#just leave it alone let people stylize in the ways they want

[lylahammar]

Artists really gotta stop giving “do this ✅ don’t do this ❌” style art advice. I understand having personal icks but there are no hard and fast rules in art, people aren’t doing it wrong if they draw something in a way you don’t personally enjoy, and it comes off very arrogant and anti-stylization

[yogfan14]

What are your thoughts on Ganondorf in TotK?

HOUGH okay

I'm gonna be honest, TotK stresses me tf out when it comes to the lore and Ganondorf himself as well. As someone who tends to read the lore a lot more and a lot deeper than normal fans of the series do, I have a lot to say lmao

TL;DR: phenomenal design, character writing is not as shitty but still shitty

I don't wanna take up y'all's entire dashboards so feel free to keep reading if you wanna hear me ramble

So first off, I do genuinely love Ganondorf's new design. Honestly, I just love the fact that he's back at all. We haven't seen Ganondorf in a mainline game since 2007, with the Wii release of Twilight Princess. Honestly, the only complaint I have about TP Ganondorf is the hairstyle, like what was bro thinking. Otherwise he was downright terrifying, loved his overall design, and how he linked back to OoT so well.

In 2013, we got the spinoff game Hyrule Warriors, which introduced to us the fan favorite long-haired Ganondorf (that, let's be real, we all just willed into canon for TotK), and honestly my favorite design of him thus far. I mean, look at him. He's slayin without even trying.

But the one thing that bugs me about them is that their designs don't feel "Gerudo". Definitely speaks evil, King of Demons, the whole shebang that is, y'know, his entire theme. But while there are a few obvious references to it, it doesn't really speak Gerudo. It doesn't actually feel Gerudo, it feels like he would have grown up outside the culture when he probably didn't see the grass of Hyrule field until he was at least mid to late teens. The only things making him Very Obviously Gerudo are the dark skin and red hair.

TotK Ganondorf broke that cycle.

In TotK, Ganondorf actually feels Gerudo. His overall design is V E R Y reminiscent of his culture and background and I actually like it. He doesn't feel like this Guy who just happens to share traits with the other Gerudo. All of the stylized jewelry, the sweatpants, the hairstyle, even his robe actually screams Gerudo. He actually feels like he belongs to the culture.

And that's just on his design. If you really pay attention in the Dragon Tears memories, he's actually given a bit more character than normal and possibly motives outside that of just pure power and greed. Which tbh I'm fucking bored of in regards to Ganondorf but that's for another rant on another day.

In the memory where Ganondorf and his people meet up with Rauru, Ganondorf mentions a key bit of information that I don't think many people noticed.

"Allow me to offer you my deepest apologies on behalf of the Gerudo for taking so long to accept your repeated invitations."

That last bit right there, repeated invitations. This line alone implies that the Gerudo as a whole probably weren't on board with the idea of coming under Hyrule's guard, but more importantly, that Rauru wouldn't take no for an answer. As the leader of the Gerudo at the time, Ganondorf probably dealt with letter after letter after letter of Rauru trying to get them to join Hyrule, when it's likely that the Gerudo made it very clear that they weren't interested and were satisfied just vibing on their own. So, right there, that gives Ganondorf reason to dislike Rauru greatly. I know I would in his position.

While it is shown that Ganondorf most certainly still has that hunger for power, his people were backing him up for the most part. They probably wanted Hyrule to leave them tf alone too and thought that the attack memory was their way of saying "hey, we're fine on our own, fuck off" (at least that's the vibe I've gotten from it). Ganondorf definitely still wanted power, that much was obvious, and it probably wasn't obvious to his people until he started conquering everything after Sonia's death and his takeover of the kingdom. He actively betrayed the trust of his people and everyone who looked up to him. Which he did in OoT too, but you had to do a little more digging on that one.

While I still have my complaints about his character, at least he feels a little more fleshed out in TotK. Granted that I haven't finished the game yet; I'm taking my sweet time just exploring and causing problems and riding the dragons for hours at a time. I may be missing some key details as a result and if anyone spoils me I'm going to hunt you down and eat your toes

I'll go on about the overall lore around TotK and why it hurts my brain so much another time bc this post is already absurdly long but uh yeah lol

[persephoneggsy]

2, 6, 7, 15, and 17, for the DA: TV meme, please!

2. Which Dragon Age game is your favorite so far?

It’s close, but Inquisition beats out the others by a thin margin. I just really love the hopeful, epic tone the game goes for, I love the gameplay, especially for mages and archers, and I just think it’s a really pretty game! Emprise du Lion is so gorgeous, sometimes I just walk around the snow and take it all in. It’s the game I’ve replayed the most out of the trilogy. And also it has the best DLCs, Jaws of Hakkon, The Descent, and Trespasser are all S-tier for me.

And it has my favorite group of companions, in terms of how many I like overall. In Origins I really only feel strongly about Alistair and Morrigan, and I'm fond of Oghren... everyone else I’m lukewarm about. 2 has my best boy Sebastian, and I like Fenris and Merrill, but I largely dislike-to-hate everyone else. Inquisition, though, I bare minimum like all the companions… with one exception lmao.

6. Do you have your Rook(s) planned out to any degree? If so, would you share some details or ideas you have?

I always play a human woman, at least to start with, so there’s that. I have an OC from Star Wars: The Old Republic that I’ve been wanting to turn into a Pathfinder 2e character, but I can definitely rework her for The Veilguard: her name is Solesta, and she’s in her late 50s/early 60s. 

I’m leaning towards Antivan Crow or Mourn Watch for her faction. And I WANT to make a warrior since my previous protags have been Rogue - Mage - Mage, but Rogue might fit her better aesthetically.

Personality wise, she’s a very flirty old woman who can be charming and witty, but absolutely brutal and unforgiving in a fight. Also she has two adult children and two grandsons whom she dotes on.

7. Which character from the previous games or other media are you most hoping will make an appearance in DAV?

I mean… I’d love for Sebastian to get at least a mention that’s nice to him. He’s my canon romance for Hawke so it would be nice to hear that they’re happy ruling Starkhaven together. But given how much BioWare seems to actively dislike or treat Sebastian as lesser than the rest of the DA2 cast, I’d be just as happy if they left him alone and let me just headcanon that he’s happy and thriving with his wife.

Other than him… I really like Professor Kenric from the Jaws of Hakkon DLC. I think he was really adorable (and I possibly just have a thing for Starkhaven boys lol). He had a pretty obvious crush on Harding, she could reference him at least!

15. Do you have any unpopular opinions about DAV so far?

I think my unpopular opinion is just that I’m like… earnestly excited and hype for it. I get the criticisms people have for it, I’m never gonna tell anyone that things shouldn’t be criticized. But I just personally don’t have a problem with anything we’ve been shown so far. 

I think the style of the game looks beautiful, I always preferred stylized characters to realistic ones, I LOVE the colors, and I’ve never really considered the series to be “dark” in the way that other people seem to, so a brighter tone doesn’t bug me either. I’m interested in all the companions, I’m intrigued by the new combat system, and I screamed and cheered and clapped at the reveal trailer we got during the Xbox Showcase. But being earnestly excited is either met with "you're a shill for EA/BioWare", "huffing copium" or "being contrarian" lol.

Honestly, the only thing that might get me some pushback is that I don’t want Varric to be there. Not because I think he deserves rest or whatever, I’m just earnestly sick of him and would prefer if he just fucked off back to Kirkwall and make BioWare come up with a new character. Preferably a dwarf.

17. Are you interested in all the lore and speculation or do you focus more on the games and stories themselves?

I love DA lore, but I leave the analyzing to people smarter and with better retention than I. I tend to focus more on the stories actually being presented to us via the games. Idk, I’m just not like… equipped to speculate, I think. I either need concrete answers or I will make up my own headcanons regardless of supporting evidence lmao

[allylikethecat]

Matty/George and no. 36 🥰

on anon so there's no pressure if you don't feel like it!

Oh my gosh this is so exciting no one has ever actually sent me a request for one of those prompts I reblog before. Thank you so much!! I hope this is what you're looking for? It's probably not since it's not what I intended to write but alas it is what has happened and I hope you like it! Please let me know!

❤️Ally

Kiss ... to give up control 

Matty was drunk. The world was moving around him in slow motion, like a montage in a movie, panning across the party, highlighting the short skirts and high heels of glistening bodies, drinks spilling on the floor as people moved to the beat. Matty could feel the hyper pop bass in his chest, deep and pulsing as George worked the crowd. This wasn’t his scene anymore, he didn’t know if it ever truly had been, or if he had just wanted it to be. He was too old to be here, bringing up the median age ten years with his presence alone. The gray in his hair was au naturale instead of a stylized fashion statement. He didn’t wear glitter anymore. He wondered if he should. 

There was a new drink in his hand, he wasn’t sure what number it was, some kind of toxic, neon concoction sure to leave him bent over the toilet later from the sugar alone, to say nothing of the paint stripping alcohol content. He hardly drank liquor anymore, and he was paying for it with the way the colors blurred before his eyes, like a watercolor painting. 

It’s what he wanted though. He wanted to stop thinking, his head had been too loud lately. His thoughts a flashing neon sign, buzzing in an off rhythm reminding him that he was a bad person, the grave he dug himself becoming deeper and deeper each time he tried to course correct. At the rate he was going the cadaver dogs wouldn’t even be able to find his body, buried abandoned under the forest floor of his own creation. His doctors wanted to adjust his meds. He wanted to bring himself to take them in the first place, the pill bottles collecting dust in his bathroom, the seals unbroken. 

He wanted to step outside of his body, he wanted to see the world from the outside, he wanted to see if there was a way to salvage the situation, if there was a way to salvage the sad life and times of Matthew Timothy Healy or if he was destined to be a footnote in music history, consumed by a persona of his own creation. He didn’t know where he started and his character ended. He didn’t know if he wanted to. He wasn’t sure he was going to like what he found. He took a sip of his drink. It burned all the way down. He wanted to give up control for a little while. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to be, he just wanted to exist.

Matty stumbled forward, spilling his drink, the bright liquid splashing against the cuff of his button down, causing the fabric to stick to his wrist uncomfortably as someone pressed themselves against his back, grinding their hips against his ass. He turned, eyes flashing with liquid confidence, ready to tell them to fuck off, the words “respect for your elders” curled against the tip of his tongue when he looked up, making eye contact with George. His set must be over, Matty thought dimly as George spun him around the rest of the way and tugged him close, slotting their bodies together front to front, his fingers digging into the new meat of Matty’s hips possessively. 

Matty dropped his drink, the heavy cocktail glass shattering as it hit the ground, sending the thick razor shards in all directions, crunching under Matty’s boots as they swayed. His hands groping at Geroge’s shoulders as he pressed closer, as if he tried hard enough he could crawl into George’s skin and they could become one. He buried his face into the divot between George’s pecs, his own patterned buttoned down nearly open to the navel, the valley of which was at perfect eye level as he breathed in the sweaty musk that was so purely George. George’s hands snaked under the gauzy fabric of his shirt, untucking it from his slacks as his blunt nails scraped against the delicate skin of his flank causing him to shiver.

“What did you think?” George asked, his voice hot against Matty’s ear, the timber of his voice vibrating through his chest, straight to Matty’s lips. Matty whined in response, his head felt heavy from both the alcohol in his veins and the haze of being so completely enveloped, so completely consumed by George.

“That good?” George asked, with a chuckle, that went straight to Matty’s dick. Distantly, he was impressed it still worked with how much he had to drink. George knew that Matty hated the synthetic hyper pop beats, knew that he hated the clubs George played under a false name, knew that he would be there anyway, drinking uncomfortably on the fringes of the crowd supporting him full heartedly. 

George tilted Matty’s head back, bringing their lips together, licking at Matty’s teeth, at the sickly sweet cocktails he had been drinking, probing for the ever present tang of tobacco even though it had been over an hour since his last cigarette. Matty moaned against George’s mouth, a soft low pitch sound as his eyes rolled back and his head lulled, loose and entirely at George’s mercy. George pulled back, breathing heavily, knowing that Matty was slipping away, knowing they were standing in a crowded room, knowing he needed to take Matty home. A string of saliva connecting them before Matty’s tongue darted out, hot and slick, stained purple from the cocktails to lick as his lower lip, as if searching for the remnants of George left on his skin.  

“We’re leaving.” George said and Matty nodded sluggishly, the lights were on but no one was home as he slipped further into the haze.

George knew that sometimes Matty needed to get out of his own head. He knew that sometimes he needed to stop thinking, and that sometimes he needed someone else to be in control.

[runawaycarouselhorse]

[Saint Rosalind - Review]

[CW the manga contains opics such as murder (of children, elders, animals, etc.), gore, drinking, suicide, character death.

This review contains minor spoilers (I described one chapter's murder and motivation in detail as an example.)]

I haven't been so engrossed in reading something in a while. I have trouble starting things, even when I love them, or picking up after I left of, but I simply couldn't stop reading Saint Rosalind until I finished it within two days!

Also, the art is absolutely adorable and a delight! Very delicate and pretty, the 70's art is beautiful. You can see how the artist in her additional prequel chapter published in 2017 (explaining the first murder which was never shown in detail in the story, which the author regretted) has much more details in hair and clothes, but lacks those thick tapering to thin lines her style had in 1973, often characteristic of mangaka in the start of their career that many mangaka grow unable to draw as they get older and it becomes more painful to do those little flicks of the wrist... the anatomy was always a little loose in the 70's chapters, but the 2017 one tries to pair larger, but more detailed faces, with still highly stylized and very small hands, and it looks jarring on the adult characters. Proportions are off. Rosalind is still adorable. The lines feel rougher, but I'll chalk it up to the artist's age!

It's a very interesting horrror manga, rather gory for the shoujo demographic... about an eight year old child.

She's not the victim, she's the perpetrator of these violent crimes. She's also bizarrely innocent about these, either acting innocent and heartless (like J.M. Barrie's description of children in Peter Pan) where she kills people simply because she wants to add more treasures to her collection, believing them rightly hers when they're promised to her... she has very simple black and white morality and thinks she's good because she never lies (many a time, she justifies killing ot hers for lying to her or once, for bullying her, lying to her, and forcing her to lie!)...

Sometimes, she even seems to operate under typical shoujo heroine logic, in her own mind, where she's doing good deeds as she touches the lives of those she meets... like when she meets a sad little girl whose mother's out every night and only drinks and sleeps when she's at home (very much an addict, running away from her own life), she feels so sorry for the little girl who keeps a pillow bound to a chair, with a book propped up in its "lap" pretending it's a mother who stays with her and reads to her and lets her hug her... so, Rosalind, saddened and touched by the girl's plight, tries to make it reality, by elaborately murdering the girl's mother, then dragging her corpse, tying it to the chair, in the same way the pillow had been, and placing the book in her lap, leaving while thinking to herself, how happy the girl will be to have a mother who will always be with her!

(I'm hardly spoiling, by the way, she kills like three people in the first two chapters alone. She has a very high kill count. )

She's very clever and resourceful and brutal in how she kills, but her logic is simple, childlike, and while she absolutely can be harsh, vindictive, and angry when hurt, bullied, or witnessing some kind of injustice she feels she needs to correct, so kills intentionally, she just as often seems to kill people accidentally, not realizing what she's doing isn't helping... she's a very strange, interesting character!

(Also, both old women Rosalind crosses paths with are a hoot! The wolf-crier granny who begs to rejoin her husband in death and Madame Royale who hates her greedy children and keeps altering her will just to mess with them. Great personalities.)

Even with everything she's done, I couldn't help but cry at the end and the author did too... you'll cry for her family and perhaps for Rosalind herself. The author noted many interpreted her very differently. Innocent in her ignorance, evil in her cunning, or a bit of both...

[lotus-tower]

an excellent post by tshirt, but let me add on to it, because... i thought it might be helpful for a subset of people! so without further ado...

TIPS FOR WRITING ESSAYS FOR PEOPLE WHO HATE WRITING:

so if you're anything like me, you actually don't enjoy the process of writing very much--but you want to have written. and more than that, you have thoughts in your head that you just can't stand having in there anymore, and the only feasible option is to write them out. and unfortunately, writing is just the best way of communicating and preserving ideas.

obviously you could make the argument that some part of us does enjoy writing... but that's honestly not relevant to get into right now. because at the end of the day you're probably experiencing frustration with getting your words out and not really enjoying the process for the most part. if that sounds like you, or sounds like it would be you if you tried to tackle essay-writing, here are some tips

make your writing into a Thing.

so you don't necessarily enjoy writing itself. or maybe it's difficult for you to enjoy writing when your writing is supposed to be some ambiguous, abstract, "pure" representation of your thoughts. now, with academic writing, the priority is information, clarity, and soundness. you may not enjoy it, but at least there's a clear structure and direction, and in cases where you're really just trying to drag yourself through it, a ready-made concept of prioritization you can fall back on. "i may not like it, but it does its job. i may not think it's great, but it's sound." with narrative and prose writing, it's similar. you know what to prioritize if you really have to.

but more than that, all these different modes of writing produce a clear "end result." there's nothing wrong with writing something academic and being proud that it sounds smart. likewise, prose should sound good. your writing in these cases produce an "object", and i mean that in a neutral way. being able to view your writing from a third-person perspective in this way is helpful for a variety of reasons, from getting internal direction to helping the flow of the writing, and most importantly if you hate writing, feeling like you're "making" "something" outside of yourself. because if you're writing an essay just for yourself, and not under the strict limitations of writing for school... that does free you from a lot of constraints, but it may also leave you a bit directionless and without a structure to cling to. combine that with the idea that your essay should reflect something deeply personal, or at least deeply "you", and it can be extremely easy to get stuck.

that's why tshirt's suggestion to make your writing into a bit is so good and genuinely helpful. this section has been a bit long, but what i want to emphasize here is to view your writing as an object you can appreciate from the outside, rather than dwelling on the process if you don't enjoy it. that can mean paying attention to making the cadence sound nice, prettying up the formatting, giving it a specific voice not necessarily your own, making it a parody, having a specific hidden composition goal in mind, etc. and on that note:

2. all writing is a stylization of thought.

this is closely related to the first point, and it's something i think about a lot.

if all writing is already inherently a stylization, why should you feel constrained in the degree or method of stylization? again, here i return to the idea of the bit. you're not actually writing an academic essay for school--though i will note that emulating academic writing has been extremely effective and entertaining for me personally. it's almost like a form of writing drag to me. anyway. with that mind, you can style your essay any way you want. can essay-writing be art? why in the world not?

writing may not be enjoyable in and of itself. but adding an extra layer on top that's amusing to you, and maybe you alone (though probably not!) can make the entire thing suddenly much more fun.

3. citations are good.

now, this experience may be far from universal, but when i was in school i was mostly relieved about being allowed to default to citations and just let someone else explain something for me. learning to process and integrate information is an important skill.... but not having to write something if you don't have to is great! when you hate writing. so citations are good in general, yes. but i want to speak here specifically about the idea of citing in the context of writing your non-school, for-fun essay--in particular in a fandom context, though not everyone who was interested in tshirt's post may have had fandom in mind.

simply put, citing your friends is fun.

here's something that happened to me. tshirt wrote an insane piece about a manga they read at my urging, and i wrote an equally insane (but in a different way) 20-page essay in response to it that was really about completely different things and yet that could not have existed without their first essay, and then they late wrote another follow-up piece to my follow-up.

this is the kind of back-and-forth that makes the fandom experience fun. and i cannot stress enough how much having those original ideas to build off of--or to be inspired by, no matter if only in part--helped me both in deciding to write my essay and in the actual writing of it. because trying to cover everything, to get all your thoughts on something on paper when "all your thoughts" is naturally an unending chain of associations between thoughts you've had throughout your entire existence, is not only difficult but deeply unpleasant.

citing someone--your friends, some random author you've developed a parasocial relationship with for the bit (i'm just subtweeting tshirt here don't worry), the writer that originally inspired you to write on a certain topic--helps alleviate that. the idea here is not literal "citations" like in academic requirements, but the idea of building on another's work, referencing something else. as in...

4. draw absurd comparisons.

yes, that 18th century writer was absolutely talking about your blorbo. i'm serious. for real. you should write that.

take yourself seriously. that's the only way to not take yourself too seriously. place yourself and your ideas on an equal scale to the most illustrious thinkers or famous writers of the past few centuries. apply iconic theories and frameworks to your favourite anime analysis. but also, that thing you thought or wrote about one series? apply it to another one that has no relationship to it whatsoever. again, i have to invoke tshirt's rule of the bit--but also, this is yet another way of giving yourself that external prompting and direction, and helping yourself enjoy everything about what you're doing that's beyond just the writing.

i can't tell you how much developing a certain framework writing my own essay changed how i engaged with other texts. this goes all the way back to point 1, but is also essentially what point 3 is all about. i turned my writing into a Thing and now even after writing it there's a Thing that i can take with me and use. and of course it'll be ever growing and expanding as you have new ideas. but even if you hate "writing", this part of it is genuinely delightful, because of course it's all about so much more than the act of putting words on a page.

essay writing helps you do these things because, of course, it's the best way to condense and organize abstract thoughts. and the best thing about it is that once you've done it once... you can just reference that going forward. i've realized that even with things like fandom analysis, it really helps you delve much, much deeper (with the side effect of making you look insane) into any given topic, because rather than having to backtrack and explain yourself all over again, you can simply... well, cite the previous work! and move along. this is how you and your friends can drag each other into an ever-deeper, neverending whirlpool of incomprehensible meaning-making.

ON THE TSHIRT METHOD TO WRITING ESSAYS IN YOUR OWN TIME: 

i have had a couple people mention to me that they would like to write essays too, but they are a little out of practice. so i thought i should gather some scattered thoughts into one place. this is not a systematic guide. i am young and inexperienced and still working out things for myself, but this is my basic process and some things that have helped me, summarized. 

my biggest single piece of advice is to write with your proverbial pussy. you are not writing for a grade so don't act like it. forget rigor, forget academic style, etc. read what you're interested in, and write following up on the threads that you're interested in. don’t sweat the details. just do you.

if you still need more advice..... here’s a long winded post. 

step zero: if you have no clue what you want to say yet 

read. and read a lot.

but be realistic. be kind to yourself. your attention is a precious resource, and it is getting eaten up by shit out of your control all the time. if you’ve had a busy day, you may still have the brain power left to read. i almost never do. lol. so make sure to carve out time on a day off, if possible. otherwise you might end up completely fried, reading the same sentence over and over, and ending up scrolling on your phone LMAO. <-- painful lesson also to this end, if you haven’t picked up a denser book in a while, start with shorter articles, especially ones written more recently. if your attention wanders, try getting a physical book instead. the most important thing is just starting things you’ll actually read.  i’ve seen a lot of people (and been that person) who was like. “oh i’m going to start with THE canonical text in a subject i’m interested in” which makes sense right? but that book is inevitably long and dense and convoluted and boring. you can come back to it later. this shouldn’t feel like a chore! 

genuinely this is the most helpful thing you can do is just. read anything. it may be difficult at first (or always), but it is still the easiest way to engage with the foremost experts from around the world and the entirety of written history on any subject you are interested in. there’s not really a substitute to this. 

note: you may say that people can and do come up with brilliant ideas independently of their access to written works. this is true! but if you are one of them, you should skip this section/post, because you already know what you want to say.  okay that was a little too facetious. let me revise: when i say that, without reading, it will be hard to come up with more complex ideas than what you have now, that isn’t necessarily pejorative. maybe your current ideas and impulses are original and meaningful and complex. if they aren’t, however, you don’t have to resign yourself to it.  your experiences in real life are the most valuable thing you can bring to the table, but it can be very difficult to articulate and contextualize them without community—whether that be irl, or the simple textual company of other writers. you can let other people help you and teach you.  basically, this is a long winded way of saying something extremely simple: reading is not the only way to gain knowledge, or even the best. but it is an extremely consistent and relatively egalitarian way.** **scihub and libgen and sometimes the public library are your friends. (my local library’s book coverage is spotty) who cares about piracy. LMAO. 

you may surprise yourself by how nicely you fall into little spirals. you read one thing. and you are enamored with the way the author approaches their subject. so you end up reading everything else they’ve written, and then you start on the authors they list that inspire them in their interviews. maybe you just read one article that’s a little dry but it cites something else that seems far more interesting. read that next. and so on. 

if you are struggling to read that’s okay. you have options. start a book club (or just get a friend who also wants to read more). if that sounds like too much work, pick a friend to keep updated on all your new facts. you just want to get used to reading something, and telling someone your favorite parts again. skim books. skip the boring parts. drop them entirely and find a more interesting one. no one’s going to quiz you. this is for your own enjoyment. 

also important here: read books that make you want to write. sometimes this is because the methods and/or prose of the author are so exciting, you want to do something just like that. sometimes it’s because the content is so exciting, you want to say something about that too. sometimes they speak so powerfully to your own life, you want to tell people this is me!! i see this!! there are books i just enjoy reading, sure, and i do read them. but you know how, like, a good movie makes you want to tell stories too? good theory should do that too, in my opinion. 

step one: you have some ideas now. 

these ideas don’t have to be set in stone. but you should have an idea now of what you might talk about. personally, for me, i have two interconnected types of essay ideas. 

interventions. this is like [tumblr voice] Why Is Nobody Talking About This. i see some sort of hole. maybe i know how to fill it, maybe i don’t. 

free associations. basically i read one thing, or some analysis of one thing. and then it reminded me of another thing. and i’m like. i want to tease apart their connections, their similarities, and their differences. 

there are more types of ideas, i’m sure. but these are the ones i consistently have. with me, the second kind is more common. very rarely do i find that my thoughts are that original. rather, i’ve found that one of my strengths as a writer is being able to make connections that other people haven’t made, or haven’t made in depth before. IN MY OPINION. 

so i find it quite flexible. maybe i watch a movie, and it reminds me of my own life, because i think two women in the movie could be sad queer freaks. and i’m a sad queer freak. or it could be that i think scum villain could be analyzed through the framework of freudian psychoanalysis. you get the idea. 

at this stage of the process, i don’t have a thesis, necessarily. but i have a couple phrases i’m drawn to. i have a bullet point or two. i have vibes. 

to use an example from this blog, one of my friends hui once mentioned that that one fan image was going around again. we were going ughhh it’s victorian not chinese! together and they said “you should write a meta on it.” i wasn’t sure quite yet what i had to say. but i knew a couple things. 

this is, incidentally, because i had done some research into chinoiserie before, because i had cited the zuroski book for a paper i had to write for an english class some years before on pride and prejudice and its use of descriptions of material culture, an essay that in turn was inspired by my random yet deeply felt conviction that jane austen hated me personally and wanted to kill me.  this is why i encourage reading a lot. i think. 

to work on this stage, make lists. lots of them. i have a .txt file where i keep every essay idea i have. a lot of them are a sentence. or they're lists of books or theorists i think i could make something out of. or they're theses that feel true, but i’m not sure why yet. 

it took me a while to get to this point. just like with writing fic, there was a period when i first started where i was like. i only have one idea. i’m going to write it, and then i’m never going to write again. and then i had just one more idea. after a while. eventually you will find you have so many ideas and the world is full of possibilities. it’s a muscle you have to flex. like reading. and telling people about what you’re reading. 

actually, i feel like there was a step 0.5 here that i completely skipped. 

step zero point five that i skipped: how to generate ideas

my very truly complete “first time writing something semi-academic that was original” (with a loose definition of the word original) was literally just me reading literary criticism of one book, and saying “i think this author’s thoughts can be applied to this other book” and found some textual evidence that supported that the process could be replicated. 

this is like, writing with training wheels on. eventually i got better at it (see aforementioned chinoiserie essay. i hope you agree.). but that was a good place to start for me. it made the proverbial blank page less intimidating, knowing i had a scaffolding. 

i suggest trying this. see how it goes for you. read around until you find some piece of criticism, or just some theory about how something works, that you like. and using your newfound hammer, go look for some nails. 

note: i know this expression is meant to like. be a negative thing. but you do have to start somewhere. it’s okay if it sucks. it’s just for your practice and your enjoyment. 

be cautious of stances. weak writing (in my OPINIONNNN) tries to unilaterally defend or condemn a behavior. what you need to do is treat your writing as a bit. and then you need to run with it. you need to take it farther than what is reasonable. if this bit is truly actually deeply true, then what does it mean about yourself? it’s like using a new set of pronouns as a joke or something. you know what i mean? (that was an example of what i’m trying to communicate here)

what else is key to look out for... look for oppositional pairs or tensions. look for perverse incentives and vicious circles. look for embarrassing ideas. that is, what would be extremely embarrassing if it was true? (or to admit that it was true) you may go—tshirt, here you’re just describing things that are sexy. yes, exactly, that’s the point. you want things that thrill. 

just keep reading and making notes until everything echoes with something else. now you’re ready for step two. 

step two: refine your ideas further. 

let me do this by demonstration. once more extending my earlier example of my chinoiserie essay, i knew that i really wanted to take zuroski’s points and basically... steal them. this is called “citation,” i guess. but i thought the following insights were useful to me: 

british women were invested in chinese material objects 

they incorporated them into their own subjectivity

past a certain point, they no longer “consumed” these signifiers, but these signifers became theirs 

critique of one was able to stand in for critique of the other

and from being on fandom twitter, i already had the following insights: 

people deliberately blurred the lines between china and england when it came to fans and tea

people also liked talking about victorian modesty when it came to china 

so it seemed like victorian england and china had a privileged relationship, in a lot of people’s minds in fandom. 

so it didn’t really seem a stretch to say... how can we look at one history, and apply it to our present? 

it was a bit of the combo of the two: i saw something i didn’t see people were talking about, and it reminded me of something else i’d read before. 

something that helps me a lot is tweeting about my essay ideas. if you have me on my private account, you already know this. it forces me to explain myself to someone who doesn’t know what i’m talking about in a very succinct way. oftentimes, i tweet something out while i’m brainstorming, and then i steal the phrasing back into my essay. see? tweets can be writing too. 

this is microdosing on step zero’s “read something and practice telling a friend about it.” now you’re writing something and telling a friend about it. 

step three: okay now you can like. open a google doc 

make an outline. i know i know i know. i’m sorry. you can start just barfing thoughts if you want, but eventually everything that was on the top of your head will be out. and now you can start thinking about structure. the reason the outline is important is because it makes clear the logical progression from one idea to the next. 

i know i usually bounce around in my writing (a tendency which has been magnified here because this is so casual LMAO), but i always want to make sure that my points are substantiated. if we want to talk about how a causes b, we should prove a, we should prove the causal link, and only then can we infer b, for instance. it doesn’t really matter what order that happens in (or even that we set about it that way), but the more complicated your idea is, the longer checklist you need. it’s just a checklist. that’s all. 

as you start writing, you’ll probably need to read some more. you’re going to want to say something you think is true, but you’re going to realize that you haven’t proved it (or you can’t). go look to see if someone else has proved it. 

maybe you’re right. add that evidence in. maybe you’re wrong. now your essay has a new direction. there is a living thing beneath you. actually, on that idea— 

i tend to structure my outlines (if i’m not sure yet what my point is) by pasting a bunch of quotes in a document, and reorganizing them until they make sense, they seem to flow. and then i start explaining why, until i realized i have begun to walk off in a new direction. always embrace that new direction. eventually you will find that you have not been taking twists and turns, but actually you were dizzily walking along a straight path. (unless you have been unfocused and you are trying to say too many things at once. ask a friend to read your essay if you’re not sure which is the case.) 

quotes are the smallest unit of your analysis. work with evidence. or, at least, i do. it makes writing an essay like solving a mystery. the idea of just spontaneously generating something new fills me with terror. rather, i want to autopsy something, trace its steps, and then discover how it came to be dead. this may not be true for you. but it’s true for meeeee and this is my post. 

tl;dr

0. read something and tell someone about it/post it out

0.5. come up with a bit and run with it

1. think "why is no one talking about this" or start free associating

2. come up with weird connections and tell someone about it/post it out

3. collect all of your posts and ideas into a gdoc and organize them.

anyway i like reading posts like this because i’m incredibly nosy. so i tried to write out the sort of thing i like to read from other people. i don’t suggest you actually try to replicate it (if anyone would even want to.) practically basically i just encourage you to try any single part of this that you think was interesting or relatable or helpful. personally, i suggest reading a book and posting your favorite lines from it. if you do this a couple times, i think you will find the seeds of an essay waiting for you in your own posts. 

[bloodynectarine]

And yet, here I am, yearning

Lucifer experiences what he (belatedly) recognizes as heartbreak in the middle of one of Diavolo's parties.

tags. gender-neutral mc, angst, missed opportunities, (kinda but not really) one-sided lucifer x mc, implied mammon x mc.

notes. today i bring you pain. tomorrow? who knows. i tried to write lucifer's sin getting in the way of his feelings for you. also, for this one to work, mc refused to attend any parties for quite a while upon arriving to the devildom.

Lucifer has been playing host along Diavolo all night long, and he can already feel his face hurt. Being on his best behavior was exhausting; as if demons were anything but cunning.

Half of the guests are here in a poor attempt to get on Diavolo's good side, and the other half just want to get a peek of the new inhabitant of the House of Lamentation. “Have you heard? That human is here”, an oblivious demon whispers to him, only to disappear just as fast, clearly in a hurry upon realizing who exactly was he talking to.

Of course Lucifer has heard.

His eyes scan the sea of people, searching between green, purple, and red garments, until spotting you in your bold white and gold suit. Even if you weren't the star of the show already, heads would've been turning your way with just your attire, such a daring choice. How fitting.

And just as last week when you tried the suit on for the first time and excitedly broke into his office for a little fashion show, you look… angelic.

The white makes you look exquisite under the light of the chandeliers, and each one of the multiple accessories you are drowned in is tastefully done.

They work as a warning, of course; not just anyone in the Devildom can wear jewelry of such a deep gold as the one in the choker that covers your throat, in the pins that hold your hair in place and in the multiple rings around your fingers. They speak of power.

But they also speak of love.

It's subtle, in the way it would've been impossible for you to stylize your hair alone, or to get into the intricate suit on your own without ending up looking like a mess. Everything about the ensemble you're wearing speaks of someone caring for you enough to handpick everything, to make sure you look perfect.

And if Lucifer remembers correctly (and he knows he does), Mammon was the one who stood by you every step of the way. He didn't even let Asmo step in for the makeup, or listened to Satan's advice for color and styling. How unusual of him, he thought at the time, to want to shoulder all the responsibility instead of leaving all the work to somebody else.

Looking at you now, he gets it. Everything about you screams Mammon, so it's no surprise to see him stuck by your side. He looks so pleased: the pins in his hair and yours match perfectly.

The second born seems to have a knack for holding your attention. Right now he's practically shielding you with his body while the both of you talk, taking over your personal space, getting closer than you would have allowed him to just a few weeks ago.

Uneasiness settles in his gut. When did you start to lean in instead of flinching away?

While he can tell you've warmed up to every single one of his brothers, your relationship with Mammon went from strangers to attached to the hip in what seems like the blink of an eye.

The two of you are a lot to handle when you are together.

You've encouraged Mammon's impulsive nature with your ride-or-die disposition, always ready to take part in his (often stupid, often insane) plans, orbiting around him.

In return, you can do no wrong in Mammon's eyes. He is the fire to your fuel, just as ready to indulge you, craving ―and lately demanding― every bit of your attention.

It's true that upon your arrival, Lucifer decided to trust you in Mammon's care, convinced that the two of you would at least work around each other…

He greets each guest that moves past him with a barely-there smile, and a nod of his head, not doing much more than acknowledging their presence, preoccupied with keeping an eye on you.

And that's why he sees it, almost in slow-motion, how your hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind Mammon's ear. It wasn't even out of place to begin with.

Leaving you in his care, he expected Mammon to be willing to help, as always. He was ready for him to slowly put his bravado aside, to bond with you, to call you a friend, maybe. But he never expected… this.

This feeling, that's tearing his chest apart. This urge, to reach for your hands and hold them prisoners in his. The desire, to come impossibly close and ask you, with all the pride of a petulant child, why him?

And not me?

The revelation is such that he feels himself tremble from head to toe.

How long has it been? When did he start to wish to take you away and keep you for himself? Has this feeling always been there, doomed, since the very first time he saw you? Or has it slowly crept into him, catching him at the worst of times, when it's already too late?

He remembers, he does, how in the beginning you always sought him out, to talk, for help, just to be near him. Your eyes full of stars, of wonder, every single time you looked at him. When did you start to move out of his reach?

Was he… the one to push you away? With his elusive nature, always distrusting, with the one hundred and one walls that surround him at all times. Has he ever… let you in?

Last week. What exactly did he said to you when you showed him the suit? You were clearly looking for praise.

He asked you to step outside, didn't he. Stop interrupting me in my working hours, MC.

What was your expression like, back then? Did he make you sad, upset? He didn't even remem--

“Lucifer, old friend, how are you enjoying the party? Does the demonus suit your tastes?”

Lucifer makes sure to set his cup down on the table before answering, adjusting his expression with practiced calm. If his shaking hands are too noticeable, Diavolo doesn't mention them.

And even if in his shock he hasn't taken a single sip, he answers, with a probably crooked smile. “Bitter. It's a little bitter.”

By the time he looks up and across the ballroom, you and Mammon are already long gone.

ao3 ― writing tag

[no-gorms]

Have a snippet of a robot!Tony thing that might stay a ficlet or might become a prologue for a thing, I don’t know yet:

(Steve & Tony, but also pre-Steve/Tony, 1000+ words, canon divergent, alternate Avengers 2012 setting)

The new suit fits well. Too well. It barely feels like a combat suit at all, settling lighter and easier against Steve’s skin than his recent wardrobe acquisitions of plaid and leather jackets.

Steve’s alone in this hellicarrier holding room, so he stretches his arms and mimes throwing the shield, noting the way the material pulls on the inside of his arms when he does so.

It’ll do, he supposes. It’s flexible enough, Coulson seems the kind of guy who knows what he’s doing, and all of SHIELD’s agents wear similar form-fitting suits, so they must offer decent enough protection. Though they get away with a less eye-catching color combination. The Captain America colors may have been the point back in the day – it made sure that Steve was the main target and allowed the others more freedom of movement – he’s not sure that’s relevant today.

Everything’s brighter, louder, faster in the twenty-first century.

Maybe that’s why his new suit’s been brightened up, making it almost as striking as those old posters. It’s another way that they’re catching him up with the world, on top of everything else – all the files, the briefings, the awkward conversations that have been trying to get him out of his SHIELD-assigned accommodations.

Steve’s so deep in thought that he barely hears the door opening. It’s only the clang of metal boots in approach that has him looking up.

“Iron Man,” Steve says. “Fury didn’t say you were coming.”

“Fury only acts like he knows everything.” Iron Man’s voice isn’t as deep as Steve thought it would be. The files didn’t capture the startling sheen of the metal armor, either, with its red and gold glinting like burnished mirrors with every step he takes into the room.

Suddenly Steve doesn’t feel so self-conscious about his own suit.

“I admit, I was curious,” Iron Man says. “Wanted to see if it was really you that they pried out of the ice.”

“You want to gawk, do it to my face,” Steve snaps.

“I am, champ.” The armor’s face plate pops up, like the lid of a tin can. Inside, there’s more metal – wires, gears, bits of machinery that Steve doesn’t have the word for, even if he might have known their equivalent back in the day. All of the helmet’s innards are moving, clicking, and flashing like small lightbulbs – an engine.

Steve stares. This is a world in which exist town-sized vehicles that can fly, written messages travel instantaneously across the globe, and where playback recordings appear almost as real as the real thing. What’s a walking, talking, fighting robot on top of all that? Nothing, really. Iron Man, the mysterious hero who saved Malibu from Obadiah Stane’s terrorist attack, and a potential Avenger on top of that, is a machine. Why not.

“Oh,” Steve says. “That wasn’t in the files.”

The faceplate comes back down, and Steve looks at it again with fresh eyes. Iron Man’s face – gold with red accents to mark the cheekbones, jaw and forehead. That’s his actual face, with stylized eyes and a mouth, giving just enough detail for the human eye to focus on when conversing with him.

“It’s not,” Iron Man agrees. “Easier for people to believe there’s a human being in here.”

“Romanoff called you Tony, so I thought that, too.”

“That is my name,” Iron Man says. “Well, an acronym. Well, a short-form of an acronym.”

“Anthony?” Steve says, startled. Obadiah Stane worked for Stark Industries, didn’t he? “As in Artificial Neural Technology Haptics—do you remember me?”

“What?”

“Howard Stark,” Steve presses. “He showed me this computing machine he was working on, ANTHONY, it could only do some basic mathematical projections at the time, I barely understood it, but he spoke so much about the dreams he had for it. That it would be able to read and answer and react – an electro-mechanical intelligence.”

“Yes,” Iron Man says slowly, as though bewildered by the turn of the conversation. “That was me. But that was long before I became self-aware. I don’t remember much of that time.”

“Oh.”

“He used me to search for you, though,” Iron Man says. “Those were some of my first proper algorithms, but I didn’t have enough computing power at the time to do it properly, and then I got pulled for other tasks. In the end Fury beat me, I guess.”

Steve has the brief, unnecessary thought that maybe they should’ve just left him in the ice with the Tesseract. He quickly chases the thought away, hoping that it isn’t visible on his face, not that he knows the first damn thing about how well futuristic robots like Iron Man can read people who interact with them. Probably best to assume the worst, and recover from it the best he can.

“Right.” Steve puts on a smile and offers a hand. “Steve, nice to meet you.”

Iron Man looks at Steve’s hand.

Steve has another flash of panicked dismay – do people still shake hands in the future? Is it too invasive now, or too old-fashioned? He knows he shook Fury’s hand the other day, but Fury might’ve just been indulging him and let it slide.

“Tony.” Iron Man accepts Steve’s hand and shakes it once, firm and humanlike. The metal glove is cool and the palm strongly convex, but it’s not unpleasant to the touch. “Back at you.”

“I suppose we should see Fury now?” Steve asks.

“Sure, yeah.” Iron Man watches as Steve collects the shield from its casing and then says, almost in a rush: “Sorry, I really don’t remember ‘meeting’ you. I only have the files Howard fed me.”

“That’s fine,” Steve says, shaking his head. “It’s nice to see that you’ve come a long way from a warehouse of cables.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Iron Man falls into step next to Steve as they leave the hold. “You’re a long way from data on a page, too, uh… Cap. Do I call you Cap?”

“If you want to. But Steve’s fine.”

“I’m gonna call you Cap.”

Steve slants a look at Iron Man’s face. There’s nothing to read off of it, but it just makes the nuances of the accompanying voice all the more pronounced. The teasing curiosity feels pointed, as though he’s trying to read Steve, too, and any conclusions to be had can be found in what Steve only does here and now, as opposed to what he might have read in files.

“Like I said,” Steve says easily, “if you want to.”

[mygreatadventurehasbegun]

All righty, I just got home from seeing West Side Story.

Man, was I pleasantly surprised.

When this movie was announced, I was definitely in the crowd of people screaming that it was a pointless remake.  I wasn’t even convinced by the trailers.

But it’s actually a really good movie.

I had no idea that Spielberg could pull off a musical, but he did it.

For the most part, everything I have to say about the movie is positive.  I enjoyed most of the performances, the choreography was amazing (I didn’t know it was Justin Peck until the credits, and his choreography was the best think about Carousel), and I heard that Spielberg shot this on film!  

I probably won’t be able to say too much specifically about the things I liked about the movie until I see it again, but here are my main impressions:

~Ariana DeBose absolutely killed it as Anita.  I had heard good things and wasn’t sure how anyone could top Rita Moreno...but she was outstanding.  I do like that the two of them got to interact a bit, too.  Though the scene they got was rough.  You could hear a pin drop in my theater (unlike other parts of the movie, but I’ll get to that at the end).

~They really didn’t pull their punches with the violence.  I honestly wasn’t expecting it...I was probably thinking it would be like the 1961 film and be more stylized, and wow, was I wrong. 

~I like that they cast a nonbinary actor as Anybodys!  And they gave a great performance, too..,I was really impressed by that scene in the police station.

~I said it before, but the choreography is great.  Jerome Robbins is a tough act to follow, but Justin Peck is a fantastic choreographer and there were a couple of really creative moments...there’s one move in Officer Krupke that comes to mind.  

Also, this moment:

~I found it really interesting that this gang war was much more...one sided.  The Jets were clearly the aggressors in the majority of the conflicts...they could almost be seen as the antagonists of this story.  I mean, by the end, they are doing some pretty reprehensible things...so maybe Tony Kushner decided to run with that a bit.

OK.  Now I have a few “cons”...I hesitate to even call them that, as none of them are that big a deal and boil down to my own personal tastes...they’re honestly more like nitpicks than anything else.

And most of these have to do with the way they changed the story/dialogue, so if you haven’t seen the movie yet and want to go in blind, here’s your warning!

~So...they moved Cool.  And it’s very different.  It’s interesting because in the original, it was before the rumble and Officer Krupke was after, but Sondheim never liked that, so they switched it for the 1961 film.  But now the new film has both of the songs before the rumble.  But what makes this version of Cool different is that Tony is in it.  It’s used as a way to try and convince Riff to call off the rumble.  It wasn’t bad, not even a little bit...but I’m just not sure how I feel about it.  That number is so iconic, and to see it change so drastically is going to take some getting used to.  Though I was in my chair, I timed it out to snap when the Jets did that iconic shot in the original.  

~I wanted just a little bit more of a reaction from Maria when she sees Tony for the first time after Bernardo’s death.  Especially since this adaptation is going a bit harder on the violence, I may have just been expecting a bit more...like she’d really let him have it, but it felt a bit like a rehash of the scene in the 1961 film.  This isn’t a critique of Rachel Zegler’s performance, I thought she was great.  But at this particular moment, she was at a 9 and I wanted a 10 or 11.

~I liked Tony Kusher’s adaptation of the script, but there was one moment that stood out to me as very “on the nose” dialogue.  It’s in Valentina’s store, and Anita has just left...leaving the Jets alone with Valentina.  I like the way the scene started, with her talking about how she’s known them all their lives...but then she says they grew up to be rapists.  That line stopped me in my tracks.  Now, she’s not wrong.  But saying it outright felt a bit much to me, personally.  I wonder if it would have been stronger if she had started it the same way and then just turned to them and said: “get out”.  I don’t know.  I may change my mind when I see it again, but that line really stuck out to me in the wrong way.  *side note about that scene, I do like that Graziella goes from hating Anita and trying to kick her out, to trying to help her*

~Tony’s reaction to Maria’s “death” was...fine?  I have to admit, it took me a while to warm up to Ansel Elgort’s performance, knowing the allegations made against him last year.  It took a bit, but I was able to at least watch the movie and not think about it every time he was onscreen.  And he was fine...not the standout, but not terrible.  I do like the changes/updates they made to his character, though.  But when Valentina tells Tony of Maria’s death, I thought it was a bit over the top...like he rushed his way through the scene and didn’t let the beats land.  There was no shock or confusion, he just went straight to despair.  Also, when he runs out and starts calling for Chino, I actually thought they should cut the line about him asking Chino to kill him.  I don’t think this new Tony would have done that.  I almost think he would have gone looking for revenge...this movie’s Tony is not as much of an idealist compared to the original.  And I could see this versions Tony turning back to the way he was when he realizes he’s lost everything.

So, that’s it!  I am definitely going to try and see it again, to help gather my thoughts a bit more.

But please go see it!!  It had a fairly low box office, and it deserves to be seen in the theaters!

And one final thing...I went to a 3:00 matinee and there were maybe 12-15 people in the audience.  And maybe four or five of them kept clapping.  After every number.  Guys.  They can’t hear you.  This isn’t live theatre where they hold for applause...the movie keeps going after the number is over.  I get it if maybe you’re super excited after something like America...but not after One Hand, One Heart.  And it was just a small smattering of applause after the movie has moved on from the song, and they did not get the hint.

[mc-lukanette]

It had been impossible for Luka to not hear about the party going on at Adrien’s house, especially given the music blaring out of the mansion. He hadn’t had anywhere else to go that day, so he figured he might as well check it out.

He stopped, however, when he noticed Marinette lingering outside the gate to the mansion, looking discouraged. He looked around, seeing that no one was nearby, then slowly approached, concerned.

"Marinette?"

She stiffened, looking up at him in surprise. "L-luka!"

He offered her a gentle smile. "Hey. Something wrong?"

She pursed her lips, brows furrowing with worry. Looking away, her eyes darted around at nothing before she sighed in defeat.

"They—they won’t let me in. I thought the guys were up to something, so I came to check it out, but…"

"They’re not letting you in?" he echoed. Frowning at the gate, he added, "That doesn’t sound like them."

Granted, he supposed he didn’t know them all that well.

He considered the situation, knowing full well that he couldn’t just leave Marinette this way, then asked, "Maybe you can come in with me?"

She glanced back at him, hoping hesitantly. "You think so?"

He didn’t immediately answer, not wanting to promise anything without being certain. He turned towards the mansion, letting his guitar rest on his shoulder to look as casual as possible.

When the camera emerged to stare at him, he didn’t flinch, simply giving it a two-fingered salute and smiling.

After a moment, the camera pulled back, seeming not to acknowledge him at first until the gates actually opened up. Luka smiled, giving Marinette a knowing look to tell her to follow after him.

She looked briefly surprised, then beamed and got up to join him. He couldn’t help feeling a little light as he headed towards the mansion with her, vaguely imagining that she was his plus one.

Together, they wandered up the steps, where Adrien’s bodyguard opened the door to wait for them. Luka was about to head inside with Marinette when the bodyguard shut the door just enough to prevent it.

"Ah—" Luka glanced up at him, thrown off.

The man grunted, tilting his head in Marinette’s direction. Luka glanced at her, watching Marinette stare at their current obstacle with the disappointment he saw earlier.

"Why can’t I come in?" she asked. "Is it just because I’m a girl?"

Another grunt, this time much rougher, was the response.

Luka blinked, thoroughly confused now at the concept of this party. He supposed part of it was because he’d lived with Anarka and Juleka - both female - but he couldn’t understand the desire to shut a friend out of an event due to gender alone.

"Marinette’s with me," Luka insisted, "and I’m saying that it’s okay for her to come in. I wouldn’t go in without her."

"Luka," Marinette uttered. Luka chose not to look at her, intent on staring down the bodyguard until he let them pass.

The man stared back, almost squinting at him, then side-eyed Marinette. Just as it seemed like the bodyguard might change his tune, however, he instead huffed and slammed the door shut, causing Luka to stagger back from the volume.

Luka gaped, shocked that Adrien’s bodyguard would honestly refuse someone who was supposed to be friends with Adrien while still letting grown adults in. He couldn’t tell who was behind all of the decisions being made about the party, but part of him acknowledged that he might need to re-evaluate his impression of Marinette’s friends.

"...It’s okay."

Luka looked over, seeing Marinette staring down at the ground. "What?"

She gave him a sad smile, clasping her hands together in front of her waist. "It’s okay. You should go enjoy the party. I’m sure it must be really fun, so don’t let me stop you." She turned, starting to head back down the stairs. "I should be back with the girls anyway."

Luka frowned. It wasn’t like her to give up, at least not from what he saw of her while she faced off against Bob Roth.

Unless… that was it? Maybe she didn’t care as much because it was only her who was being left out?

No. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

"Wait," he called out, careful not to trip down the steps as he caught up with her and gently grabbed her hand.

She stiffened, surprised, then glanced back at him with furrowed brows. "W-what is it?"

"It's not fair," he replied, his gaze firm. He glanced up at Adrien's room, almost glaring at it. "...We'll find a way to get you in."

—————

"So!" Marinette did a small twirl, then struck a pose for him, leaning casually to one side and sticking her hands into her oversized pockets. "How do I look?"

Luka swallowed, his throat dry as he began to consider that maybe this had been a mistake. After calling Juleka and the other girls to inform them of what was happening, "Operation: Infiltration" had become the next course of action, which meant getting Marinette a disguise that allowed her to blend in with the guys at the party so she could be let inside.

And she looked really good. A little adjustment to her eyelashes made them look more stylized than inherently "girlish," while her hat - spun around backwards for flair - hid all of her excess hair. Even her smile had been turned just lopsided enough to be considered a smirk.

She’d also taken inspiration from his wardrobe, which is to say that she took directly from his wardrobe. His clothes were large on her, but that was the idea, as it helped hide her figure and anything else that might’ve given her away. The hoodie - his hoodie - went down to the center of her thighs, while the length of her pants were cleverly hidden in a pair of boots, which was the only thing of Juleka’s that she sported. She’d also used her hair ties to keep the sleeves of his hoodie from extending past her wrists, and it made Luka loathe the thought that he could’ve seen her with her hair down had she not dealt with it in the privacy beyond the divider.

Realizing that his mouth was open, he placed a hand to cover the lower part of his face, eyeing her up and down for what must've been the twentieth time. He had no idea that her looking so different would have such an effect on him, though it wasn’t as if he was oblivious to the fact that his orientation centered entirely around Marinette.

Once it registered with him that he hadn't answered her, he blushed and met her gaze. Taking in a breath, he began, "Ah—"

Marinette pouted, cutting him off by asking, "It's too cute, isn't it? It's written all over your face!" She leaned further to the side and let out a disappointed huff. "I don't want to be cute! I want to be cool!"

She lightly batted at the tuff of hair that she'd allowed to stick out of the hat, inadvertently showing off the black nail polish she'd used to match Luka. "Is it the way I did my hair? Maybe I should go with something else."

"No—" Luka blurted out, his blush spreading further across his face. "Marinette, you..."

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to calm down to give her a reply she deserved. Of course she was cute, but...

"Marinette, you are cool. You're really cool."

And she always had been.

—————

Luka’s eyes scanned the crowd party as he took a sip of one of the party’s drinks. Really, he was just gazing upon the scenery, but still, his eyes never missed Marinette when she passed by.

Every time, even when it was only the brim of her hat, he recognized her. His eyes would be drifting and he'd just see her, casually. His eyes wouldn't stop moving, but his mind screamed at him every time.

Marinette!

He pretended that he was fine. If anyone asked, he'd chugged his soda too quickly and the choking fit he'd had turned his face red.

They seemed full of gullible people; he was sure enough that they’d buy it.

As he looked across the room once more, Luka's mind screamed again, but this time, his gaze locked onto Marinette instead of continuing on.

Because Marinette was standing next to Adrien, locked in some sort of conversation with him. Luka's heart missed a beat at the sight, forgetting its tempo and having to restart from the beginning.

Of course Luka wanted what Adrien had, and of course he was jealous that someone else had Marinette's affections, but it wasn't something he would call a bitter jealousy. He wasn't mad at Adrien, nor was he upset with Marinette. In fact, he didn't regret how his heart sang. As long as Marinette was happy, he accepted whoever she loved.

And if that was Adrien, then that was just the way it was.

It was why he was surprised when she turned away from Adrien and looked at him instead. She smiled, then glanced back at Adrien to wave at him.

Wait. What? Why? Luka was sure that her and Adrien hadn't been talking for long, and if something had gone wrong, why was she smiling so much?

Marinette then headed in Luka's direction, furthering his confusion. Was she... was she smiling at him and not Adrien?

She took a breath as she reached him, temporarily dropping the roughness in her voice to lean in and whisper, "It's so hard making it around these crowds! I’m glad I was still able to find you."

Luka nodded despite how puzzled he was. He looked back out at the crowd, taking a few seconds to find Adrien, who didn't seem at all put off by the conversation he'd just had.

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, "Did something happen with Adrien?"

Marinette pulled back, then blinked at him, surprised to be asked. Nevertheless, she shook her head and responded, "No, not really." She smiled. "He wanted to chat more, but... I told him that I came here with someone, so..."

She trailed off, staring down at the floor and tapping the toes of her shoes together.

Luka frowned, concerned that she'd done this for his sake. "You could've kept talking to him."

"I know." She blushed as well. "But... it's more comfortable here."

He attempted to drown his emotions with the rest of his drink. "Thanks. I’m glad you can be so relaxed around me," he said, setting his cup aside as casually as he could.

She beamed, though her attention was soon diverted as she stared off toward the other side of the room. "Ah! Luka, look!"

Without warning, she grabbed his hand, being drawn towards a crowd that was gathering. "I think those guys are gonna start dancing!"

He let her lead him, both not minding and honestly being fully distracted by her hand on his. Even though hers was smaller, the warmth made it feel like the opposite.

Then, he remembered where they were, why she was dressed the way she was, and what they were currently doing.

"Net," he urged quietly.

"Hm?" She stopped, then stared at him with a slight tilt of her head.

He directed his gaze down to their hands. "If people see, they might think we're..."

Marinette blinked, apparently needing a few seconds to understand. "...Oh!"

To Luka's surprise, she waved dismissively. "That's okay. I don't think anyone cares about that anyway. I mean, have you seen the vinyl they’re playing?"

That wasn't exactly what Luka had been referring to, but it still surprised him to see Marinette brush the notion off. Surely, even when disguised, she cared if Adrien saw her with someone else, right?

Or... she didn't mind people believing that they could be together?

He blushed. Maybe he should just text Juleka to tell that he won't make it through the night.

The fact that Jagged Stone had apparently been in the room since they got there, yet he only noticed when Marinette pointed him out, did not help that thought.

[continuation]

[voiceless-terror]

Ink (TMA Fanfic)

For TMA Gerry Week 2021 Day One

Pairings: Jonathan Sims/Gerry Keay/Martin Blackwood

Rating: T

Summary: Art’s how Gerry shows his love- a few snippets where he does exactly that. No powers-au, Gerry and Martin own a bookstore. Takes place in this universe but can be read alone!

He’s getting used to having people who want him around.

Gerry’s had friends, sure. Once he left the institute and began working odd jobs, he realized how much he genuinely enjoyed having company. He still isn’t the most social of creatures, but he does enjoy a night out with old coworkers who enjoy his stories and laugh at his jokes. But now, with Jon and Martin, they want him around all the time. Even after they started dating, even after he moved in, he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never does, though. And Gerry, in spite of himself, begins to relax. Begins to feel at home. 

He’s laying on the couch, scribbling in his notebook when Martin surprises him with a peck to the top of his head. “Whatcha drawing this time?” He was very excited when he heard Gerry liked to draw, immediately asking to see his notebook or anything he’d done. He’d only recently shown him some of his work; he knows Martin would never make him feel embarrassed, but, well. It’s another part of himself no one’s ever been interested in. Until now.

“Jon,” Gerry responds, leaning into the touch. It’s an amateurish attempt in his opinion, just a rough sketch. But he’s got the proportions down and he never forgets a face. Couldn’t forget, in Jon’s case. 

“That’s…” Martin trails off, peering closer at the page. “That’s really good. You’ve even got him smiling!” It’s not that Jon never smiles; he smirks and laughs and snarks. But he’s managed to capture that rare, bright grin that makes Gerry’s heart skip a beat.

“Mhm.” Gerry nods slightly, pen tapping against his sketchpad. He turns around, seeing the naked fondness in Martin’s eyes and has a particularly wicked thought. “Y’know, this is how he looks when he’s watching you.”

Martin sputters, turns a lovely shade of red. “W-What? Really?”

“No,” Gerry smirks. “It’s the way he looks at the Admiral.” A groan and a light smack to the shoulder prove his joke is unappreciated. “Sorry, sorry! I’m sure he also looks at you that way-”

“You’re an ass.” Martin rolls his eyes but oh-so-gently picks up his hand, pausing to inspect the ink-stained fingers. “A very talented ass.” His mind blanks as Martin kisses them one by one.

Thoroughly distracted, he never gets around to finishing that sketch.

_______

Painting, as it turns out, is a lot harder than it looks. Still quite fun, though.

They’ve just found the perfect space- a little out of their price range, but Gerry’s got savings and Jon was willing to part with a bit himself. Martin fretted over his ‘meager contribution,’ as his savings were depleted in the final months of his mother’s care. Ridiculous that he would ever think his contribution meager, considering he’s the one who scouted for locations and did all of the paperwork and stayed up late, agonizing over their finances. Some days, Martin’s the only one keeping them sane. Gerry and Jon are due to remind him of that.

Which is why they’re handling the decorating. Jon claims to have no artistic talent, but he does have a knack for making places seem like home. There are boxes filled with knick knacks and rugs and pictures, all waiting to be hung somewhere once Jon’s finally settled on a layout. Gerry’s left with painting the walls, labeling the different sections in whatever way he sees fit. He’s currently at work on the horror section, painting a stylized eye above the tarp-covered bookshelf when he hears the sound of the bell; Martin must be back from the store. They’d run out of appropriately-sized nails and after a minor freak out, he’d been on his way.

“Find what you were looking for?” he calls, listening as Martin’s footsteps grow closer, the crinkle of bags in his hand. “Here to save the day?”

“I wouldn’t call it saving,” Martin snorted, setting them down on the ground with a thump. “But it’ll certainly help. That looks nice.”

Gerry pauses, considering his work. He really needs a darker green for this. “Thanks. It’s a work in progress.”

“I’m sure it’ll turn out great,” he murmurs distractedly, and Gerry turns to look back at him. The lines of his face are more pronounced than usual, as are the shadows under his eyes. A sure sign that the stress is getting to him. Gerry understands, and he’s not much for being particularly sappy but he does what he can to help.

“Hey,” he calls down to him from his ladder. “C’mere. Need your opinion on something.”

Martin sighs, but heeds the call. “What is it? You know I’m rubbish with this art stuff-”

“It’ll only take a second. Come closer.”

“What am I supposed to be looking at-”

“Closer.”

As Martin huffs and leans towards him, Gerry darts his paintbrush out, drawing the quickest of hearts on Martin’s cheek before he can pull away. 

“Gerry!” Martin startles and his hand reaches up to wipe at his cheek.

“Don’t smear it, it’s a heart.” He pauses, going for his gravest voice. “Because I love you so much. I’ll be devastated if you ruin it.”

“I don’t appreciate that.” Martin sighs but drops his hand, his face softening already. Exasperation has never been paired with fondness, not when it’s aimed at Gerry. Another thing he’s starting to get used to.

“Shame. It looks good.”

Martin goes home with a heart on his other cheek as well. He looks ridiculous. Gerry loves it.

_________

When Jon’s particularly stressed, Gerry leaves him post-it notes.

Often he leaves before Gerry even wakes, so he’s got to do them the night before. A little cat here, a little caricature of Bouchard there. He leaves a variety, depending on his mood. Jon always gives him a kiss when he gets home, a soft ‘thank you for the note,’ and that’s all he needs, really, to keep doing it. He likes making Jon smile.

Martin’s gone grocery shopping and Jon’s pulling a late night again, so Gerry’s alone in the flat looking for something to do. There’s nothing on Netflix worth watching (or at least, worth watching by himself) and he’s not in the mood for his latest novel, so he decides he’s going to be productive, make a list of all the things he has to do this week. Jon’s always going on about lists, though he leaves them everywhere and never seems to accomplish everything on them. Maybe it’s the act of making them that’s relaxing. It’s worth a try.

He makes his way over to the second bedroom they (mostly Jon) use as an office. He’s sure Jon’s got a little notepad here that he can use, and he wants it to look as official as possible. He opens the left hand drawer but only finds Martin’s receipts, and on the right he finds a plain-looking notebook, a little worn with use. Maybe that’s what he uses-

Gerry opens it. Pauses. Blinks. Feels something heavy and thick form in his throat.

It’s his notes- his stupid little sketches, his ‘have a good day at work’s, his smiley-faces and little hearts. Each carefully placed on page after page with an accompanying date, neat and tidy, like a little scrapbook. Mum used to throw out his ‘doodles,’ as she called them, told him his time was better spent on actual art, but Jon’s kept all of them. Like they mattered. Like they were important. He sets it back down on the desk and just stands there, heart beating hard in his chest.

Gerry’s tearing up like some sort of moron so he’s distracted and doesn’t hear Jon come home, doesn’t hear his usual grumblings and sighs. Doesn’t hear him until Jon’s right behind him, startling him with a hand on his arm. “Sorry, I was just- Gerry, are you alright?”

Alright. Alright. It’s a word that doesn’t encompass everything he’s feeling. Wanted, embarrassed, a little overwhelmed. And so, so happy. 

He turns around and grabs Jon in a fierce hug, overcome with affection and eager to hide his stupid tears as he squeezes Jon to his chest. “You’re adorable, you know that?” he says, peppering kisses to the top of his head despite Jon’s weak protestations. “Real fuckin’ cute.”

Jon melts into his embrace, even as he complains. “I’ve got no idea what you’re on about, Gerry,” he says into his chest, the words muffled. “You’re being absurd.” Jon’s just about the only person he knows that uses ‘absurd’ on a daily basis. It’s insufferable. Gerry loves it.

“Just let me hug you, you little ogre.”

_________

Sometimes, Gerry’s the one who’s got to be up early. Doctors appointments are a bitch, and after a brief scare last year, it’s important that he keep up with them. Martin helps him schedule, marking the appointments on the calendar with a bold black marker that can’t be missed.

This morning’s particularly brutal, with an eight o’clock appointment an hour’s commute away. Jon went to sleep at a reasonable hour last night and he needs the rest; Gerry knows if he wakes Martin, he wakes them both. Jon’s never been good at sleeping alone. 

He’s stumbling blearily around the kitchen, about to put the kettle on when he notices it. On the table is a post-it note; he doesn’t remember leaving one for Jon last night, but he’d been rather tired, so who knows? Gerry putters around, fixing his tea and nibbling at toast when he finally spares it a glance. 

It’s not for Jon. It’s for him.

Good luck at your appointment! It reads in Martin’s familiar, neat script. Accompanying it is a small doodle that has to be Jon’s; it’s not particularly good, but it clearly shows a little Gerry, makeup and all, with a plaster on his cheek and a heart over his head. It looks like Jon spent time on it. Spent time on some stupid little post it note to make Gerry smile. 

He puts it in his pocket. Takes it out a few times in the waiting room, stares at it. Everything looks fine, the doctor says at the end of the appointment. He’s so lucky.

He’s so lucky.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29635833

[senadimell]

The Mysterious Benedict Society as an adaption

So far, The Mysterious Benedict Society adaption feels very faithful to the books. There are definitely changes (Constance, for instance, has been aged up, and likely has a different background. This is understandable. It would be nigh impossible to portray her as she is in the books in live action format--for example, none of the kids in the book suspect she’s a toddler, let alone two years old). However, most changes have all felt reasonable and add to plot and pacing.

I especially enjoy the additions: showing the adult side of the team, for example, or Ms. Perumal’s growing concern about Reynie’s whereabouts, or the girls’ nighttime conversations. Some changes are more extreme. The Mr. Curtain of the books is clearly a villain. He’s condescending and rude, and the only people who like him are bullies. Mr. Curtain of the show is much smoother. It’s easy to see how he’s managed to influence people. Similarly, the L.I.V.E. curriculum is much less obnoxious in the show (not just memorizing nonsense by rote), and as a result, the school’s students seem less stupid and cruel. You can see why they enjoy attendance.

I’m particularly pleased that Number Two’s weirdness has been amplified. Mr. Benedict’s found family is delightfully strange, and I love watching their unusual rhythms. It will be easy to believe when (or if) it’s revealed that the women have been legally adopted into Mr. Benedict’s family.

Similarly, I love how they intensified the quirky feel of the setting and characters. Of course Number Two built a house in the woods in a day because she has a woodworking hobby. Of course there’s secret tunnels and drawers and compartments in Mr. Benedict’s house. Of course Milligan’s disguises and mannerisms are wackily memorable instead of just matter-of-fact. The books themselves have a stylized feel at times (they kind of remind me of Lemony Snickett’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, though with none of the grimness).

I love the overall aesthetic. When I first read the books, they didn’t strike me as being set in the past, but the vaguely vintage feeling works excellently. (I was also a fully grown adult before I realized that the Incredibles wasn’t set in the present, so...) The color schemes, costumes, and sets have distinctive feelings and coordinate well. The effect is stylized rather than naturalistic, which is appropriate and amplifies the tone of the scenes. The bright colors and rough textures of the wooded hideout and its inhabitants’ costumes contrast nicely with the clean lines of tL.I.V.E.’s vintage-pastel interior and sleek exterior.

I also enjoyed the way they did Kate’s flashback as rough home footage. Similarly, I enjoyed the way they showed four kids solving problems on the same screen, how they illustrated Reynie’s thought process with overlaid sketches of the problems, and the way words show up on the screen during the tests for emphasis. The combination of animations, showing multiple things at once, and creative angles for emphasis did a great job conveying the feeling of the tests. (Unfortunately, I lack the vocabulary to describe the techniques they used here).

There’s two things I didn’t enjoy. The first was killing Sticky’s parents to make him an orphan. It mattered in the books that he felt rejected by his own parents. Making it his aunt and uncle who (seemingly) care more about money and fame than the child they’re raising feels a little too much like the wicked stepmother trope. I don’t know why the showmakers decided that Of Course They’re All Orphans, because while most of the book characters are orphans, Sticky isn’t, which serves to show that you can feel rejected and hurt by your parents even when you’ve got an ordinary, non-abusive nuclear family. It’s about feeling isolated, whether or not you’re technically alone.

Secondly, all the wheelchairs have been removed from the adaption. I’m not sure why this was done. Sticky’s mother has bad arthritis and requires a wheelchair. In the books, this was done without fanfare; it was as normal as anything else to oil Ms. Washington’s wheelchair in damp weather, or load and unload it from cars in later books. She was more of a background character, so it didn’t affect the plot, but the casual background representation was a welcome contrast to many books that assume being disabled is strange and uncommon, and that disabilities only exist when they’re plot-significant. The aunt who replaced Ms. Washington used no mobility aids, which disappoints me, especially as the woman she replaces in the books is ultimately shown to be a flawed but loving parent who’s dedicated to making up for her mistakes.

The other person missing their wheelchair is Mr. Curtain, the villain. I’m also not sure why this was removed? It could be to avoid the Evil Disabled Villain trope, but in the book, I didn’t feel like his disabilities were treated as a moral flaw or an excuse for his villainy. He shares his narcolepsy with the unquestionably benevolent Mr. Benedict, so it didn’t feel like his condition was used to vilify him.

He and Mr. Benedict act cope with their condition differently: Mr. Benedict relies on trusted family members for support and chooses to sit on the floor and avoid positioning himself in tall places from which he could fall, whereas Mr. Curtain disguises his narcolepsy by wearing mirrored glasses and using a wheelchair that secures an upright posture, so that no one knows when he has an episode. He does use his wheelchair aggressively, banging through doors and zooming around and forcing people to jog and keep up, but it felt like his use of mobility aids grew naturally from his character.

The books also include a scene where he shocks the children by leaving his wheelchair to chase them. They assumed that using a wheelchair=completely unable to walk, a common view in US society. Importantly, I didn’t feel like the scene was framed as particularly deceptive, like he was lying to them by using a wheelchair when he could walk. Rather, it fit into a pattern of Mr. Curtain managing assumptions and expectations: he doesn’t want people to take advantage of his weaknesses, yet wants to hold a few cards close to his chest. He doesn’t have to lie to people, just let them see and hear and assume what they will.

I don’t use a wheelchair or have narcolepsy, so I’m not in a position to say whether or not the books have good representation. Maybe the fact that Mr. Curtain is evil, and also zooms around and bangs through doors, is uncomfortable. Maybe the fact that his nefarious devices are wheelchair-accessible and in fact designed around his chair sends the wrong message. Maybe using mobility aids to conceal a disability sends a bad message, or maybe it would be better if the good guy was the one to use a wheelchair to cope with his disability. I don’t know. I do know that Mr. Benedict’s condition is played for laughs in both the book and show, and that might be uncomfortable. I do think it’s worth noting that Mr. Benedict’s narcolepsy is seen less and less as funny as the books go on, and grows to be seen as an endearing quality that emphasizes how much he loves people, since his attacks usually underscore with strong emotions and convey worry for his loved ones or joy at their company.

My own sense is that both approaches to narcolepsy make sense, and neither is shown to be inherently faulty. Rather, it’s Mr. Curtain’s character that’s to blame for his villainy--his arrogance, condescension, and mistrust. Both characters feel well-developed and consistent, and their disability is only one part of them. Their disability is colorful, but it’s colorful in the same way as the main characters (Sticky’s anxiety and memory, Kate’s gusto, eye for measurement, and bucket, Constance’s precociousness, etc).

As for why Mr. Curtain’s wheelchair was cut, I’m not sure. Maybe the show writers just didn’t want to deal with the ramifications of depicting a villain in a wheelchair, and decided to cut it altogether (a lazy reason, I think). Alternatively, it seems like they’re depicting narcolepsy without cataplexy, eliminating the need for a wheelchair (a better reason).

On the other hand, Mr. Curtain’s attitude and mannerisms bear the least resemblance to his book counterpart of all the show’s characters. They’re incorporating some backstory from the other books to build a secondary plotline, and I’m not sure how it’s going to play out. From what we’ve seen of him so far, S. Q. Pedalian is also drastically different (shy, cloistered, and openly acknowledged as Mr. Curtain’s son, instead of the gregarious, bumbling, misfit Executive of the books). The TV dynamic between him and Mr. Curtain is largely unrevealed as of yet. Since these changes constitute departures from the book, I’m not sure how the future story’s going to play out around them, and what that reveals about why the wheelchair was cut when it was so characteristic of Mr. Curtain’s mannerisms while other things (like Mr. Benedict’s use of plaid) were included.

Still, it does disappoint me that two wheelchairs were erased, and no one in the show uses one, not even background students. 

Overall, though, apart from the orphan and wheelchair situation, I’m very pleased with this adaption and think that the pacing works wonderfully. It’s a near-ideal format for a video adaption (I think animation would be best, but this is a close second).

[arashikitten]

Monkie Kid Soulmate Au

Thank you, MKD, for helping me create this monstrosity. 

I noticed there weren’t any soulmate au’s for Monkie Kid yet so I decided to make one Myself!

In this au, there are three types of soulmate a person can have: the typical romantic soulmate, platonic soulmate (i.e. best friends, family, things of that nature), and enemy soulmates (rivals, nemesis, mortal enemies, things along that line). People can have multiple soulmates, and in fact it is very common for people to have three or more at any given point! It is also possible for someone to have only one or two types of soulmate: for example, someone who is asexual might only have platonic soulmates and/or enemy soulmates. 

As for how one identifies their soulmate, a small mark/symbol will appear on the wrist, palm, or back of the person a year before they meet their soulmate in person, at which point the mark will take on color. The placement of the marks often determines the type of bond: a mark on the palm indicates a romantic bond, on the wrist indicates a platonic bond, and on the back indicates an enemy bond (that being said, there have been instances where this rule does not apply).

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get into the meat of this au!

Red Son is born with two soulmarks: A stylized, cartoon bull head, and a large, red and gold fan. They both appear on his back, and from a young age, he tries to ignore the possibility that his own parents may one day become his worst enemies. He grows up very close to DBK and Iron fan: he wants desperately to maintain a good relationship with them, and he ends up cutting off any sort of interaction with anyone else.

DBK gets sealed under the mountain, and Red’s world shatters. Both he and Iron fan grieve for a long time, and Red Son now feels even more alone. 

So, he starts attempting to free his father from his prison under the mountain.

Fast forward about 300 years, to when MK is born without a single mark. He grows up and for ten years, his palms, wrists and back remain blank.

Then, about a month after his tenth birthday, a small, grey dragon appears, wrapped around his wrist, along with a grey cartoon pig wearing a chef’s hat (Pigsy) and a small cicada (Mr. Tang). 

Six months later, MK gets kicked out of his home, living on the streets for five months until, late one night, Pigsy finds him in the alleyway next to the noodle shop (The small stylized monkey face on Pigsy’s wrist glows with color. He and Tang adopt Mk two weeks later.). 

Mei walks into the shop about a month later, while Tang is telling MK a story from Journey to the West. All three of the soul marks on her wrist light up, and she and Mk become best friends over a game of Monkey mech.

Six years later, Red Son wakes up with a grey, stylized Monkey face on his palm, and a small dragon wrapped around his left wrist. He despises them both; he begins wearing finger-less gloves, if only so that he doesn’t have to see the grinning face of the Demon who sealed his father away staring up at him every day. Besides, he doesn’t need other soul mates: Once his father is free, Red Son’s family will be whole again, and they will rule the world with an iron fist (Note that at this point, Red is in complete denial that DBK and Iron fan could be his enemies: the fact that their marks showed up on his back indicates that they will become his worst enemies, so Red has spent his entire life trying desperately to ensure that doesn’t happen.). (He still fails in the end)

Mei and Mk both wake up that same morning with a new soulmark: A small, stylized flame that appears on Mk’s palm and on Mei’s wrist. They both gush to each other about it over a bowl of noodles, Mei is excited to get a new bestie while Mk is freaking out over the fact that he may have a boyfriend/girlfriend in a years time (Note: I 100% headcanon Mk as both gay and trans: but I like to think he struggled a bit more with his sexuality. At this point, Mk is still questioning it a bit, but by the time the events of episode one roll around, he’s pretty sure of his identity. Mei is ace, Red Son is Bi, Pigsy is Pan, and Mr. Tang is gay.). Mk also gains a small peach on his right wrist, and he and Mei speculate as to why only Mk got a second mark (Way up on Flower Fruit Mountain, Sun Wukong gains a new soul mark for the first time in 400 years. This prompts him to begin looking into possibly getting a successor).

Mei, Mk, Pigsy, and Mr. Tang also get two marks on their backs: a demon head and an iron fan. Mk and Mr. Tang, upon seeing what exactly the marks are, absolutely freak out. They both firmly believe that the marks represent DBK and Princess Iron fan, and the implication that two very powerful demons might be going after them in a year’s time is more than enough to scare the two. Pigsy and Mei are a bit more skeptical, citing that DBK and Iron fan are just myths, and even if they weren’t, DBK would still be trapped under the mountain by the Monkey King’s staff. 

This only freaks the other two out more, as that carries the implication that DBK will be free to wreak havoc on the world in a year’s time. So, MK and Mr. Tang begin to delve even deeper into the lore surrounding DBK and Sun Wukong, desperately trying to prepare just in case (Sun Wukong actually happens to overhear one of these study sessions while he’s out searching for a successor, and is impressed by Mk’s knowledge of him. He decides to keep an eye on the kid, and eventually makes the choice to make him his successor.).

As the year progresses, MK gets three new enemy marks:a dark grey spider on his shoulder (It scares the hell out of MK the first time he sees it, and he smacks it multiple times before realizing that it’s not an actual spider. He then proceeds to panic even more when he realizes it’s a soulmark.), a more menacing version of Mk’s own soul mark that appears on his lower back (three guesses as to who that one belongs to), and finally, a pale grey skull right in the middle of Mk’s shoulder blades, larger than any other soulmark so far. With each new enemy mark, Mk becomes more and more nervous: Just what will happen to give him so many enemies?

Meanwhile, Red Son gains only one new mark: the same pale grey skull, right in between the fan and the bull head. This one worries Red Son the most: while he has never actually seen the white bone spirit, he’s heard several disturbing horror stories over the years, and the idea of becoming allies or gods forbid, enemies with the cruel creature makes the fire demon nervous. 

Then, we get to the pilot. Red frees his father, MK gets the staff, and the chase across the city ensues. Red returns to the lair empty handed and bruised. He heads to his room to patch up, when he notices a small flare of bright, emerald green on his wrist. Pulling off the finger-less gloves, Red Son sees that the dragon is now a bright, glowing green. The mark on his palm has also taken on a color, bright reds mixing with vibrant golds as the colored monkey mark on his palm smiles up at him. 

That’s when it clicks: The only two people he’d encountered today, aside from his mother and father, are the Noodle Boy and the mysterious person on the bike. 

Red Son furiously vows that he will never, ever side with the Noodle boy, even if it kills him, and he will remain steadfastly loyal to his mother and father (From then on, he takes extra care to hide his palms and wrists from his parents, out of the intense fear that they will cast him out if they learn of who exactly the marks represent.) (it doesn’t work).

Meanwhile, Mk is freaking the fuck out. He can wield the Monkey King’s staff, he just saw one of the most powerful demons get freed from a 300+ year prison, confirming his theory that DBK and Iron fan are the two marks on his shoulder blades (Both of which, Mk notes, gained color that day, further confirming that they relate to DBK and Iron fan.), he got chased all over town by Red Son (who Mk recognizes from the myths), and to top it all off, the flame mark on his palm turned a bright, royal blue sometime between him leaving to deliver noodles, and him getting back to the shop, and the only other person that Mk encountered during that time that even remotely fits the mark is, you guessed it, Red Son. 

Mk relays all of this to the gang, at which point Mei notices that the flame on her wrist has also turned bright blue, providing even further confirmation. Mk is very much bummed out by this, because out of all the people that could’ve been the fire on his palm, of course it had to be the demon who attempted to kill him.

Still, Mk pushes that to the side in favor of focusing on finding the Monkey King. 

The pilot continues much in the same way as in canon, with one notable exception: When Iron Fan shows up on the gang’s way to Flower Fruit mountain, she sees the small blue flame on MK’s palm. Putting two and two together, she realizes that her son is soulbound to MK, and that this bond may eventually cause Red to turn on his parents, which is why Iron Fan and DBK begin to push him away in later episodes. 

After that, things resume canon again: MK survives and gets to Flower Fruit Mountain, Wukong tells him that he chose Mk to be his successor (Which is when the peach mark on MK wrist gains color, and Mk proceeds to lose his entire shit over the fact that holy fuck, he’s soul bonded to Sun freaking Wukong. Wukong finds this both utterly hilarious and a little bit adorable.), the big fight between DBK and Mk happens, yada yada yada. The day is saved, and Mk goes home with his newfound powers.

Episode one is where we begin to see more long-term changes. By this point, both DBK and Iron fan know that their son is bound to the little thief, most likely romantically, and that their own blue flame mark is located on their backs, implying that Red Son will most likely turn against them in the near future. So, they start to distance themselves from him. 

They send Red to take control of the weather station and defeat MK, something that both of them know will end in failure. Red Son is oblivious to this (not really) and gladly takes on the task, desperate to prove himself. And t first, it seems that Red is actually successful!

...Before Mk comes back with a new grip on his powers and absolutely destroys Red Son. 

Red Son goes back to the lair, sparks still flying off of him, and on his way to his room, he overhears quiet conversation between his parents.

Curious, he quietly listens in, and finds out that not only do his parents know about the mark on his palm (How??? How did they find out???), but they are also planning on a way to get him “out of the picture”. 

Red Son absolutely panics at this revelation, and begins to spiral into waves of self-loathing and intense anxiety. Now he is desperate to remain on his parent’s good side by any means necessary, and so he buries himself in plans and research on powerful artifacts that he can steal for his father. 

While that’s going on, Mk meets the spider queen (The Spider on his shoulder becomes purple and green, and Mk spends three hours scrubbing at it in the shower that night), the whole clone thing happens, Mei gets her sword, and the calabash incident goes down (the main difference here is that when Mk hears that Red Son was also sealed away with his parents, Mk feels inexplicably upset about it: as much as he dislikes the fire demon, there’s still a small part of him that desperately wants them to be friends.). At this point, both Mk and Mei have kinda just accepted that the blue flame mark exists, and they don’t pay it too much attention, even if Mk kinda wants to know more about the hotheaded fire demon.

Then the race rolls around. At this point, Red is a nervous, paranoid wreck, his self esteem (which really wasn’t all that great to begin with) is deteriorating at a frightening speed, and he is desperate for a chance to prove to his parents that he is loyal, that he’s not worthless. 

So when he hears that the winner of this year’s great wall race will receive a peach of immortality, he rushes to apply for it. He excitedly tells Iron Fan, fervently hoping that she’ll at least listen to him, only to be crushed when she dismisses him out of hand, saying that even if the peaches could do  anything for them, it wouldn’t change all of Red Son’s failures in the past. Red Son, disheartened, still joins the race, and is absolutely furious when he sees that both Mk and Mei (When Red found out that she’s a descendant of one of the great dragons, he started calling her “Horse Girl” under the assumption that the dragon she is descended from was the dragon horse from Journey to the West) also entered. He starts arguing and bantering with them, and for just a moment, Red feels... content. Not happy, per se, but the constant anxiety and paranoia begins to lessen for a moment.

Then DBK and Iron fan show up, and Red Son goes silent. His back goes rigid, and his eyes glaze over a bit. Mei and Mk both take notice of the Fire demon’s sudden change in demeanor, and even though they still both think he’s a bit of a prick, they can’t help but be a bit concerned. 

Mk is actually about to say something to Red when Jin and Yin hijack the commentator’s box, and the race starts. 

The race goes mostly the same as in canon, with the main exeptions being that Red is far quieter and more focused, and Iron Fan’s taunts are much crueller and more demeaning.

Mei and Mk win, with Red Son getting second place. Instead of attempting to steal the peach trophy, Red Son just... watches them, looking almost broken as he watches the two celebrate. Mk, noticing the strange behavior, reaches out to ask if Red is ok (The reaction the fire demon had to his parents showing up set off all sorts of alarms in Mk’s head, because that had been exactly how he reacted back when he still lived with his parents.), only to be interrupted by DBK’s reemergence from the mountain. 

Iron fan tells Red Son that they are leaving, and Mk immediately picks up on what’s going on. He calls out to Red  just before Iron Fan’s winds whisk him away, and terrified look that the fire demon sends him confirms Mk’s suspicions.

That night, Mk comes up with a plan: He’s gonna get Red Son away from his parents, or die trying. The only other person who knows at first, is Mei: She also has Red Son’s soul mark, and while she’s not as keen on the fire demon as Mk is, she still doesn’t want him to have to deal with abusive parents.

While Mk is doing that, DBK and Iron Fan have fully leaned into the enemy role, disowning Red Son and keeping him locked away in the lair. Red just breaks down at this, and begins refusing to eat or move. All that time that he’d spent, desperately trying to maintain some sort of good relationship with his parents, for nothing. The only people that he could count on turned against him, and that loneliness hits him like a freight train. 

The only thing that brings him comfort, oddly enough, are the soul marks on his left palm and wrist: he takes to rubbing them whenever he feels particularly bad. By now, his feelings toward Mk and Mei are much closer to something positive: they both seemed concerned about him after the race, and where that might’ve pissed him off a few months earlier, now it comforts him with the knowledge that at least someone out there gives a damn. 

We get to episode 8, when Mk gets the skeleton key. Instead of Red Son being the one to steal the key, Iron fan is the one to do it, and she reveals her master plan:

She and DBK plan on releasing the White Bone Spirit from it’s prison, in order for it to possess Red Son so that both will be fully under their control.

Iron Fan gets away with the key, the White Bone Spirit possesses Red Son, and DBK and Iron Fan use him to wreck the entire city.

Mei and Mk do their best to avoid fighting Red Son: it feels so wrong every time they do clash, because they both know it’s not Red Son, they know he’s not the one in control, but it still hurts that they couldn’t get him out in time, that one of their soulmates is suffering like this. 

The final straw comes a week after the initial possession.

Mk is forced to fight a possessed Red son to protect a badly injured Pigsy. Mk begs for Red to fight back, to break free, knowing that the continued possession is taking a toll on the demon’s body. Mei joins him, insisting that Red is stronger than this, that he needs to think about the people that care about him. 

That is enough to allow Red to break through, just for a moment.

He steps back, tears streaming from his eyes as he brokenly whispers that if even his own parents can’t be bothered to care about someone as weak, as broken as he is, then who the hell would? Mei and Mk hate him, his parents disowned him, and it’s not like he really interacts with anyone else.

He is immediately taken by surprise when the two teens blurt out that even though they might’ve started out on opposite sides, that they never fully hated him. Mk in particular says that they were actually worried about Red Son after the race, that they were planning on getting him out before Iron fan stole the skeleton key, that they were still planning on helping him escape, that they really, actually care.

Red Son finally breaks free, and Mk seals the White Bone spirit away again. Mei and Mk beat the absolute crap out of DBK and Iron Fan, who end up escaping  again.

They take Red to one of the few remaining hospitals, so he can recover from his possession, and they make sure to get him some serious therapy while they’re at it. 

Red Son wakes up two days later to see Mei and Mk sitting by his hospital bed on either side of him, and they give him a warm smile when they see that he’s awake.

He cries for a bit as he realizes that it’s over. He’s free now, even if he doesn’t have anywhere to go anymore, and there are two people in the world who keep that blue flame close to their chest instead of turning their backs.

For the first time in over a year, Red doesn’t hide the marks on his wrist and palms.

After all, why should he from the ones who care for him the most?

[lilblog-asatreat]

Prompt: Clock maker; pocket mirror; uninvited guest arrives

(Prompt from Roll-A-Prompt Writing Journal Boxed Set)

(Also, got a couple of names from the fantasy name generator)

Dusk falls over Raven's Roost as the last rays of sunlight give way to the oncoming darkness of night. The shadows of buildings grow longer and darker across the quiet stone streets of the Craftsmen's Corridor, and they hide a few people with gaunt faces and dirty rag clothing as they scurry out of sight between buildings, hoping to find a place to rest outside of the watchful eye of the militia. Apart from them and a single militia wagon that slowly passes by, there is no one out on the street tonight. No one except a tall, muscular human man with sideburns longer than his beard who steps out from under a shadow and cautiously creeps his way up the street. He makes it to a little shop with a worn sign on the front proclaiming the establishment to be called Shadowpeak's Timekeep, and he knocks softly on the door.

When no one answers the door, the man knocks a little louder and more insistently. A few moments later, the door opens, revealing a short gnomish man with a long, graying beard and a sour look on his face. He shakes his head irritatedly and ushers the man inside before closing and locking the door behind him.

The shop is full of different styles and structures of clocks left out on display, ranging from tall, grand grandfather clocks to simple, humble wall clocks to goofy looking cuckoo clocks and everything in between. A small broom leans against a short, messy desk with different gears and screws and other odds and ends scattered next to a till that has seen better days. The gnome walks to the desk and leans against it, and he crosses his arms and stares intensely at his uninvited guest.

"Well, Burnsides, is there a reason your risking both mine and your neck for being here after curfew?"

"Yeah, uh, actually, there is, Xalver. I need to talk to you about something important and hopefully get your help with something I'm working on." The man identified as Burnsides says.

Xalver pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "Magnus... Look. I may not get out much anymore, but word does still get around and gets to me, and I'm sorry, but I can't join whatever little revolution you've got cooking up with some of the other folks around here. I just can't, and honestly, you need to disband this notion that it's going to work before you get yourself and whoever few other people you've got backing you up killed. It's not worth it."

Magnus crosses his arms. "If we don't do something, people will die anyway. People are dying. Right now. Because of Governor Kalen and his friends and his policies. I just walked past at least five people on the street who are homeless and starving, and I bet you at least three of them will get caught after curfew in the next week and will be incarcerated. The only people we are allowed to see when we are sick or dying are Kalen's rich as fuck friends who he has designated as the 'only qualified healers' in town who don't do shit and charge an arm and a leg for it. Every month, debt collectors come knocking on our doors asking for even more money than before because of some new tax law, and our businesses are going under. Me, Julia, and Steven are barely keeping ourselves afloat with Steven's savings, Julia just reported that Annie's quilting business officially went under yesterday, and I saw you arguing with the debt collector last month because you weren't going to have enough money to feed your family." Xalver winces at that and looks away. "This has to stop. We have to do something. I'm not saying it's going to be easy. I'm not saying it isn't going to be risky. But we are all miserable and starving and losing our homes and livelihoods for some buttwipe who thinks he can have it all and then some."

Xalver looks back at Magnus. "Yeah, ok, shit sucks right now. Believe me, I get that. But what the hell do you think you're going to be able to do about that? Are you going to kill Governor Kalen? Are you going to teach him a lesson ghost of Candlenights past style about the true meaning of love and how to care about people? What the fuck is it that you think you're going to do to make his reign of terror come to an end?"

Magnus smiles. "We'll run him and his friends out of town! If we make enough hell for them, they're eventually going to leave because it wouldn't be worth trying to stay here if, say, the Governor's manor burns down and if we jail break all of the prisoners and start a riot and start chasing him and his lackeys through the streets-"

"The militia will kill you," Xalver says flatly.

Magnus' smile falters. "Yeah, that's why we're going to have people who can fight back. Like I said, this isn't going to be easy, but with enough people supporting us... we outnumber them! Everyone in Raven's Roost, if we can get the majority of the people on board, we can win this!"

"If you get the majority of the people on board to die? To risk their and their family's lives? Over something with no guarentee will actually work?" Xalver grabs his broom and storms behind the counter. He shoves it in a corner before starting on scooping up the stuff on his desk and stuffing it into various drawers.

Magnus sighs and moves to stand by the desk. "Did you miss the part where I said we are dying anyway?" Xalver stops momentarily to glare at him before going back to stuffing his drawers more forcefully than before. "Look. If we don't do anything about it, Kalen is going to continue stepping all over us, and he's going to end up wiping out all of the sick and the poor first. Then he's going to go after all of the people he's made bankrupt, and he's going to make them work directly under him and work them into the ground. And there's no chance of stopping him and potentially saving the lives of our neighbors or the next generation. If we do do something about it, there is a chance of us failing and all of that still happening, but there's also a chance that we'll succeed. Realistically, we won't be able to save everyone, but we can very well try, and the community as a whole will be better off for it."

Xalver slams a drawer closed so hard, it rattles the desk, and a small, silver, circular device falls. Magnus quickly catches it before it hits the ground and examines it closely. The outside is intricately designed with a stylized L on the front with a backdrop of gears and wires. He opens the clasp, and there's a mirror on the inside of the top half. The bottom half looks like there might have been a mirror there too at one point, but it was taken out and in it's place is a picture of a gnomish woman standing next to a young gnomish girl with one hand on her shoulder. The girl looks a lot like the older gnome behind her and a bit like Xalver.

Magnus closes the pocket mirror and hands it to Xalver who takes it and places it back on the desk. "That's Loriza's, right?" Magnus asks softly.

Xalver rubs his eyes tiredly and groans. "Yeah, she must have left it out here on accident."

"How old is she now?"

"Seventeen. She was supposed to start at this prestigious artificing school in Neverwinter next year, but..."

"You no longer have the money," Magnus finished for him.

Xalver picks up the pocket mirror again and opens it, staring at the picture hidden within it. He thumbs over it gently and sighs. "I don't want to die on her and leave her alone in this mess, Magnus. When her mother passed... It was so sudden and unexpected, and for the longest time, she was paranoid that I would kick it too and she'd be alone. I'm the only one she has, and... I'm failing her. I can't give her the life that she deserves. I-" he lets out a short sad laugh. "I haven't even told her yet that I don't have the means to send her to school. This is one of the things she's wanted the most out of her life, to study at this school and become a world renowned artificer. And I've saved up as much as I could, but I've had to dip into that savings time and time again just to keep us alive and to keep the business running, and... I can't do it anymore."

Magnus walks around the desk to stand next to the smaller man, and he squeezes his shoulder gently. "We can still make her dream happen. We can fight to give her a chance at a better life, and I promise I will do everything in my power to make sure you get to still come home to her, but I need your help. Please." He adds softly.

Xalver stares at the picture for a few moments longer before he sighs and closes the mirror. He sets it back down on his desk and turns to face the taller man. "Ok. What do you need me to do?"

[unfunny-quips]

Of all the many people in the world who wanted him dead, All For One had to admit that he was rather surprised by the person who actually managed to both track him down and get past his impressive security.

He knew someone was there the moment he opened the door. Could sense the presence of another person in his high rise apartment that shouldn’t have been there. A steady heartbeat, unflinching and unafraid. Brave or stupid, he wasn’t sure, but they’d be dead either way once he wrung out of them how they’d gotten in and which of his security detail he was going to have to kill.

He shrugged off his coat - it was new and fit him well, he’d rather not get blood on it - and hung it up carefully by the front door. Slipped off his shoes and rolled his shoulders with a sigh. Though that particular apartment was not homey per se, there was something oddly comforting about returning to a living space that was entirely his own at the end of a day. Though centuries ago, a childhood fraught with uncertain living situations and inconsistent care had left marks on him that time and power had not fully been able to shake.

All the more reason to make the intruder’s death slow, as insignificant a threat as they were, they’d at least been able to find him. Which meant finding a new luxury apartment, perhaps even in a new city. And he despised moving.

He kept his steps light on the polished wooden floors, stopping by the oversized and little used kitchen for some water before he meandered his way towards the living room where his uninvited guest waited. Perhaps he’d throw them out the window, eighty stories up would make for a rather long time to think about their impending death. Or maybe tear them apart inch by literal inch so they had to languish in their suffering.

Setting his glass down on the kitchen counter he stepped into his spacious living room and paused at what sat waiting for him.

All For One, Emperor of Darkness, King of all Villains, Boogeyman of the Boogeymen found himself...uncertain.

There was a woman seated on his couch. Casually dressed and relaxed looking, knees drawn up and tucked beneath her, an open book bag on the floor beside where she sat and a law textbook in hand. She finished highlighting a section carefully before capping the marker and turning her gaze on to him, letting him see her face properly for the first time.

Green eyes were the first thing that struck him. Clear and bright and intelligent, set in a kind face. Her hair, also green, was swept down a little past her shoulders with half of it pulled up in a fluttering little bun at the back of her head. He was struck by two thoughts as he took her in.

The woman sitting before him was entirely unintimidated by him.

And...

She looked a bit like Nana Shimura. 

The woman tilted her head, seeming to take him in while he’d been observing her. She shifted on the couch a little, shutting the book softly and setting it down. Her heartbeat was steady, her gaze unflinching but not combative. Purpose seemed to flow off of her, as resolute as her steady gaze. He understood that she knew exactly who he was and felt no need for fear nor sense of unease in his presence. A strong will, he knew the aura he carried around him well and it was someone interesting indeed who could face the overwhelming killing intent that drifted off him in waves without so much as a flicker of uncertainty. 

“Hello.” She said with a soft, clear voice. The kind of ease one has with an acquaintance or a friend not often seen, not a stranger whose house she had invaded. “I’m sorry to have broken in like this.” She started, with the appropriate level of apology one would save for knocking over a stranger’s drink. “But I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”

He should be irritated, he should just kill her and get on with his evening, he should make her an example for anyone else stupid enough to think they could waltz into his home without consquence. 

He wasn’t irritated though. And he didn’t kill her. Instead he found himself oddly...charmed by the stranger that sat before him.

“Indeed?” He asked blandly, slipping his hands into his pockets before leaning against the wall casually. “I’m afraid you’re rather lost if you think this is a police station.”

The woman broke into a small smile, a soft huffing chuckle leaving her. Shaking her head she dropped her gaze for a moment and he saw the faint pink of a blush on her cheeks. He was, he realized. He was absolutely charmed by her. And it wasn’t even her Quirk doing it, hers had the feel of a gravitational telekinesis, not a mood altering ability. The woman that sat before him, who had broken into his home and casually asked him for help as if searching for her stray cat, was oddly endearing. And it had been a long time since he had found himself endeared by anything, let alone a person.

“Sorry,” She said, shifting on the couch. “I’ve probably done this all wrong. But I wanted you to know I was serious.” Green eyes met his own and he was struck again by the intelligence he saw in her gaze. “I don’t know why I thought this would be the way to do it but…” She gave a shrug, then slowly got to her feet. Careful not to topple her bag or trip as she untangled from her comfortable position on the couch. “Here, let me try again.” 

He watched as she gave a short, polite bow, hands clasped before her. A neat and polite introduction, complete with a soft smile as she rose to meet his gaze again. “My name is Midoriya Inko. I’m a graduate law student at Kyushu University, and I was hoping you could take my Sensei’s Quirk.”

Well. 

How on earth was he supposed to kill such a charming, polite young woman when she came to him with such an interesting request such as that?

He couldn’t, of course, was the answer.

---

Inko always had trouble with authority.

Even when she was very young she’d been prone to doing what she was told she shouldn’t just because an adult told her not too. Her father - in what faint and blurring memories she had of him before his death - used to call her his little revolutionary and would laugh over the hijinks her stubborn nature would produce. Then again, her father had his reasons to support the wholesale refusal to bend to the whims of authority. 

Trying to take down the corrupt system the government had put in place had been the cause of his death, after all.

Her mother had been far less amused by Inko’s acts of rebellion for rebellion’s sake. Always begging Inko to please just follow the rules just once honey with a perpetually exhausted look on her face. Inko’s only picture of her mother - a snapshot of the entire family at a park, her small frame held in her father’s arms a month before he would be killed - showed Nana Shimura with a wide, infectious smile in place. It felt odd looking at it in years to come, as Inko could only recall her mother looking mournful and sad in those last days.

It had been Kotaro that was the well behaved one of the two of them. Thirteen minutes older than her, he took the responsibilities of the eldest sibling with a seriousness that was almost frightening at times when they’d been children.

He’d been the one to tell her not to get into trouble, the one to reprimand her when she misbehaved. The one to tell her not to sneak out when they were teenagers in one of their many foster homes after their mother had given them up. Rule abiding, strict and, as they’d grown, more and more obsessed with control. Of her, of their situation, of whatever he could. A strangling, grasping bid at a control that had only led their already rocky relationship to splinter even further.

Her last conversation with him before she’d stopped speaking to him completely he’d told her that she should be a quiet housewife. She’d gone and applied to law school the very next day.

She still found herself wondering if that had been Kotaro being clever. Using her own contrary impulses to make her commit to something she’d always wanted to do but been too uncertain about to try and follow. It would have been the kindest he’d been to her in years if it was true, and she’d been too afraid to reach out to him to find out for fear that it wasn’t.

Instead she focused on her studies, focused on being the person she wanted to be instead of the person she’d been forced to become over the years. Not the abandoned daughter of a hero that had to retire too soon, but someone who was able to take the rules she’d been so long rebelling against and reshape them. Twist them under her hands until they settled into something she could believe in. Something she could follow.

At nineteen, after careful consideration and one less-than-helpful conversation with her friend Mitsuki she changed her name to Midoriya. On her twentieth birthday enjoying the fact that she could - legally - drink herself into oblivion, she cut her waist long hair off in a single ugly cut with the kitchen scissors. The next hour was spent in laughter as Mitsuki’s shy fashion student boyfriend Masaru fixed the mess as best he could. At twenty-one she clutched her best friend’s hand and gritted her teeth as a tattoo artist brought to life a stylized kitsune on her shoulder. A mark of the trickster she wished to become. And in between all of that, she proved herself to the academic world at large and earned herself a full ride to Kyushu University’s much lauded law program.

The work was challenging, equal parts exhilarating and mind-numbingly boring. She spent her days working hard to get top marks in every class, to ace every test, and impress every teacher with her sharp wit and unbending will. Her nights were filled with studying and working whatever jobs she could pick up to cover what her scholarships didn’t cover. Mitsuki teased her that she would get wrinkles from squinting at so many books, but her friend was always supportive. 

Years passed, semesters flying by in almost a dream at times, whisking her closer and closer to graduation and her dream of reshaping the system into something she could believe in. Despite her exhaustion, she’d found herself happier than she’d ever been in her life.

Which of course was the exact moment that it all started crashing down.

It started with one of the girl’s in the same program as Inko suddenly dropping the ball on her studies, the other woman’s grades began plummeting at an alarming rate. The girl -  Shibata Aiko - looked ragged and exhausted, unable to focus and eventually being dropped from the program entirely due to the issues with her academic performance. 

A few weeks later it was another female student shutting herself away in her dorm room for an entire week. The girl finally left her dorm looking haggard and sick, refusing to speak to anyone as she walked barefoot out into the wider world and immediately attempted to throw herself in front of a bus. 

Then one of Inko’s senpai’s - kind and serious Hanako who had mentored Inko briefly when she’d first joined the school - had what could only be called a breakdown in the school library. Screaming and crying as she began tearing up law books and flinging chairs.

Each incident was quickly handled and waved away as young women not suited for the high expectations and difficulties of such a high ranking university. Most of Inko’s classmates had been, if not content to accept that information, at least too exhausted by their own heavy workloads to question further.

But Inko never was good at accepting the will of authority.

[web1995]

Look upon my Works, ye Mighty: The Colossus of Garfield

Fig. 1

Surely our readers will need no introduction to The Colossus of Garfield, tenth wonder of the world. A much-favored subject of Art, Poetry, and History, the Colossus continues to preoccupy our collective imagination, as it captivated the artists who hewed his hulking body from the mighty pliant rock. Babel-like, he looms as testament, monument, and warning— for the Colossus is the folly of a long-since fallen empire, attempting to immortalize their king— and yet, how his image immortally endures! 

Historians place the construction of the Colossus variably, but without a doubt before our millennium. The earliest historical references to the Colossus are roughly contemporary with ancient California. For centuries upon centuries, he has been a site of pilgrimage and tourism, similar to the (likely fictitious) ruins of the Colosseum (Fig. 2) as described by authors in the ancient world, which drew thousands of visitors curious to witness an immense historical object. The Colossus is one of the largest and most magnificent ruins standing today, and unlike the Colosseum, there is no doubt about whether it really existed. 

Fig. 2 [ Artist’s reconstruction of the apocryphal Colosseum ] 

Today, there are many historical depictions of the Colossus of Garfield, all worthy of examination, and it is our hope that whether you come to our little book as a scholar of the Colossus or as a reader who knows him only as the tenth wonder that you will find something of note or amusement here. 

Let us return to Fig. 1: 

In this oil on canvas painting of the Colossus, by an unknown artist in the 17th—18th century WX, little room is left for the sky. The Colossus and the vast plain of the rocky beach upon which he sits are the overwhelming focus, massive waves breaking upon his placid visage, walls of foam several feet in height building up around his immovable bulk. Bleached by sun, sea, and storm, the Colossus basks unperturbed. In the background, indistinct buildings larger than one might easily comprehend rise upon the sea cliffs, works of the mighty empire following the collapse of that which crafted the Colossus. 

The painting evokes a distorted sense of time and a distorted sense of scale, juxtaposing old and new, centering the Colossus despite its weatheredness, and even taking particular care to render that weatheredness with something like love. New climate data has determined that the seas were already receding significantly in the 17th century WX, suggesting that the artist, having visited the Colossus, wanted to reach back into time to when the sea had broken daily upon its monumental little paws. It was a time long ago— a time when the Colossus was already ancient. 

Fig. 3

In Fig. 3, we see another stunning oil painting of the Colossus by another unknown artist, probably dating from the First Modern Desert Age, though the possibility of the artist depicting an earlier time, like the painter of Fig. 1, cannot be discounted. Likely painted during the 2nd century RYE, here the Colossus sits among endless dunes. The desert takes on a naturalistic, bluish hue in contrast to the garish orange of the Colossus, somehow scarcely diminished by hundreds of years. The Colossus appears to offer some shade, but the unseen overhead sun fills the canvas with a palpable heat. 

Art historians throughout the centuries have disagreed as to whether the Colossus was originally built to stand at the sea’s edge, in the water, or on dry land, and who can blame them? The effect of the Colossus remains transformative regardless of where it sits. Perhaps its builders even knew that the Colossus would endure longer than the sea or sand upon which it originally was hewn into the shape it continues to hold today. 

Fig. 4

Fig. 4 is an oil and acrylic painting which likely drew upon the Desert Colossus (Fig. 3) for its composition. Probably dating from the 9th century RYE, the artist portrays a partially submerged Colossus in much the same style as the Desert Colossus, with influence also taken from the Sea Colossus (Fig. 1). Here the focus is on the shallow seas surrounding the Colossus nearly as much as on the Colossus itself, following the lead of the Desert Colossus. A sense of barrenness pervades the Submerged Colossus, no living things visible within the frame. The Desert Colossus by contrast is suggestive of perhaps some vegetation, perhaps some fungus, while the Submerged Colossus emphasizes a true sense of loneliness: the observer is alone with him. 

Fig. 5

In this engraving, from the Second Modern Desert Age, by the anonymous historian and physician known as The Anonymous Historian and Physician of the Second Modern Desert Age, we see documentation of how the eyes of the Colossus were mined for old materials for use in weaponry in the Fourth War. When the seas around the Colossus receded yet again, this time leaving behind a rocky bed, it became a simple matter to access the Colossus. Clearly, the urgency of the Fourth War took priority over preserving what was left of the Colossus’ original state. Decorative parts of the Colossus which can be seen in previous depictions are missing here, likely also mined for old materials. 

However, the Colossus certainly survived the Fourth War, and still remains standing after the Seventh War, his expression scarcely altered by the loss of his eyes. Perhaps it would have even brought his creators some pleasure to know that the Colossus played a role in wars so long after their deaths. 

For the Colossus must depict a Soldier Emperor, some have cried— a man in the form of an unknown beast, prepared to pounce. Others have argued that the Colossus is at rest, that nothing about his posture indicates a thirst for battle. Indeed, the Colossus cannot even be said definitively to represent a man, though the rulers he is believed to possibly depict are largely men. 

We have seen the Colossus itself throughout time. But just who or what is the Colossus? The question has vexed scholars for nearly as long as the Colossus has stood. We call him “Garfield” because some ancient texts do, not because we have any idea who this “Garfield” was or what he meant to his people. 

Fig. 6

Another tremendous monument which still stands today is that of the Sphinx, sometimes informally referred to as the Garfield by scholars of the Colossus (though this is an error, as the Sphinx pre-dates the Colossus by at least a century). In Fig. 6, we see a tempera painting of the Sphinx in which its similarity to the Colossus is undeniable. Could the creators of the Colossus have been imitating the Sphinx? The Sphinx is believed to be a representation of a ruler as a mythological being or a God, and perhaps the Colossus is similar.

Fig. 7

But what if the Colossus is meant to represent an animal? The animal is unidentifiable, and likely to be mythological in nature, though it may be a stylized depiction of a living animal. Scholars have debated endlessly which animal the Colossus might depict, with recent arguments being made for the Colossus perhaps depicting a member of the same or a related species to the unidentified animal seen in Fig. 7, a “photograph” from the 20th or 21st century AD, when the art of photography flourished briefly before being lost and the famed photographer Leonardo da Vinci captured this image. 

Fig. 8

And if we turn to other ancient art? Believed to also be a portrait of “Garfield” (which is to say, the person or animal portrayed by the Colossus), dating from a similar timeframe as the Colossus, Fig. 8 is likely a funerary inscription. Here, the figure depicted is a sort of guardian, perhaps looking over the deceased. 

Fig. 9

Another piece of ancient art, Fig. 9 was created by an artist known only as “MarkVomit” and has been the subject of much debate. Is it meant to reaffirm Garfield’s power, to remind the viewer that they are not immune to his propaganda? Or is it meant to protest Garfield, to subvert and challenge the propaganda that this ruler must have utilized to maintain his rule? The answers are lost to history. 

Fig. 10

Fig. 11

Fig. 12

Other sculptures appearing to depict the same figure exist, though none on such a monumental scale as the Colossus. A frequent theme seems to be his ability to control time, as seen in Figures 10–12. Was this what inspired the creators of the Colossus to build him so enduringly? 

Fig. 14

One of the more outlandish theories regarding his nature is that the Colossus is meant to resemble a cat (see Fig. 14 for a hyperrealistic painting of a cat for reference) but this has largely been discredited by modern scholarship. If the Colossus is a feline, certainly his species is different— simply observe the difference in ear shape, eye shape, and gait. However, certain cats do carry a gravitas reminiscent of the Colossus, which brings the question again to mind— could the Colossus have been an ordinary domestic shorthair all along? 

The identity of Garfield, if there is a historical “Garfield,” remains a tantalizing mystery. Here we have such a tangible piece of history, and we are so unable to comprehend him! In another sense, though, perhaps the Colossus has taken on its own significance, and may represent something far beyond the man he once symbolized, the God he was built to honor, or the animal he commemorated. For who in our modern world has not gone to see the Colossus and found themselves moved? His place as the tenth wonder is well deserved. 

Perhaps new understandings will come to light regarding the nature of the Colossus, and perhaps not. Either way, he will remain until he is entirely unmade, his old materials bit by bit chipped away by the hands of humans and humidity fluctuations, the silent and sole guardian of his secret knowledge. 

In closing, let us visit two pieces of poetry composed about the Colossus of Garfield (the first of which only survives in this single fragment).