son close as she nuzzled her baby softly. Then she bent down to scoop her daughter from the crib and rested the sleeping infant against her chest, smiling lovingly.

“Aiko Uzumaki.”

“Those are beautiful names.” Mitsuki smiled as he stepped forward and held his arms out to take Yuriki from his mother, who was curiously looking all around.

“Courage and love.”

Sarada spent next five years raising her children with the help of her parents and friends. They would question about their father just like any other child would. People told them to be proud of the legacy their father was but Sarada’s heart ached knowing that they’ll never know the person there father was. They’ll never know about his pranks, or his stubbornness except for the stories that their Grandma Hinata and Aunt Himawari would tell them.

Weirdly enough, her father was closer to Aiko whereas Naruto was closer to Yuriki. She never understood the reason behind that but they both were merry and doting grandfathers.

Raising twins was not an easy task, especially when you’re a single mother. There were times when she would be at wit’s end but one call would be enough to get Himawari to her rescue. The children had a strong bond with their aunt. Sarada knew that Himawari wanted to be the light in their life what Boruto what in hers.

It warmed Sarada’s heart.

…

I remember a particular day when we had went on a trip to the nearby park. Yuriki was pushing his sister on the swing and she was giggling. And then it suddenly hit me out of nowhere. Yuriki, despite, his black eyes and hair looked so much like Boruto that I had lost my breath. And Aiko, had inherited her daddy’s blue eyes, which nostalgically were bluer than her father.

Both of my babies had inherited so much their dad that it made my heart throb.

…

“Mommy?”

“Yes, Aiko. Do you need more noodles?” Sarada asked, as she cleaned the counter. Both of her children had demanded noodles today. Her brother was still at the dining waiting for the dessert.

“No.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

“Did��did daddy love us?”

Sarada felt her heart crack at her daughter’s words. Her hands wouldn’t move but she was also aware for her son’s gaze at her back, paying attention to her reply.

‘I love you…and them too.’

Sarada crouched in front of her daughter, also signalling her son to come closer. She placed her hands on their shoulder pulling them closer to herself.

“He did. You two, he loved you, a lot.”

More than you’ll ever know.

Her fingers raised and poked her children right in the middle of their foreheads.

…

After they turned five, Naruto stepped down and Sarada resumed her duties as a Hokage once again. Her children were adored by the entire village and were spoiled by their overly doting grandparents and Aunt.

Another figures they loved were – Grandpa Kakashi and Grandpa Iruka.

Those two men held them close, babysat the little devil duo and bought them treats. They also educated them in ways of life. It was thanks to them that her children turned out to be just like their father – mischievous and stubborn but with a golden heart.

Aiko had definitely taken up on Boruto’s mischievous streak whereas Yuriki was much milder in comparison. Together, the pranks they played made their grandpas tear their hair out.

The earned them the nick name – ‘the devil duo.’

Sarada, at times felt that Boruto would be so proud of them.

…

Sometime later I realised that Yuriki had wind chakra and sharinghan, whereas Aiko could use lightening and was a possessor of byakugan. Both of her children were blessed with potent chakra and powerful and a keen mind, and they soon gained fame as formidable shinobis in later life.

When they turned twelve, Aiko declared that she wanted to be a Hokage in future and I felt my heart swell with elation. Her daughter aimed big. Yuriki was not sure but I knew that he still had plenty of time.

At the age of sixteen, they faced their hardest battle, being targeted for their rare lineage and their influential families, Yuriki had no other choice but to unleash his mangekyo in order to protect his sister after their team mate had died.

When they returned home back, the first thing he said to me was that now he knew what he wanted to be.

“I want to be like dad.”

He had said. Proud of his father and the sacrifices that he had made in order to safe guard the village and his family. Yuriki saw his dad as a symbol of peace, strength and courage. And it made Sarada content.

Well…

Time has passed, and with intense hard work, I’m sure that they have made their father proud.

The reason , I’m standing here at the top the Hokage monument currently is to finally take a moment of peace and live it.

Today, Aiko was inaugurated as the tenth Hokage, with her brother by her side and both of them complete with their families.

And I had literally been never prouder.

My children were my hope and joy, and Boruto’s memories had continued to guide me down the right path. His way of living inspired me to become not only a better person but also a better parent.

After my parents and my in laws left the realm of living, it was a struggle, but their love and teachings always surrounded me and my children like a warm blanket.

If there is something I learned being alive it’s that-

Life is completely unpredictable, cruel to happiness and kind to sorrow. And fate is a mighty river – which at times, would flow gently and calmly, nurturing life. But sometimes, it would be raging and brutal, not hesitating to destroy the same life it had nurtured.

All she understood was that the only way to live was that you can get up, look ahead and move forward.  

…

It was night when she entered the cemetery. She kneeled in front his grave and brushed her fingers against the cool marble, letting it seep through her skin.

“My work is done here. I want to see you again, Boruto, please.”

She leaned her forehead against the stone, breathing in the nightly scent.

“It’s been so long, you know, but I still…”

Her voice was drenched in emotion when she whispered.

“I still hold you close to my heart.”

…

The next day, Keito Uchiha and Yuki Uzumaki found their grandma, hunched over their grandfather’s grave, body cold and eyes closed, but even then, the most prominent feature on her face was her peaceful angelic smile.

I'd really like to know what you all thought  this story, except that it feels rushed, because I already know that it is. though, I've really worked hard for it. I really hope that at least a fraction of my efforts was visible.

And sorry for dropping this as 4k one shot all of sudden. Hahaha! It was fun to write! 

[carlanews]

26/07/2021

Ex oriente lux (2018), en pofundidad, en el número de agosto 2021 de Monthy Photography, revista surcoreana mensual de fotografía y arte publicando desde agosto de 1966.

Ex oriente lux (2018), in depth, at the August 2021 issue of Monthy Photography, South Korean Photography Art monthly magazine publishing from August of 1966.

Entrevista en inglés / Interview in English:

You started <Ex Oriente Lux> when you were investigating the theoretical legacy of some French Occultists. Could you explain ‘the theoretical legacy of some French Occultists’?

I am deeply interested in everything that has to do with the unknown, understood as that which cannot be reached through the cognitive capacities, nor can it be domesticated, controlled or dominated. The French philosopher Simone Weil understands the supernatural as the love for the natural. Based on this, I suppose that this fascination I have for the supernatural, or what goes beyond the ordinary reality, stems from a deep love for nature and for reality itself, as it is. Likewise, through my work, I try to question the ‘mandatory reality’ or what belongs to the consensus reality, what is imposed, pre-established and assumed. As a result, I have always been interested in alternative narratives that defy rational logic.

France, and specifically Paris, is an authentic Masonic labyrinth that hides, behind its architecture and urban organization, a lot of knowledge linked to the occult and esoteric sciences. This is to say, all that unofficial knowledge that has accompanied Western history, although had remain in the shadows. France has been the place of confluence of many thinkers who have been located outside mainstream thinking. Thus, instigated by these motivations, I applied for an artist’s residency at the Cité des Arts de Paris, not only to visit libraries or museums, where I could inform myself about these subjects that interest me greatly but also to walk its streets to be impregned of this hidden wisdom that conceives the existence of issues that challenge the Western hegemonic logic.

Particurlarly, I was interested in studying the controversial figure of the French occultist Alexandre Saint-Yves d'Alveydre (1842 - 1909) and his theories about "Agartha", a secret underground kingdom established at the beginning of the Kali Yuga (Iron Age), according to the Vedic tradition in the 3200 B.C, approximately. This place is more advanced technologically and spiritually than our world and the system of government is what he calls the “Synarchy”. According to him, when our world will adopt the Synarchy system, Agartha will be revealed to us. Saint-Yves also mastered the art of releasing his astral body, and like this, he could visit Agartha by himself.

There are several previous versions of Agartha, or about a similar place, like Pauwels and Bergier version, Ernest Renan or the French freethinker, Louis Jacolliot (1837 - 1890) who created the Agartha myth. There is also an obvious resemblance to the novel by Bulwer Lytton “The Coming Race” (1871) or to “Ghostland, or Researches into the Mysteries of Occultism” (1876) published under the auspices of Emma Hardinge Britten, medium and founding member of the Theosophical Society. As well, the concept of a secret kingdom where wise people live and work existed since the eighteenth century within the Freemasonry of the Strict Observance, with what they call "Unknown Superiors".

These theories about the existence of Agartha supported by Saint-Yves d'Alveydre are related with the ideas affirming the existence of a hole at the North Pole and the hollow Earth hypothesis, fervently defended, among others, by John Cleves Symmes (1780-1829). They are also linked with topics from popular cultures, such as lost races, conspiracy theories, the Holy Grail, UFOs, the Apocalypse and others. As Ekkehard Hieronimus advised: "What is happening in the lower layers of society is certainly much more powerful and effective than what happens in intellectual circles".

I referred to your previous interview to know about <Ex Oriente Lux> It would be great if you explain more details and easier about <Ex Oriente Lux>

As you already know, this project started during an artist residency in Paris. I went there to study in-depth about some authors related to Esoteric and Hermetic Sciences, but also to be closer to the French Occultism tradition that reverberates everywhere in this city. Once there, nevertheless, I found myself totally overwhelmed by the complexity of this matter and, as its name already advises, by its hermeticism and secrecy. But as with every project I do, my first purposes end up always being modified as the reality itself brings new events that I need to adapt to.

For all mentioned above, “Ex oriente lux” is still open, it conforms the first part of an unfinished project. The title refers to the Latin phrase “Ex oriente lux, ex occidente dux” (light comes from the East, power from the West) alluding to the meaning of travelling to the East as a symbolic ascension to the light and wisdom source. The East as a symbol of the occult and otherworldly.

Thus, this first approach to this endless subject is through the most basic and well-known principle of the hermetic sciences -"as above, so below"- collected in the Emerald Tablet by Hermes Trismegistus. This means that as it is “outside” (for instance, the Cosmos) it is “inside” (the Earth). Therefore, there is a correspondence between what we see, and what we can’t see; what is far away and what is close; and so on. As a result of these ideas, the first part of this work is an installation composed by pictures of different types of stones and marbles taken at the Louvre Museum in Paris (a venue with powerful masonic symbolism and full of hidden codes). It depicts a sort of mirror of the cosmos in order to highlight the historic connection between freemasonry and stoneworkers - guardians of secret legacies transmitted through encrypted messages carved in the stones -. So, this photo-installation is formed by pieces of hypothetical planets and landscapes resulting from a sort of Big-Bang explosion, recalling the similarity these stones have with incredible otherworldly imaginary landscapes. These images are printed on transparent plexiglass and cut in different geometrical shapes. Moreover, the installation is completed with smoke, small mirrors and lights that form beams of light in the space.

The second part of “Ex oriente lux” is also based on the Law of Analogy but this time I focused on the ideas related to that what happens in the stars is directly connected with what happens on the planet and our lives. Starts rule the plane of formation of the material world, called the “astral plane”. This plane - another dimension - works as the motor and it connects the abstract - the world of the ideas - with the matter itself and the physical world. So, according to the occult sciences, it is the necessary intermediary for all transformations or movements to happen, this is, the engine of life. In this way, the moon and the sun, which in alchemy have a remarkable meaning as well as being the maximum symbol of divinity in theosophical esotericism, are aligned and reflected on Earth. They are basic elements of our everyday life and they depict the realm of reality. Specially, in the world of outwards appearances we live, not only for being more and more virtual, but even before Internet or AI, it was already a pre-establishedsociety living in a kind of organised scenery.

If I understood about <Ex Oriente Lux>, do you hope to show your interest and language that the important relationship between moon and sun in Occult science?

Both, the sun and the moon, as well as the rest of the stars in the universe, are crucial elements for all forms of esoterism, mysticism or alternative narratives that, for instance, don’t derive from Christianity. The most ancient cultures, the pagan traditions, considered them as objects of worship since they were a source of answers of all that we cannot control or understand.

Could you let me know the process to photograph suns and moons?

I photographed them with 35mm and 8mm film. Only the analogue film can organically catch those lights, since the burnt in analogue film is not necessarily a loss of information as it is in digital photography. Those inherent elements of film that are often treated as mistakes: overexposure, bleaching of the frame, lens flare or ending fading, I deem them to be something precious because these ‘errors’ are, in fact, faithful to reality. Film, as the sun and the moon, has its own life and it’s an alchemy process and it’s precisely this what I find interesting.

Besides, having been born facing the Atlantic Ocean, I have always had the opportunity to enjoy the whole daily journey of the sun, which is always very present in my hometown since it transforms the colours and lights of all that is around. This spontaneous attraction led me to photograph the sun in all its different ways, also because, it is never the same thing. I always felt that being able to enjoy it, it’s one of the biggest privileges I could have… Despite it is sometimes considered as a cliché of beauty, or its features tend to be exaggerated. For me, it a simply quotidian event embodying spectacular radical alterity.

Each photo work’s color (or sky and sun’s color) is different. (black & white, purple, red and so on). Is there special reason?

Regarding the alchemical character of film, I am interested in the transformation it implicates, which is uncontrollable and whose nature is unshowable. When you work with film it exists this relationship with alchemy and magic. Film evokes what it is beyond the rational self, as well as the immanent transcendence that the medium itself already holds. It triggers a kind of mystical experience or poetics. It is a journey to an unknown place, far removed from the actual world, to which analogue photography transports us and it cannot be replaced or reproduced by any other means. I allow myself to be free in the use of colours as a sort of celebration of the miracle of the photochemical and its uniqueness. This is to recreate the illusory and alchemical character of film as well as the blindness and mystery of the medium. There is not an unfailing desire to master the medium, but to appreciate its particular beauty, leaving room for the surprise of what is not preestablished or premeditated. Beauty is in that which is out of control, unfathomable, side-lined, that which is considered useless or unimportant. Beauty is in everyday life.

As you focus on the mysticism / Occult, What did you pay attention for <Ex Oriente Lux>?

When I started this project, I had a lot of curiosity about the occult sciences as was already mentioned. During my research, I learned about concepts such as the "astral plane" or the "law of analogy" but also, I approached an unknown universe for me. All those experiences were translated visually, in a reality-language related to the intimate, the spiritual and the most basic and direct experience of the world itself.

Do you have any message to people or What do you want the audience to feel?

More than messages, I would like my work to be received just as an aesthetic experience that brings new languages and approaches to reality. It’s rather about transmitting openness, to underscore the fact that things are never in just one way, but they can be in infinitely different ways; and about the enjoyment derived from experiencing them, instead of closing ourselves to the otherness. It’s about going beyond the compartmentalised and watertight thinking through which we often see reality. In my work, there is a desire to know what it’s beyond the specific, pragmatic and utilitarian world in which we normally are immersed. It speaks about breaking barriers and borders, about the necessity of being in contact with different types of cosmovision, what links it directly to travel, but it speaks also about other kinds of journeys, more intimates. This is, to softly touch what is very meaningful for us but never ends up taking a specific form, nevertheless. In my work, there is always something that remains unfinished and unclosed; something that can’t be grasped nor categorised. Therefore, my work is located in this liminal and bewildering area which is related to our internal labyrinth in which I decide to get lost and even surrender to that emotional experience; in order to reach a collective unconscious. It is an emotional mechanism that is profoundly human. My work is a permanent search that never ends up dwelling a definitive shape. An endless seek whose purpose never finds an answer. It’s about got steeped by the world and delving into our inner labyrinths. In this sense, it has an oceanic feeling. This is to say, there is a strong inclination to adventure besides the necessity of isolation. These are contradictory concepts, but it is precisely this confusion and indeterminacy that governs my work; a strong necessity to connect to the world but also of seclusion. My work is also about aspirations that never are accomplished. It has to do with temporality and imperfection; a sort of work-in-progress.

It’s funny that sometime after finishing this project about “suns” and “moons”, I discovered that in my astral map, the sun is located in the 12th house which is related to all the ideas mentioned above. Knowing this all this made some more sense to me. The 12th house has to do with the idea of labyrinth, it is the house of the incessant seeks that steadily sails through the uncertainty (…)

You made stone works with photo works. What does the stone work mean in <Ex Oriente Lux>? I just wonder why you work in stone as well?

Actually, it is plexiglass imitating stones. But they are transparent and light stones, like if they were trying to escape from the gravity that stone implicates. This approach to the factual character materials bring is always present in my practice because I consider my photography work not only as a succession of images. Rather, they conclude or find their ultimate meaning on a determined space and position, as well as time. Size, place and material are important issues I bear in mind when creating my projects. These aspects provide new meanings but also create a kind of “aura” due to the total experience we have when experiencing the work…

what was the most difficulties when you work for <Ex Oriente Lux>? Or Do you have any unforgettable story during work?

It was quite a challenging project. First, it was hard to decode all those so cryptic texts written by Alexandre Saint Yves. They are really dense and complex. They’re full of references related, for example, to Kabbalah, even more hermetic to me, or other subjects linked to occult sciences. Secondly, another difficulty was how to visually materialise all those ideas, languages and mental images I was immersed in. This is, what to photograph now?

Also, I decided to become a member of the Rosicrucian Order, but it was not that easy and it required a lot of dedication and continuity so, after a conversation with someone related to freemasonry, I had the feeling that if try to enter in that world, this is to really try to “understand” Kabbalah, etc, my life would probably change forever. New beliefs and information would completely take my life in a different direction. I am an extremely sensitive person, for the good and the bad, so I realised that I was not, at all, prepared for all that, at least in that specific moment of my life. Maybe one day in the future. In any case, this project opened my eyes to new realities and, somehow, it has already changed my view of the world.

It would be great if you explain 2~4 photo works that you hope to mention to subscribers.

This photo was taken during a Solar Eclipse in my hometown, Nigrán (Spain). It was probably the most incredible eclipse I’ve ever seen. I went to a place I love on a mountain called Monteferro with my friend Cristina, where there is an amazing view. It’s not rare that when we both meet; special things happen around. Just a few seconds before the sun started to be covered by the moon, a cloak of clouds coming from the horizon covered the sea very quickly. Suddenly, we could only see a dense layer of clouds as if we were in a high peak but actually, we were not that far from the sea. The light changed becoming slightly darker but not only that, but the whole atmosphere changed in a few minutes. It was breathtaking, we were in a totally different landscape. I had never seen the clouds moving so fast as if they were spirits coming towards us. After some minutes of the total eclipse, the clouds started to move away and everything becomes the same it was; a sunny, bright and clear summer day. I took the picture when the clouds were going back to the horizon, because before I was so amazed that I could not even react.

These two pictures usually are shown in two lightboxes that work as a diptych. They were taken very early in the morning, when the sun was rising, near the Mont Blanc Mountain (France), with a Super 8 camera using the one-frame shoot mood. This moment was after a strong snowstorm. The atmosphere was full of fog which worked as a sort of a diffuser for the sunlight. It was really amazing.

[fantasticedifice]

I’ve been reminded recently that it’s unusual to bust out tangential or incongruous facts is not nearly as charming or useful as I find it to be, so I’ll just say this: Did you know the numbers on a roulette wheel add up to 666, and that semaphore comes from the Greek sema, meaning sign, and phero, meaning to bear? That’s just two of the multitude of things you’ll claim to remember reading by the end of this edition. Remember, we’re still moving through the list of skills Heinlein laid out as abilities a competent person ought to have, so start way back at the beginning if you’ve not read up on how to butcher a hog or how to touch-type.

But before all that, check out:

The Art of the 1968 General Strikes in France

Considered a success as a ‘social revolution, not a political one’, May ’68 was a reaction against Charles de gaulle’s… let’s say, heavy handed political style. His decisions in Isreal, Nigeria and Canada led to conflict that raged for years and his domestic policies left a large group of young, predominately left-leaning people outraged. Considering Saboteur is a french loan-word for good reason, you’d think he’d know better. The art, music and political discourse borne of this period reverberated across Europe and America, at a time when many thousands were hoping to shrug off the imperial shackles they still felt after the end of WWII. The posters and paintings above speak to this sense of righteous indignation. More can be found at Toronto University’s online collection.

Gliding swiftly away from politically charged imagery, why don’t look at how to…

Build a wall

Did you know the Austrian Oak, Arnold Schwarzenegger himself was a bricklayer for a time? He fashioned his business as a sort of European artisan craftwork, which allowed him to hike the prices up and rake in that sweet scrilla from the denizens of LA. Inspirational, right?

We all know the ubiquity of bricks; the quasi-educational How It’s Made shows and spinoffs are replete with dozens of episodes that hype up the object and its uses. virtually every Western home has bricks somewhere in its structure, and they’re a cost-effective way to protect, insulate and demarcate space. So we’re going to assume that Heinlein’s mandate is for brick walls, but we’ll look over some alternatives afterward.

So what do we do with bricks? Well, a casual looksee at your neighbour’s drive-in, drive-out driveway suggests that stacking them atop each other in straight columns is not the fashionable solution; instead and interweaving, staggered arrangement is used where two bricks sit above one, like this:

So far, so blindingly obvious. But knowing the proper configuration of the wall you want to build BEFORE you lay brick is crucial; making it up as you go is going to leave you with a henge rather than a garden wall. Here are the steps we need to take to ensure quality barrier building:

setting out the ‘footprint’ of the wall – where the wall starts and stops

Lay out your bricks ‘dry’ beforehand; imagining them in place is not good enough and will be inaccurate. place corners and the ends of the wall first.

maintaining level and square – ensuring each layer of brick is where it needs to be

plumblines, spirit levels and straight demarcation is crucial, and constant checking is the best habit you can develop

mixing the mortar – preparing the mixture that binds brick to brick

This will change depending on your needs, location and size of wall. Check this resource for more information

bedding the bricks – placing and aligning the bricks in their final resting space

Finesse the bricks, don’t worry them. watch the video below for technique and remember, it’s called bedding for a reason 😉

finishing joints neatly – cleaning up any excess mortar and adding any flourishes.

Being cognizant of the time-sensitive aspect is crucial here: sloppy work is hard to shift if you leave it too long.

For the visual learners out there, check this delightful Aussie’s brickwork:

No you might assume from this footage that the first step to building a brick wall is “have two brick walls already in place”, but we can still learn a lot from the work that goes into situations similar to the ones we’re working towards. For example, the tip about adding more mortar on each run of bricks to ensure the uppermost layer is flush with the existing brickwork teaches us that mortar is a commodity to be used in varying situations, rather than just a binding agent with a singular, specific job. We can also see a few techniques for ensuring our work is level and square, which is of paramount concern when making a structure intended to be in place for multiple years.

If a more… rustic wall is what you’re after, I defer to the stoic silence of Primitive Technology and the work John Plant presents with such somber clarity:

The techniques John uses to build his structures are not complicated, nor are they precise, but if shelter is the aim of the day his ways are faster and (potentially) easier than waiting for the stack of bricks and bags of mortar mix to arrive from Homebase.

  Design a building

This ties in nicely with Primitive Technology’s work, since John’s videos demonstrate the arbitrary and obfuscatory nature of modern building: because we don’t know how to do it, we think it’s difficult. Well, John did it in the wilderness with leaves and mud. No blueprints, no elaborate existential diatribe outlining the meanings behind having bay windows instead of french doors. That simple fulfillment of a need is Design’s raison d’etre. Anything else is salesmanship.

That being said, this blog’s called The Fantastic Edifice, not The Simple But Effective Structure, so we’re gonna indulge our big boy brains and watch some poseurs talk about which pens they use to outline multimillion-dollar buildings.

Here’s my favourite architect channel talking about his *process*:

Points to think about if you are planning on planning out your building include:

Lineweight

Depicting walls, masonry, appliances, doorways and windows with identically thick lines is confusing and inaccurate. different line thicknesses, or weights, will help add clarity to the work

Screened penweights/screened tones

Similar to lineweight, screening regards colours and shades of lines in the work. it allows your work to highlight important areas as well as contrast differential spaces

Hatches

Hatched lines are very useful to mark out space, but can also be used to describe specific types of object, like pipework or masonry

[All of the above have the overarching appellation of Poche. It’s french, naturallement.]

Scale elements (figures, cars, birds)

Birds for scale help relate a drawing and add understandable reference to a non-technical viewer

Showing Materials

If you know you’re building a house made out of gingerbread, don’t draw it like it’s cement. It’ll only be confusing later.

Annotations

Write in Franklin Gothic. It looks like this.

The squint test

A great rule of thumb (the etymology of that phrase is great, check it out) for almost all artistic endeavors is to move away from it and see if it still makes sense, in both a literal and figurative sense. Rothko’s paintings change and evolve the closer you get to them, while Shakespeare’s sonnets are hard to read from the opposite side of the room. Use discretion.

  Conn a ship

an abbreviation (maybe) of conduct, conning a ship is the act of directing its travel and controlling its lines and external effects (like nets, offset boats, rigging etc). It is also absolutely not the province of an amateur sailor. commissioned officers and tradesmen with years of experience are the ones directing the movements of modern day ships, and they have systems and electronics that are as difficult to parse as they are useful once mastered. BUT difficult is looking at the mountain from the foothills, and defeating difficulty is just a matter of choosing which steps to take. With this in mind, here are the highlights I gleaned from The Naval Shiphandler’s Guide, the most widely recommended authority on the task of conning a ship:

Consistency is key

Knowing what needs to be done, when and in what order is a task that encompasses dozens of variables. Your job is to take those variables in hand and master the art of smoothing the interaction, leading to a regular and controlled passage and landing.

Know your vessel

If a turn needs to be made, you need to know what actions will create that turn in the time you need it done. All ships have varying capabilities, quirks and issues, so presuming a replica Schooner will react the same as your favourite tugboat is naive and dangerous. learn the ropes (literally, if necessary).

Intuition is important, Hydrodynamics is importanter

We’re not just concerned with buoyancy here. The force of the currents and wind, the impact of waves, even the movement of fuel in your tanks will change the commands you should be giving. (This is why the job isn’t given to just anyone with an eyepatch and a love for being bossy)

Tide and Time waits for no man

This is highlighted repeatedly in the book, and for good reason: do not guess at the effects of the tide. Know exactly when the tide is coming in or out, and know what that means for acceptable depths for your vessel. Remember the Costa Concordia? Captain Schettino presumed he knew the effects of the tide and the seabed levels for his approach off the coast of Isola del Giglio, because “I had done the move three, four times”. This was the result:

It also transpired that Captain Schettino refused to return to the ship after he abandoned it before all crew and passangers were safely away, which, as we all know, is a breach of maritime law. He was sentenced to 16 years in prison for his mistakes. Don’t be like Schettino!

And with that, we’ve reached the halfway point in Heinlein’s list! Next time we’ll be diving into computor programming, fighting, and planning invasions (it almost follows a natural progression, doesn’t it?)

Before I let you go read the rest of the shiphandler’s guide or barricade your bedroom with perfectly aligned masonry, lemme share with you a track that’s been bouncing of the walls of our living room for hours at a time recently as an ambient window dressing looking out onto the dread of our weekly Call of Cthulhu games:

The Music of Disparition

[if you can’t get the player to play find the link beneath that’ll give you a 20 second taster]

https://open.spotify.com/track/59jxqMMYCHTJJqHbpwK5T4?si=LyusMKAGQnaSc5UoeekVtw

https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/59jxqMMYCHTJJqHbpwK5T4

To me, it sounds like a melancholic organ player with the place to himself just moping his heart out, whilst the whole place is underwater and moving through a train tunnel at speed. Das jus me doe. Disparition has a TON of fantastic ambient music and is featured heavily in the Welcome to Night Vale podcast.

Until next time.

Jozef

Five I've been reminded recently that it's unusual to bust out tangential or incongruous facts is not nearly as charming or useful as I find it to be, so I'll just say this: Did you know the numbers on a roulette wheel add up to 666, and that semaphore comes from the Greek…