#like if it's easy for you then why are you standing up on your soapbox talking about what a good person you are because of it? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alister312 · 3 months ago

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Summary

His mutterings are little more than mindless white noise. The price Christophe pays for free healthcare, or perhaps the price Gregory pays for free labor.

•

Christophe returns from a job, injured, and Gregory is upset.

Read now on ao3 or below the cut!

“— can’t believe you. How does one even have this much blood in them, Christ alive—”

Another yank as Gregory pulls the bandages tighter, cursing at the way red continues to seep through to the outer layer. “A bloody Sisyphean nightmare is what you are, literally…”

He could go on and on, and he does, but his mutterings are little more than mindless white noise. The price Christophe pays for free healthcare, or perhaps the price Gregory pays for free labor.

Christophe runs his hand over the towels he’s sitting on. Cheap, scratchy things, swiped from motels, destined for getting bloodstained and burnt; Gregory’s too fond of the sheets to subject them to such a fate. Christophe’s suggested doing this in the kitchen instead for easy clean-up, but Gregory insists on the bedroom. More privacy, less chance of table scraps getting into his first aid kit. Not that there are scraps. It’s just always been the bedroom, back when it was the only place they knew as their own. This makes it sacred, ritual; Gregory loves to heap such significance on things that don’t have any.

While Gregory is preoccupied with one arm, Christophe’s other fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette and lighter. It’s one of the many one-handed skills he’s mastered. He’s quick at it, a practiced, fluid motion of retrieve and light but Gregory has always caught on quicker than Christophe can act.

“No, no, absolutely not!” He snatches it directly from Christophe’s lips and tosses it in a glass of water on the bedside table. “Christophe Germain DeLorne, how many times have I told you—”

“You know it helps with the pain,” Christophe spits.

“Of course, how could I forget, the pain,” Gregory laughs humorlessly. “What about the pain of lung cancer thirty years down the line? Or perhaps more like five years down the line for a chimney stack like you.”

“Fuck you Gregory, save your soapbox for the masses. And why the hell did you throw it in the water, what if I wanted to drink that?!”

“What, the tepid water that’s sat there undrunk for three days? You didn’t even put a coaster under it Christophe! If that wood is warped or stained I swear…”

“Pah, of course a pussy like you would care so much about his wood.”

“Excuse me for valuing my possessions and not wanting to see them destroyed by torpor.” It’s a word Christophe doesn’t recognize, which means Gregory wants the conversation over. Christophe shuts up but makes sure to squirm and pull away and glare through the rest of the inspection. Making Gregory’s job harder is hell on both of them but the thrill of petty delight Christophe feels watching the man’s prim facade twitch in annoyance is worth it.

•

“There.” Gregory stands and puts his hands on his hips with a sense of finality. Whether this is because he’s used up all the gauze on hand or because the blood now only seeps through in trickles, Christophe isn’t sure. He flexes, frustratingly familiar with the way it grips his skin.

“You’re going to want to keep pressure off that arm,” Gregory says, “and keep it clean.” Like Christophe isn’t intimately acquainted with wound care. Like he wasn’t spitting on scraped knees and ripping shirts to make tourniquets when he was eight years old. Not that Gregory would consider that proper treatment.

Gregory’s eyes follow him as Christophe stands, narrowing in confusion when he doesn’t go for the balcony. He’s broken ritual, casting aside his single chance to smoke.

“Tell me you’re joking,” moans Gregory as he sees what handle Christophe reaches for. He scrambles to his feet and lets out an indignant “Ugh!” when the taps turn on. “Christophe, that was the last of my supplies on hand! You cannot be getting it all wet and soggy!”

Christophe struggles to toe off his half unlaced boots. “You’re wet and soggy.”

“And you’re a child, apparently.”

“I’m just doing what you told me, bitch.” The boots come off, along with the socks, heels threadbare from how often he does this. “Keeping it clean.”

“You’re doing this to spite me,” Gregory hisses. “I know you are.”

“What, a man can’t come home from a day of digging and getting shot at and treat himself to a nice, hot bath? C’est tragique.”

“You hate baths!” That is true. Christophe doesn’t see the point in making a soup of himself, no matter how often Gregory insists it would melt away all the tension in his muscles. Mercenaries need that tension anyway. Gregory can don gloves before he gets dirty all he wants; Christophe loves the dirt beneath his fingernails, the grey grit he gets scraping sweaty hair out of his eyes.

Pants kicked off, he pulls his shirt over his head and Gregory’s scowl softens to a frown. He approaches slowly, fingers ghosting over a large bruise, purple and splotchy. Christophe turns away before he can flinch away instead.

“That’s new, isn’t it?” Underwear off. Tub nowhere near full yet but he sits anyway. “Christophe.”

“It’s fine.” Pain stabs as he shifts to grab the soap. “I’m fine.” Christophe must not be hiding his grimace well enough because Gregory sighs and takes the soap from his hands. Not like he fought him as soon as their hands touched. He’s fought enough for the day; Gregory understands.

•

The washcloth is nothing like the towels on the bed. It is gentle and thorough. The man who wields it insists on every nook and cranny, though he is careful to avoid the freshly bandaged area on Christophe’s arm. The bruise is also handled as delicately as a baby bird, patted softly. Dead skin and dirt cloud the water so Gregory insists on draining, then refilling.

“What’s that?” Christophe eyes the liquid pouring from a bottle in Gregory’s hands suspiciously.

“Lavender.” He caps the bottle. “It’s relaxing.”

“It’s bubble bath soap. Gregory you prissy little bitch, you are not about to make me take a fucking bubble bath.”

“It was a few drops! It’ll hardly make any bubbles.”

The top of the tub water looks like cappuccino foam and Christophe punishes Gregory’s lies with a foamy beard. Several beards, as Gregory keeps wiping them off when his hands aren’t preoccupied with scrubbing at Christophe’s disastrous mop of hair. It would be smart of him to cut it short, maybe even buzz it. He likes the way Gregory’s slender fingers feel running through it though as it gets cleaned, and the few days afterward when he doesn’t think it's an oily disaster. Gregory always smiles when he does it, which is an added bonus. Says it's nice to get it out of the way so he can see Christophe’s face.

Gregory takes him by the shoulders and lowers him into the water to rinse out the shampoo. Christophe’s certain he wasn’t handled with nearly this much care by whatever fuckhead priest baptized him. It was probably in a grand chapel, stained glass pouring in technicolor streams of light while his mother and godparents stood by in their Sunday best. Gregory is bathed in bathroom fluorescents and he’s rolled up his sleeves and pant legs but they’re soaked at the ends anyways. Stained, too, with Christophe’s blood from earlier.

“Shit. The bandage—”

“Shh. I’m sure I have more supplies lying around somewhere.”

•

He does. Of course he does. Gregory redresses the wound and presses a cold compress to the bruise, eliciting colorful language from Christophe in his native tongue. He doesn’t shy away though. He lays down carefully afterwards, shifting pressure to his good side; Gregory joins him. His fingers comb through Christophe’s hair and his eyes stare but they’re not scrutinizing, or even studying. It’s a lost in thought look, the slightest crease between his brows, lips parted a mere millimeter.

Christophe could be enraptured by it forever.

“Désolé,” he says instead.

The crease between Gregory’s brows deepens, curious, but he pairs it with a smile and his tone is nothing short of tender. “Whatever for?”

“Not putting a coaster down.”

Gregory tuts fondly, caressing Christophe’s cheek. He is forgiven.

As he always will be.

#its been 84 years dot jpeg #anyway. hi. im enjoying my time offline. come say hi to me at colossalcon east maybe we can be offline together 💕#south park #gregstophe #gregory of yardale #christophe delorne #sp gregory #sp christophe #sp ze mole #ze mole #sp fanfiction #hello dear tag readers <3 if i posted my ocs for a pilot script im working on would people be cool with that or what… u can decide :3

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ishouldgetatumbler · 1 year ago

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"I'm going to be somewhat less strict than many of your teachers here. I am purely invested in your education, which means trying to meet you halfway. So if you have to go to the bathroom, get a drink, stretch your legs, whatever, just get up and go. Just come back okay? Passing this class will be very easy as long as you are in class for most of it."

And that was all the eye contact Danny could stand before his hand started to doodle and his eyes made a break for the page. He wrote the date on instinct; then stared at it. He erased the day, then paused. He erased the month, then wrote the correct date.

"Now for grading, exams are not as big of a deal on my class. Exams are about five percent of your grade. In addition homework isn't really... feasible? So don't worry about that. What will make a big chunk of grade is classwork, which is mostly answering when called on, raising your hand, asking questions, and showing up. Really just showing up and showing me all your lovely beautiful faces should be enough in my book, but for the stiffs upstairs you know-"

The teacher stopped, like they were expecting the class to laugh. It was silent. Danny was just drawing lines. Long, zagging, looping trailing lines. The teacher recovered swiftly.

"Chatty bunch. Well I guess that's fair, its first day jitters and all, and I am making it sound like this class is breeze, so what's the catch right? Most of your grade is tied up in what we're supposed to call 'labs' but I prefer to call it 'live practice.' I don't want you to get too worried about results, it's alot more about 'mucking in' as they say. Just show me you're making an effort and improving because, hey, we're all learning right?"

Squiggling lines has lost its therapeutic effect. Danny moved on to drawing his instructor farting while being struck by lightning, exclaiming "YOWCH!" His personal explanation was that they stank so much god saw fit to punish them.

"I know this class gets a bad reputation, and heck the entire business, especially in America, for those of you from there, but all I'm looking for is participation. And hey, guys, eyes here? I'm gonna get up on my soapbox here."

Danny looked up from his half completed drawing of himself as a demon-cat hybrid. He made eye contact with the glaring intensity of the instructor.

"Torture is important okay? You may not use it in your day to day life, but it teaches you important ways of thinking, and 'enhanced interrogation' as we're supposed to call it DOES work, but it's not a science and its not shopping for yoga pants. You can't repeat the same test on a different subject and get the same results, and its not one size fits all."

That was all Danny could take before his lunch made a run for it and he curled over his desk and covered his mouth with a clammy hand. His swirling, sloshing lines made his nausea only worse. Somehow he'd forgotten Vlad picked the school. The teacher on his paper exclaimed "YOWCH!"

"Teacher?"

"Yes, Mr...?"

"Wayne-Al Ghul"

Shoes tak-tak'ed on the floor as the instructor stepped back to the desk at the front of the room, and scrawled a check on the attendance.

"Yes Damian?" They asked finally.

"May I be excused on the basis of experience? I feel this introductory course has nothing to teach me." Damian said promptly and matter-of-factually.

The teacher sharply exhaled in amusement, then said "Well, like I said before, I believe we're all learning. Every year I teach this class I learn something new. Heck I have learned more teaching than I ever did in the business. Really, it's about approach. Everyone can learn something from someone else's approach, and even if it isn't mine or one of the ones I teach you, I am certain you can learn something from your classmates."

Danny was finally starting to figure out why he was so damn nauseous. The words were disgusting of course, but hearing yourself talked about like veal to be dissected and portioned guilt up an immunity to that. No, this was something more.

Ghosts are more like an ecosystem than a living thing. When you die, all your thoughts get split up up into a million different mini ghosts. When someone has all of their thoughts and emotions tied into one thing, they stay somewhat as they were after death, but most people break up. Those break ups leave some small amount of stragglers, who can't or haven't yet made it to the ghost zone.

The room was covered in little ghosts. Caked in them, floor to ceiling like the whole room is painted in a thin, semi-transparent sheen of death. He hadn't even noticed. He just assumed the paint was discolored.

"Ah, yes, you have a question Mr...?"

"Fowl."

"Ah, Artemis, I see you on my attendance sheet. Isn't that-"

"A girls name, yes. Why are we being taught to torture?" The small pale boy asked.

Internally, the nausea abated slightly: finally someone was asking sane questions. His rendition of himself as a demon cat smiled at him from the page.

"It's like having a lesson on how to smash a computer screen. Or a demonstration on how to burn fine art. Why use such wasteful destruction when a fine eye for detail will suss the computer's password, or the painting's secret?"

The teacher sighed before replying "because sometimes art is dangerous, and sometime you need to smash a computer. Assuming you already have all the tools to solve every problem in your future will do you no good."

Artemis snorted but did not offer a reply.

"Right. Do we have any questions that are not 'why do I have to take this stupid class?'"

The room was silent and coated in thin, viscous death.

"Great, I'm going to be passing out your packets, these will contain some practice quizzes and any of the reading for this semester. You'll get another packet in the winter and spring."

The teacher laid a thick stack of stapled papers on Danny's desk, then paused. Danny looked up in terror into their slightly excited face, as the hand on his desk pushed the packet out of the way and pulled out Danny's paper.

They nodded appropriately at the contents of the paper, then held it up for the class.

"See this?" they said, pointing to the drawing of themself being hit by lightning and flatulence, "even something like this indicates to me that you are invested, that you're paying attention and that you're thinking about what I'm saying."

"Is that a demon cat?" someone blurted out.

And that was all it took, the bottom fell out of Danny's stomach and he hurled.

#danny phantom #artemis fowl #damien wayne #dead serious #Dead Serious Dove #thats my ship name for them idk

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playingd34d · 5 months ago

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Fine, since this dumpster fire of self-righteous liberal dumbfuckery came across my feed just now, I’ll express how I feel about the voting thing.

SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO FUCK YOURSELF.

You typed out this long horseshit post shaming people for refusing to hand more power to a genocidal shitbag and instead of asking yourself why that is you stand on your soapbox and profess how in love with the system that allows this kind of dogshit “lesser of two evils” scenario you are.

YOU CANNOT REFORM THE SYSTEM. YOU ESPECIALLY CANNOT REFORM THE SYSTEM BY WORKING WITHIN THE SYSTEM.

You’re so afraid of radical community action that you’d rather sit comfortably from your desk and screech about voting for the genocidal racist tough on crime geritocracy than talk to a single fucking radqueer or protester. You’ve probably never heard of a fucking zine and you’ve likely never attended a community action. I can say this confidently because no one who has would browbeat the people like you do.

You’re a piece of shit collaborator and I’m calling you out as such @tirsynni . If you want to continue to be a part of the problem by participating in comfortable blue no matter who complicity, go right the fuck ahead. But if you’re gonna shit on radical movements and ignore the history of change and upheaval brought about by those radical movements then you choose to make yourself a target for my ire.

People like you love to claim that scary radical action leaves people behind. That it further a divide and it doesn’t account for disabled comrades who can’t attend protests or fight cops. When you say shit like this it shows just how ignorant you are to radical community action. Every comrade has their place within radical spaces. You’d know that if you fucking bothered getting to know any radical people.

But no, instead you choose the side of the oppressor, and make your comfortable, easy decisions at the ballot box and dust your hands off, content that you’ve done your part. And again I wouldn’t take issue with that if you had simply cast your vote and not run your dumbass mouth about anyone who doesn’t agree with your rose colored vision of what is and isn’t the right way to affect change.

Block me, report me, ignore me, respond to me, I don’t care and I won’t read it if you do. You have nothing of value to offer me other than more liberal class traitor browbeating. Go fuck your self and I hope you have a horrible day.

I'm already seeing it: everyone complaining that Trump is going to win. Why? Because people are frustrated with Biden. So their response is... what? To passively let Trump win? Are you kidding me right now?

If Trump wins, I don't want anyone blaming Biden. Not a single person. Everyone has already made their position clear and have also made it very clear that they understand the consequences of those actions. Just instead of accepting blame, they're blaming Biden. For their own choices. For their own actions.

No. You need to be an adult to vote. Now prove you're an adult and that you can take responsibility for your own actions.

No matter how pissed you are at Biden, you need to recognize that non-Trumpers outnumber the Trumpers and it doesn't mean shit if non-Trumpers don't vote. Guess what. Trumpers are going to vote. They're going to go to the polls and they're going to vote. If they vote and you don't, guess how it's going to go, even if non-Trumpers outnumber Trumpers. Doesn't mean shit if your vote doesn't reflect that.

What do you think is going to happen with Palestine if Trump wins? If you're pissed about Biden's actions and inactions regarding Israel and Palestine, how are you going to feel about Trump? Because I promise, if you choose not to vote for Biden, you are voting for Trump, and he will be worse.

There is no third party option which is going to win against Trump. Your symbolic non-vote is a vote for Trump. If you don't vote for Biden, you are fucking voting for Trump, so I hope you're ready for that.

"But Biden --" I don't give a fuck. Be an adult. Accept that sometimes in life, you have to accept the lesser evil. There is no room for you to go "Well, I have to do what feels right." NO. That is self-serving, self-indulgent, selfish bullshit. You are helping no one but your own feelings. You will pat yourself on your back with one hand and stab your neighbor in their back with the other.

If you are really concerned about Palestine, vote for Biden, because I promise, he's still better than Trump. Vote in all elections, because they all matter and Trumpers are voting in all of them. Make phone calls. Raise hell. Sign petitions. Do whatever else you can. I fucking promise you, though, that for any of that to count, you need Biden in the office, not Trump.

Again, I don't give a flying fuck if you hate Biden. I sincerely don't. The US presidential election will be two party. Should it be? No. Doesn't matter. That's reality. The US presidential election will be two party: Biden vs Trump. We need to be adults, and we need to recognize what we're dealing with. I will say it again and again and again: any vote which isn't Biden will be a vote for Trump. Don't think to yourself, "I don't want to show the Democrats they have my support with all of this bullshit, so I'm going to not vote/vote third party/symbolically write something in." Be truthful with yourself. Be realistic. If you are pissed at Biden and decide that you aren't going to vote for him, say clearly to yourself, "I'm voting for Trump and all that entails."

If you really think that way, please let me know so I can block your selfish ass. Make sure to tell your neighbors that you're cool with fucking them over, because you need to do what feels right, and that means letting Trump back into office. If you want to brag about your integrity, then at least have the integrity to at least be that truthful with everyone.

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custompackagingblogsau · 10 months ago

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Taking a Lighthearted Look at the World of Public Platforms while Standing Tall atop Soap Boxes

The soap box is a little but powerful prop that has been used in many speeches, tirades, and impassioned pronouncements in the context of daily life. This simple wooden platform may not be as elegant as a podium, but for people with a lot to say and a small audience, it has shown to be a reliable ally when it comes to self-expression.

The Soap Box's Ascent

Once upon a time, in the busy streets of bygone days, custom soap boxes served a purpose beyond just holding detergent; they were a pass to the tradition known as soapbox oratory, which provided a voice to anybody with an opinion and a strong set of vocal chords. Imagine the following scene: a busy marketplace with people bargaining over prices, and in the middle of it all, someone perched on a soap boxes Brisbane, ready to share their opinions like a hyperbolic pint-pourer.

Dishes to Conversations

Have you ever pondered why these spontaneous monologues started to happen on Soap boxes Canberra? As it happens, these wooden marvels were the hidden heroes of the grocery store—sturdy, easily accessible, and great for promoting not only the benefits of soap but also the vocal prowess of the average person.

Thus, bear in mind that the next time you're doing the dishes and contemplating that empty soap boxes Hobart, you're cradling a possible platform for your very own stand-up performance, not simply a piece of packaging.

The Soap Box Speech: An Art Form

Writing a speech for a soap box is an art form in and of itself. A certain amount of humor, passion, and verbosity must be balanced in order to keep the listener interested. Similar to a verbal tap dance, the artist must watch out for stepping on audience members' toes and hope they don't hurl tomatoes.

Imagine it like a TED Talk, only on a more accessible and affordable platform, and with a greater likelihood of running into a pigeon audience criticism.

Soap Boxes in the Modern Era

In today's digital age, where everyone has a smartphone and a platform to voice their opinions, the physical soap box Melbourne might seem like a relic of the past. However, don't be too quick to dismiss its charm. The virtual soap box is alive and well, with social media platforms serving as the new-age equivalent.

Scroll through your Twitter feed, and you'll find virtual soap boxes Adelaide aplenty, where people passionately discuss everything from the meaning of life to the proper way to eat a taco. Who knew 280 characters could hold so much wisdom (or chaos)?

Soap Box Chronicles: Tales from the Streets

Let's take a moment to appreciate the unsung heroes who elevated the soap box from a mere packaging accessory to a symbol of free speech. In the annals of soap box history, there are legends of impassioned rants, heartfelt declarations, and, of course, a fair share of comedic blunders.

Imagine a passionate speaker making a grand point, only to have their soap box collapse beneath them, turning their eloquent speech into an unintentional pratfall.

Soap Boxes Come Together: The Social Aspect

The power of the soap box to unite communities as well as elevate a single voice is what makes it so beautiful. Street corners became impromptu debate clubs, and soap box speakers were the unsolicited philosophers of the people.

It's like a town hall meeting, but with less bureaucracy and more chance of someone selling artisanal honey on the side.

DIY Soap Box: Crafting Your Soapbox Legacy

Feeling inspired to join the ranks of soap box orators? Fear not, for crafting your very own soap box is as easy as convincing your cat to take a bath (and we all know how simple that is).

Step 1: Acquire a Box

Find a sturdy box – preferably one that held something interesting, like a shipment of exotic fruits or a collection of rubber duckies. Keep in mind that the box already tells a tale before you do.

Step 2: Reinforce the Structure

No one wants a soap box collapse mid-sentence. Reinforce the corners with tape or, if you're feeling particularly handy, duct tape. Because nothing says "I'm serious about my opinions" like the universal fix-all.

Step 3: Add Personality

This is your soap box, not just a soap box. Decorate it with stickers, paint, or glitter – whatever screams "you." After all, if you're going to stand on a soap box, you might as well do it in style.

The Soap Box Legacy Continues

As we bask in the glory of the soap box legacy, let's appreciate the simplicity of this unassuming stage. These platforms—from the virtual soap boxes Perth of today to the streets of the past—remain a monument to the human desire for connection, expression, and the odd laugh.

So, the next time you find yourself on a verbal tangent about the merits of pineapple on pizza or the proper way to fold socks, just remember – you're not alone. You're simply carrying on the time-honored tradition of standing tall on a soap box, making the world laugh, think, and maybe reconsider their sock-folding technique.

#custom soap boxes #soap boxes Austrailia #Soap boxes Hobart #Printed soap boxes #Wholesale Soap boxes

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diatribeofamadman · 2 years ago

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I chose to be greedy today, so don't get upset thinking I'm spouting hatred towards others, I always hate myself the most. A sad truth considering I was recently shown by someone that you can't love anyone if you don't love yourself... I argue that you're delusional if you just love yourself. A healthy self-aware human being will like and dislike or love and hate things about themselves. Too much self-love and your narcissistic, too little and your chronicly depressed. It's all about starting on square one. And for me that means myself and my country (America). As much as any American wants to stand on a soapbox and spout self-righteous nonsense to another nation, we need to get real with ourselves, I'm pretty sure we should just shut up. We live in the most corrupt nation in the world. Our leaders have implemented revolution, riots, murders, mass murders, genocide, you name it we paid for it or encouraged it. As far as God is concerned we've got to be some of the worst people ever. Even those of you that have never committed a sin against another person but dwell inside the belly of the beast blissfully in your ignorance.

So instead of ranting about geopolitics or other nations neglecting their people, I'll rant about us neglecting our own responsibilities and duties as a nation to ourselves and our fellow citizens. And a bit about the systems we've established that separate, divide, and destroy us as a people and a nation.

First issue is that we have a non-multigenerational education process. We have segregated our people based off of their ages, creating a lack of transparency through the generations, allowing generations to operate in a fictitious and dare I say it delusional manner. Often times, this delusional generation makes choices that neglect all other generations. I'm looking at you boomers (greedy), millennials (selfish and greedy), and Gen xers (each guilty in their own way and yet also victims of a system designed to destroy them)....

Let's explore the idea of how limiting multigenerational interaction allows the evil overlords to limit individuals conscious awareness and ability to learn and grow. For instance, by separating a group of 6-year-olds and presenting them with a scenario they have to think through, they will be subject to the information they have available between them (if they're allowed to communicate). This means the group is as smart as the smartest 6-year-old. Obviously they are in a classroom where they are given the guidance of a teacher. Whereas, if you were to provide them with older children or even adults, they would inquire and trust in the information that they received from the older human beings. Prior to the internet information was so easy to corrupt because it relied on a person-to-person transfer (telephone game). And that's why written information became so valuable because it could be transcribed from the origin of the information and maintain its original format. Although we also see written word can be corrupted through revisions clearly visible in the modern Christian Bible, a 17th century revision which has become a standard. So we see written word was also fallible. Just as digital information will become fallible if you are not able to get it from a peer-reviewed source such as Wikipedia.

I feel like I'm going to get lost justifying my multi-generational classrooms or educational institutions, and not cover anything regarding student analysis and specified educational tracks. Let me start off with fuck "no child left behind", every kid is not the same, and teaching a child that because they excel in a physical trade or lacks the intellectual capacity to become a doctor or a lawyer is they need to try harder to fit that criteria is bullshit. There are many private educational institutes that understand the concept of analyzing a child and then facilitating that child's strengths and passions so that they might find success and happiness doing something they love or are good at. Why we can't adopt such a crucial method of education and social placement for children is ridiculous. We don't have to have kids killing themselves because they didn't score well like Japan, but we also don't need a bunch of drunk morons in business school. And we need people to remember the value of all the physical work that has to happen every day for all of the things people love to have to be available. As much as I want to keep preaching education, fuck you, it's my rant, I'm going into economic and inequality. Specifically regarding wage gaps. Until we fix our economy regarding its structure and the pay scale disparagey between a person that works everyday and a person that already has money to work with everyday, we're never going to be able to deal with our issue regarding education.

Realizing that where we've really failed in education is removing home economics, all shop classes (if not gone, on the way out at least in urban schools), and not incorporating agriculture, nutrition, and personal finance into the 12-year education program, might help us understand that we can incorporate those into an education system that is based on reality in regards to helping place children in jobs where they won't be miserable instead of feeding them pipe dreams or our own failed dreams as parents. Every kid should be taught they can be an astronaut or a president or Oprah Winfrey, they should also never have the understanding that they can achieve greatness affect their ability to operate as a normal human being. One of the greatest issues facing the young generation now is there attachment to their devices and their inability to utilize them for any good. It's all orgasms and laughing.... I deeply apologized to every person that fits the demographic I briefly disclosed and ridiculed if you're not a scum-sucking piece of shit and you're trying your best. No matter what it is, I'd be in the group of you that would read this and then feel guilty and be mad at me. Fuck you. Stop being a snowflake. If you working your ass off and when I said offends you good. I like you. Work harder. Fuck your generation. Fuck my generation. All the pieces are on the board. Everyone's playing. So it's going to take all of us coming together if anything's going to change. Bye-bye now

Let's get real guys The problem is huge and it gets bigger and bigger and bigger the more you look at it. I'm pretty sure there's some physicists that get off on that. But when it's regarding how to structure human existence in a way that could limit suffering for all beings and maximize positive life experience and positive organic existence for the biosphere we live in, it's frustratingly increasing in scale and complexity. It's very frustrating that societal, political, religious beliefs and ideologies have created a reality that seems overwhelmingly complicated.

#charity #hope #philanthropy #revolution #science #technology #hate you #hate everything

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makeste · 3 years ago

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BnHA Chapter 325: Deku VS the Outside of U.A. ~Conclusion~

Previously on BnHA: Ochako was all “dear bloodthirsty mob, this kid you see standing before you has fought harder than anyone and put his life on the line to protect you all, so please chill the fuck out, jesus christ. like, putting aside that he’s humanity’s best hope and so it’s very much in your best interests to let him rest and recover someplace safe so that he can keep fighting for us, are y’all seriously going to turn away an injured and exhausted child in front of his sobbing mother?? seriously?? come on now.” I’m paraphrasing here but that’s basically how it went down. Anyway so then the mob was all, “...” and Deku collapsed to his knees in tears, and Gigantic Fox Lady and Kouta ran over to give him a hug but then the chapter ended.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi is all “FINE, YOU CAN HUG HIM”, which, was that so hard?? The U.A. Clown Mob is all “come to think of it, we’ve kind of been taking the heroes for granted this entire time, maybe we should be less passive in the future. anyway so Deku if it’s not too much to ask, can you please save everyone and fix everything.” Deku is all “I sure can, and by the way I forgive you for swarming around all menacingly two minutes ago and trying to deny me basic shelter and stuff.” Ectoplasm is all, “hey Todogang get a load of this. [walks in a circle].” Hawks is all, “that’s literally the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.” Rat Principal is all, “anyway so that’s what your students did today, hope you’re enjoying your new *~*ROBOT LEG*~*, Aizawa.” Aizawa is all “[lots of exposition about Kurogiri and for some reason, Toga, while being all brooding and sexy].” All Might is all “[standing here right outside of U.A. doing absolutely nothing and being foreboding AF]” and that immediately sucked away all of the warm fuzzy feelings from the hugs, goddammit.

each new week has become a waiting game of “when will Deku finally get to take a bath so people will actually be willing to go near him and give him the hugs he deserves.” the stakes have never been so compelling. I’ve almost forgotten about AFO entirely

lmaoooooo

me: for the love of god will someone please give Deku a hug before I die of old age

Mineta: YOU GOT IT!! --

Iida: [SWIFTLY CUTS HIM OFF] NOT YOU

fucking losing it at Mineta’s crying face. he really wanted to hug him. I legit feel bad but this is also the funniest thing I have seen all week, omg

somehow Kouta, who last week was only a hand’s breadth away from touching Deku’s head, is now twenty miles away from him in this new chapter

can I make a Loki reference here. is this recap a good place to insert a joke about someone using a TVA time-rewinding device to fuck with my poor boy Kouta over here. well anyway there it is

AND NOW HE’S BACK ALL OF A SUDDEN OMG

(ETA: since when is he “niichan” omg?? can’t handle this cuteness.)

BUT THEY’RE STILL NOT HUGGING HIM FFFFKFFFFF. WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO. WHO DO I HAVE TO BRIBE AND/OR BLACKMAIL

OH NO KOUTA IS CRYING THAT’S IT I’M DONE FOR

“when I heard that lady I knew that I had to go, but then stop again within inches of actually touching you because you smell like week-old rotten onions.” listen Kouta, I’m not saying I don’t get it, but you all can’t keep doing this to me. it’s the way you guys keep teasing it. like, if you’re gonna hug him, hug him. don’t just stand there with your arms held rigidly out in front of you like a molded action figure

OH MY GOSH BUT HE SAID THE THING

KOUTA SWOOPING IN AT THE LAST MINUTE TO TAKE ALL THE CREDIT FOR FIXING DEKU LIKE THAT ONE KID IN THE GROUP PROJECT WHO DOES ABSOLUTELY NOTHING BUT STILL TAGS HIS NAME ONTO THE REPORT ANYWAY, WHAT A KNAVE

GASP

( ´͈ ᗨ `͈ )

SHE PICKED HIM UP LIKE A LITTLE BABY OMG?? she just leaned right over and lifted this child like he was a small animal. like a lil baby futon that she was about to hang up to dry. oh my god

-- HEY WHAT

(: well that’s extremely fucked up. though sadly not too surprising given what we just saw these past couple chapters

incidentally, I hope that anyone who was legitimately defending the civilians’ perspective earlier takes note here of how quickly that line of thinking -- “we’re just trying to keep our families safe” and all that-- can lead to straight up bigotry. if you’re willing to deny a child shelter and protection simply because he’s not YOUR child, and because you’ve decided based on Internet rumors (no real-world parallels there, I’m sure) that he might present a threat, it’s really not that much further of a leap to discriminating against entire groups of people simply because you perceive those groups as being dangerous. I’m sure the people who turned Gigantic Fox Lady away also told themselves afterwards that they did it to protect their families. “better safe than sorry.” “she’ll be fine, someone will take her in, but as for us, we can’t afford to take that risk.” people can come up with all kinds of justifications for treating other people as less than human, and the really scary thing about it is how fucking easy it is

one last quick side note, which is that Horikoshi does a great job here of showing how scapegoating works, given that AFO is the one who’s really to blame and who presents the actual threat, and yet Deku is the one who ultimately winds up being the target of the mob’s fear and outrage despite him being as much of a victim as they are. gotta love that irony, which unfortunately plays out far too often in the real world as well.

anyway I’ll get off my soapbox now, sorry about that. let us continue

YES, FINALLY OH MY GOD!!!!

AND THAT’S THE STORY OF HOW GIGANTIC FOX LADY BECAME THE GREATEST HERO. PACK IT ALL UP, WE’RE DONE HERE KIDS

holy shit. the real MVP right there. thanks for getting it done champ

jesus christ I have had it up to here with these people

literally the bar is set so low at this point that I’ll go ahead and take it. helping him because it offers them a tactical advantage is at least one step up from not helping him at all

“WHY NOT SHIKETSU” MOTHERFUCKER I SWEAR TO GOD

-- thank you!!

okay this one guy with the antennae hair is having himself a character development speedrun here

-- okay, but this part?? fucking this part, right here??

can we repeat that again?? the part where this guy acknowledges that the problems of hero society were caused not just by said heroes, but also by said society?? the part where he acknowledges that they treated the heroes like celebrities who were putting on a show for them?? the part where he acknowledges that when push came to shove, the vast majority of those heroes, when faced with a situation that offered no reward, were nonetheless willing to put their lives on the line to protect the very same people who then turned around and blamed them rather than thanking them?? are the civilians of BnHA even allowed to have actual deep thoughts about this stuff. holy shit

bro!!

ANTENNAE HAIR GUY SHOVING KOUTA AND GIGANTIC FOX LADY OUT OF THE WAY TO SLAP HIS NAME ONTO THE END CREDITS AS EXECUTIVE PRODUCER. CONGRATULATIONS SON YOU FIGURED OUT THE CORE PHILOSOPHICAL QUESTION AT THE VERY HEART OF THE MANGA. WAY TO GO BUD

meanwhile, on today’s episode of “one more chapter to go till the big volume cliffhanger, how else can I drag things out let’s see”

it’s a panel. of people’s feet. just a bunch of normal feet. with sneakers and shit

this All Might shirt guy is getting more screentime in this arc than 90% of the class 1-A kids

I guess I’m supposed to feel sorry for this dude now that he’s all “if we let you stay here do you promise to somehow magically fix every single problem that we are now currently facing?” those are some ridiculously exacting standards my dude. come on now

KACCHAN SIGHTING

thank fuck I’m not the only one who’s thoroughly unimpressed by absolutely all of this lol. I feel better now. meanwhile Iida and Kouda and Kiri are ready to run over there and hug them all. you guys are way too forgiving. damn you and your pure hearts

anyway so Deku’s like “yeah, definitely”

(ETA: almost forgot to comment on the “I’m no longer alone” part – he basically corrects the guy and says “sorry, but you’ll need to direct that question towards all of us, not just me, because moving forward we’re a team.” good stuff.)

you know what though, all joking aside... fuck yeah. because perfect victory, right. the strongest guys don’t settle for anything less. so I guess Deku has pretty exacting standards himself

also can you all just take a look at this fucking kid who’s got so much light in his eyes now that I’m gonna need eclipse goggles. hot damn. “you’re welcome” says All Might Shirt Guy as he is frantically interviewed by several local news networks asking him how he daringly managed to save Deku all by himself. “well I guess I’ve just never been the kind of guy who can sit back and let a bunch of rabble-rousers blame a little kid for all of humanity’s problems. someone had to step in and take action, you know?”

oH MY GOD THE SCENE IS FINALLY ENDING

don’t let the door hit you on your way out All Might Shirt Guy

but meanwhile, sudden Tododrama action??

oh shit

there are honestly so many ways in which Ochako’s very moving speech could have wildly backfired that I genuinely have no clue where this is headed lol. how exciting!!

so now Horikoshi is once again stalling for time with random filler panels, but this one is 10x better than the shoes lol omg

(1) was Ectoplasm’s jacket always this oversized. (2) did you guys know that if you go back to chapter 319 you can see that Horikoshi gave us a sneak peak at Enji’s Sad Detective disguise and I in fact made a joke about it in the 319 recap not realizing it was actually the stone cold truth. (3) did Shouto deliberately speed up out of impatience because Hawks was walking so fucking slow and he couldn’t take it any longer. (4) and what, I ask you, is up with these dramatic speedlines. so many mysteries here. what a masterpiece

everyone is acting all shocked about something ahh what’s going on

wait what

what the heck. did they just loop around behind everyone. what was the point of that lol. “anyway, so this is what they look like from the back” well okay, thanks for that Ectoplasm

(ETA: so it seems like they were actually hanging out someplace else away from the crowd this whole time, I guess? here I thought they had more faith in Enji’s disguise. I guess Shouto and Hawks don’t particularly want to attract this crowd’s attention themselves right now either, though.)

I am so fucking confused lmao

speaking of All Might WHERE THE FUCK IS HE lol. but yes, good, OFA brings everyone together, and Hawks is very deeply moved about this out of the blue all of a sudden. you know how it is

aw heck yeah now this is another filler panel I can get behind

Mineta really wants that hug, good lord. I genuinely love this actually. Mineta if you could just stay little and cute and keep crying about how much you love your classmates in a non-gross way for the rest of the series I would be so appreciative. you’re doing great

IIDA IS HOLDING DEKU’S HAND THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ONE TIME WASN’T ENOUGH FOR MY MAN HE’S ADDICTED NOW

what did I tell you. Kiri wants to get all of the mob’s autographs now. Kiri you’re a peach

Shouji having a conversation with another mutant type is a very nice touch! we really need to get to his backstory soon. I feel like that casual remark from GFL earlier was kind of hinting at more to come

is this the first time we’ve ever seen the Yaoyorictionary in action?? never forget that Viz tried to call it the “Yaoyorozu Reference Book” because they hate fun

last but not least, KAMIBAKU IS BACK ON THE MENU, FUCK YEAH. Kaminari trying to spice things up and introduce a little bit of controversy by smacking Kacchan on the back of the head for god knows what. I will be deeply disappointed after this if I can’t find at least one person unironically declaring that KamiBaku is now toxic and abusive

lfkdlWLWK TODODRAMA??

oh my god. Shouto’s face. Enji’s face. the back to “oyaji” again. the blunt, not-taking-no-for-an-answer, “I don’t know how much louder the universe can scream at you that doing things alone is not it, so hopefully you got the point” directness of it. fffdlkslj I’m so ready for this Horikoshi please don’t fuck it up my expectations are so high

HOLY FUCK

I SCROLLED DOWN AND HE WAS ALL “( ❛‿❛)” AND I JUST WASN’T FUCKING EXPECTING THAT OKAY. JESUS CHRIST. GIVE ME A SEC

lol okay moment over and now Enji’s pulling his hat down all dramatically like a world-weary Cowboy

OH MY GOD WERE YOU FACETIMING??

AHHHHHHHHH

(ETA: not to put Iida down or anything, but it’s kind of strange that Aizawa is all “the class rep sure did great” when Ochako is the one that was giving that whole big speech for like twenty minutes just now lol.)

(ETA 2: “thank god Iida stepped in just in the nick of time to keep Mineta from hugging Deku.” sorry Mineta I really do like you lately but it’s still low-hanging fruit lol.)

HE LOOKS SO SAD??! HE LOOKS LIKE HEARTBREAK ITSELF??! I AM BESOUGHT WITH THE URGE TO REACH INTO MY SCREEN AND PULL HIM INTO THE SAFETY OF MY ARMS??? MY GOD, AND I THOUGHT DEKU NEEDED HUGS

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH okay I was gonna just hold down the letter H for a full minute and count it out loud but within about ten seconds I realized I needed to chill lol

-- but then again NO, I DON’T NEED TO CHILL, I HAVE ZERO CHILL, ACTUALLY, BECAUSE IT’S AIZAWA WITH A ROBOT LEG AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

COMPLETE WITH ROBOT TOES FOR THAT EXTRA TOUCH OF AUTHENTICITY!! I LIKE HOW HORIKOSHI PUT ALL THIS EXTRA “!!!” EMPHASIS AROUND IT IN CASE WE COULD SOMEHOW POSSIBLY FAIL TO TAKE NOTICE. “REMEMBER, EVERYONE?” SAYS HORIKOSHI HELPFULLY. “REMEMBER THAT TIME AIZAWA CHOPPED OFF HIS OWN LEG?” oh wow now that you mention it we somehow forgot all about that. like who do you take us for

OH NO NOT THE SAD BOYFRIEND ANGST THAT I WAS SECRETLY LOOKING FORWARD TO WITH GLEE

well at least he’s not M.I.A. or back with the villains again like I thought he might be. still, that’s gotta be brutal to know your friend is in there somewhere, but to not be able to reach him again no matter how hard you try. that’s the kind of angst that pays off in final battles just when you most expect it. such is my hope, at any rate

what’s this now??

trying to decide if this is Horikoshi’s way of saying don’t worry about that, or his way of saying definitely worry about that lol

anyway so Aizawa is out here being all irresponsibly handsome once again. when is someone going to do something about him

here for Sexy Robot Leg Eyepatch Aizawa clenching his fists and making speeches about revenge. pretty sure we’re all here for that

WELL, WELL, WELL

IT’S ABOUT FUCKING TIME

I’M VERY GLAD YOU’RE ALIVE AND SEEMINGLY WELL, THOUGH!

BUT WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK THOUGH, ALL MIGHT

ffff. bracing myself for that cliffhanger next week. you’d better not touch one hair on this man’s head Horikoshi. I’m watching you

#bnha 325 #midoriya izuku #u.a. clown mob #class 1-a #aizawa shouta #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha

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kyle1 · 2 years ago

Text

Why revere the demons as much, when your angels are more deserving of your gratitude since they're usually the ones looking out for you when the demons are actually tripping you up so you fall back down onto their level. They are such lonely little imps, after all...

Otherwise. Yeppa. 100% been there a time or two more than I care to mention..

I've learned to quiet my emotions for this exact reason at times, as necessary, but I put far more stock into trusting the things my feelings reveal to me. I trust those little meandering impulses and cognizant jogs of baseline emotional input..

Because- like a seismograph, still and sacrosanct in its sensitivities, -much can be learned just by paying close enough attentions to the slightest and nearly undetectable wavelengths and errant frequencies of one's feelings as they are made to interact and resonate, sympathize, or diffuse in the presence of myriad other hertz and environmental waves..

Much like understanding ones feelings and the various instinctual or other subconscious behavioral frequencies of the soul.. there is much power and understanding to be gained through truly feeling your way through life.

It's not easy and it certainly isn't glamorous in this modern excuse for a 'civilization' , but we do our best.

Your demons will never earn the respect you think they deserve, and your hope is likely misplaced, allowing them to keep you locked in viscious cycles that keep you in their orbits..

Respect for their power and influence where it is due, else one might risk underestimating the devil himself when he claims to be the savior..

A trite probability indeed..

So I'm just musing over this post. And clearly I had much to say even if what I said is itself an erroneous waste of my own time spent soapboxing to appease my own demons before I sleep... not that I care to, but some nights are just like that naturally.

Suffice it to say, however- I would never extend even the slightest shred of leniency, hope, or genuine respect towards my demons even if I understand what 'they' seek to accomplish through me..

They exist only as a baseline cautionary tale of all the things and phases of the self I actively strive to avoid, if nothing else but to rally my angels to likewise stand by my side in the fight to live above them..

Hmm.. rambling now.. but I think I've hit all my points.

Good post all the same. Look how much it got me talking! ..and I'm tryna go to sleep rn too >.>

It always blows my mind how people make time for what they find important and how loud that can speak without words ever being spoken.

How much time does it take you to scroll through a page of a follower?

How much time does it take to re-blog and maybe write a few extra words as a caption when it truly speaks to you?

How much does a person truly mean to you?

Are you hiding from yourself or giving into the emotions derived from a past and an ideal that is presented by spirits that live online?

I have learned to part ways with my emotions. I learned to live with the demons in my soul because they are the only runs I can trust to love in my darkest of hours and NEVER LEAVE ME ALONE.

I have become Accepting of my Past. Engaged in my Present. Faithful in my Future.

It has taken me years to love me for who I am and share that with those I feel are most worthy.

I cherish myself first and allow others to adjust to my madness within my head.

I had to learn to love my demons within.

I hope for them to only be respected and loved for who they

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rosy-cheekx · 4 years ago

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from the dialogue prompts! 6: “go away” “no, not until i know you’re okay”

Oh boy this one was hard to write for whatever reason, but she’s done! just in time for us to pretend a world in which Jon or Martin’s lives are ever in real danger doesn't exist....right?

AO3 Link in source on OP

On Being Fine, Absolutely Well-Adjusted, and OK

Martin supposed he should count himself lucky. He hadn’t needed to go to the hospital after the Prentiss attack, had come out with only a few worm scars to show for it, god especially when he thought about Jon and all the worms he and Sasha had had to corkscrew out of him, his face and neck and arms and legs—

See? Martin shook his head, clearing his mind’s eye of the silver and crimson kaleidoscope. It could have been worse. He scratched at his calf, where a close trio of scars had begun to heal, skin-tight and shiny, and, at last, remembered he was supposed to be washing his hands. He was glad the unisex Archive lav didn’t have a mirror by the sink; he didn’t need a reminder of how tired he must look.

The return to work had been difficult, but not as bad as he had expected it to be. Knowing Prentiss was dead had made it easier to return home, though he had immediately spent his first pain-free day rearranging the furniture, as recommended by his therapist. (He had lied to her, of course, claimed an attempted break-in + assault had traumatized him. It wasn’t that far off from the truth, anyways.) So Martin had been spending his evenings repositioning, redecorating, cleaning; anything he could to erase Jane Prentiss and those horrid things from his mind. It wasn’t easy, and Martin still spent nights awake, hyperaware of the smallest sound of squelching or the smell of rot. But he was alive, he reminded himself at home in the mornings, concealing eye bags and trying to reassemble his appearance into some approximation of normal, and shouldn’t that be enough? He hadn’t been seriously injured, like Jon or Tim, hadn’t had to risk a lonely end save them all like Sasha. He should be the most well-adjusted of the three of them.

So why was he here, in the Archive toilet, gripping the edge of the sink so hard he might crack it?

Martin released his grip and watched his blood flow back into his fingers, flexing them. He should really go do...something. Work, probably, if Jon ever decided to stop speaking to him like he was a jigsaw with too many pieces. He splashed some water on his face and exhaled deeply. He was fine, he could-

“Oh shit!” Martin yelped as he turned to face the door into the bullpen. In the reflection at the corner of the mirror that hung on the back of the door was a shiny, squat, silver worm. “Fuckfuckfuck!” Martin cursed, backing into the door and pulling his shoe off with one hand. He patted for his beltloop, where had taken to keeping his corkscrew, and huffed to find it gone. Of course. He was trying not to be paranoid.

Picking up his shoe, he threw it at the worm, half-hidden by the rubbish bin. It bounced harmlessly—or, maybe it hit? Martin couldn’t tell. Either way, the worm moved, and that was when Martin’s vision greyed dangerously, heart leaping to his throat. Oh god, he couldn’t breathe? Why couldn’t he breathe? Was it the carbon dioxide? No. The fire alarm wasn’t going off. Martin’s thoughts raced and he desperately jiggled the door handle, only to find it turning against him. Oh god, it was her. It was-

“Martin?”

It was Jon.

“Jon? Jon, fuck, hey, don’t come in, okay? There’s a worm and I don’t want any of you getting hurt.”

…is what he would have said if he could catch his breath. Instead, all he could let out was a raspy, strangled “Jon.”

“Martin, are you alright in there?” Jon’s voice was too calm, too casual for the bile rising in Martin’s throat.

“W-worm.” Martin sputtered as he heard a click of a cane through the door; probably Jon taking a step backward at the word. “Got-gotta kill it,” he babbled, more to himself than to Jon. He could try with the shoe again, but it hadn’t worked the first time, and that would leave him unprotected if he wanted to step on it.

“No! Martin, don’t-”

Oh, he could step on it. Seized in a moment of something, a peculiar blend of bravery, fear, and plain exasperation, Martin crossed the few squares of lino between him and the worm and moved to step on it with precision. To his great surprise, it rolled out from under his foot, glinting against the overhead lighting.

“What?” Martin mumbled aloud, and the realization hit him all at once: this wasn’t a worm at all. Cautiously, he picked up the metal tube and spotted a small label on the bottom. The thin silver tube contained MAC #239: Not Like Other Girls, according to the reddish-brown sticker.

“Lipstick?” Martin whispered to himself, slumping against the wall of the bathroom and letting out a relieved sob. He had been terrified of lipstick?

The realization that should have calmed him down instead sent him spiraling. Martin Blackwood wasn’t always the calm one, but he was always the shoulder to lean on. He couldn’t do this, not have a breakdown in the middle of his workplace, not with—

Tapping came from the door outside. “Martin? Do I need to break the door down?” Jon was still outside, Martin realized with a start.

“Uh-” Martin choked back a sob. “No, no, it’s alright, Jon. I’m fine.”

“You certainly are not.”

“It was just a-a bloody lipstick tube, Jon, I’m alright. Just leave me alone.” Martin shuddered a breath as he swiped at his eyes with the hem of his sweater, praying to anything and everything that for once Jon would just do as he was told.

“No.” Of course not. “Not until I know you’re okay.” Jon’s voice was softer now, a part of Martin realized. The gentleness of his tone struck Martin and he found himself shakily standing and moving to the door. Unlocking and opening it, he saw Jon, leaning heavily on the medical cane he had been given after the incident, eyes a mix of panic and concern, like the way one might eye a wounded animal. Somehow, that look managed to make Martin feel small, protected, loved, and it warmed something in him.

It was that look that broke something in him and Martin felt a taut string inside him snap loose. Tears welled up in his eyes and he desperately swiped at them with the sleeves of his sweater, leaning against the doorframe. “I feel so stupid,” he mumbled, choked laughter mixing with his tears. He held up the lipstick tube, which he had pocketed earlier, and held it up to the light. “It doesn’t even look like them, not really, I-I-I just saw the squat and silver and panicked.”

Jon’s hand was on his arm, but he was quiet, not saying anything until Martin had collected himself, heaving sobs to hiccups to shallow breathing as he brought himself to baseline again. “Martin,” Jon said quietly, flexing the fingers that held his bicep, “I know you’ve had a rough few months.” Martin scoffed. “Fine, okay, maybe rough doesn’t begin to cover it. What I mean to say is, well…” Jon’s mouth floundered for a word properly, lips forming a few different shapes before settling on, “are you, you know, getting help?”

“Yes, Jon, I’m in therapy.” Martin surprised himself with his own honesty. “But there’s not really much I can say, you know? Not without getting carted off to a sanitorium or getting doped up on meds of some kind or another. I mean, evil worms haunting my house and my workplace? A worm woman determined to kill me and everyone I care for? Not exactly something cognitive behavior therapy will fix.”

Jon sighed in assent, nodding. “That’s fair, I suppose. I just-Martin.” The hand squeezed his elbow and Martin felt a jolt of electricity run through his skin. “You’re allowed to hurt, you know?” Martin’s eyes must have given away his thoughts because Jon continued, voice soft and gentle.

“We all suffered, Martin, but you were the one who was locked in your home, and then the basement where you work, for months on end. Just because you’re not-” he shifts to wave his cane idly, “-doesn’t mean you haven’t gone through hell alongside us.” Jon’s voice has taken on a hardness to it, an insistence Martin last remembered seeing when they were locked in Document Storage together, when Jon was so afraid of being forgotten. It made Martin shiver, not from fear but from something in the way Jon’s eyes bored into him. He was determined to make Martin believe him. Who was he to refuse The Archivist’s words?

So Martin listened, letting Jon’s insistence settle in his chest. He had suffered; he had lost months of his life to Jane Prentiss, he couldn’t sleep without a fear of worms crawling into his skin and mouth at night. He didn’t feel safe until he was in the Archives at his desk, the one that surveyed the whole room and had two fire extinguishers still tucked into the drawers. As Jon spoke, Martin let his muscles relax slowly, until he was leaned up against the alcove in which the door to the toilets stood, helpless under Jon’s gaze and yet feeling the strongest he had in weeks, if not months. Tears welled in his eyes and he heard Jon hesitantly break off.

“Ah-Martin? You-ah shit, I’m sorry.” Jon’s voice had lost the severity it had previously held and was back to its quiet insistence. “I’m sorry, you-you didn’t ask for a soapbox.”

“No, no,” Martin shook his head, raking his nails through his hair. “I...I think I needed to hear that.” He smiled; a shaky, fragile thing. He scratched the back of his calf awkwardly, trying not to dislodge Jon from where he was precariously balanced between the hand on his arm and the hand on the cane. “Thank you, Jon, really.”

Jon smiled and shifted his hand from Martin’s arm to his hand, squeezing gently before releasing it and sliding the lipstick tube from his hand before turning to the bullpen. “Anytime. C’mon, let’s see if this is Sasha’s or Tim’s. I think it’s more Tim’s color, hmm?”

#jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #fanfic to a tea #cw panic attack #tma #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfic

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musings-from-mars · 3 years ago

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part 4 por favor? Maybe Ruby starts noticing the "tension" between Cinder and Blake and starts setting them up?

Freelance Love Triangle AU - Part 4

They arrived at the outdoor gallery, and Ruby was already zipping around here and there, thinking out loud about angles and framing, all while gushing about the art on display, choosing her favorites. “This is so cool!” She said to Blake and Cinder.

“It’s a lovely installation,” Cinder agreed, the corner of her mouth turned up. “Don’t you think so, Blake?”

It was a pretty magnificent showcase. Crude marble pillars of varying heights and widths stood in a seemingly random arrangement, each with art pieces hung on the sides. The pieces of 3D art stood in spaces between pillars. While there were two equally tall pillars that served as the “entrance” to the exhibition, it was open air and seemingly boundless, as the pillars became fewer and farther between the further from the center you moved.

At the very center of the gallery was a massive metal sculpture of what looked like a suit of armor, but it was matte black, and the plates of armor were spaced out from one another so it was easy to see right through the gaps. It stood on a concrete cube labeled “SOAPBOX” with “various artists” engraved underneath. The artists were making a point, and Blake’s mind raced trying to decipher what it might be.

But then Ruby started talking to Cinder, and that broke Blake’s focus immediately.

“The suit is faceless, and the armor having such obvious gaps indicates that the suit is vulnerable,” Cinder explained to Ruby as she looked up at the sculpture, which Ruby craning her neck to do the same. “Yet it stands on a soapbox, elevated and arrogant, despite the flaws in its defenses. I think it makes a point about the illusions of authority and strength of those in power, and the general populace’s compliance despite the obvious flaws that everyone can see if they look close enough.”

“Woah, that’s so cool…” Ruby murmured with wonder.

Blake didn’t want to feel as annoyed as she did, because Cinder’s take on it was pretty much exactly how Blake viewed the piece, but dammit, she wanted to impress Ruby too! She tried to come up with something original to say, but she didn’t want to sound desperate. Cinder was too smooth and eloquent.

“I imagine it took a long time to fashion the metal and assemble it, probably took several weeks, even for a team of artists,” Cinder pondered.

“If you were to get into contact with the artists, you might know for sure,” Blake remarked, not intending to sound so combative, but it was said. “There’s more to this than what the viewer can interpret. Anyone can come around here and write an article about what they think it all means in a day, but we’re putting together something bigger. We need testimonies from the artists, opinions of other creatives…”

Cinder had turned from the sculpture and was glaring at her, arms crossed over her chest. “Well, isn’t that why you’re here? You’re the networking specialist, after all.”

“It’s your project too, you know,” Blake said, stepping closer to her, then sort of regretting doing that now that she was close enough to smell her perfume. “I’m not doing all the interviews while you sit back and write down your opinions. You’ve got to pull your weight.”

“I’ve pulled plenty of weight. I haven’t even shown you the drafts I have yet,” Cinder countered, and for some reason thought it appropriate to smile at Blake. She looked down her nose a bit at her, making Blake resent Cinder’s slight height advantage. “After all, isn’t it only fair that I handle the majority of the writing, you acquire the testimonies, and Ruby handles the accompanying media? Let’s all do what we’re good at here, huh?”

Blake hated it when she made a good point. She wanted to counter-argue but she knew that would be counterproductive. “So I’m going have to handle all of the interviews? That will take up so much of my work time, you really will be on the hook for pretty much all of the writing.”

“Like I said, it’s what we’re good at,” Cinder repeated and shrugged. She leaned her weight on one leg in that sexy way that kind of pissed Blake off. “You think so, Ruby?”

Ruby had been silent the whole time, pressing her lips together as she stood by during the intense exchange. When she heard her name spoken, she snapped out of it a bit and blinked. “Oh, yeah, I think that’s a good idea. Uhm, Robyn wanted us to allocate, right?”

“Right,” Cinder agreed and nodded. “That was easy, we’ve already allocated. Wonderful job, team.”

If Blake gritted her teeth any harder she’d have to book a dentist appointment. Thankfully, Cinder took that moment to turn away from her and walk over to one of the gallery’s pillars, swaying her hips like an annoying exotic bird.

I hate you I hate you I haaaaate you—

“Ruby, I think if you got one of these pillars in the foreground with the sculpture in the background, that could maybe be a candidate for cover,” Cinder said.

Ruby hurried over to look at what she meant, leaving Blake standing next to Soapbox, shoulders slumped forward and her face burning hot.

Was getting cover worth it? Was getting to work with Ruby worth how insufferable and annoying aloof Cinder was? Blake was seriously considering it, but then she watched as Ruby giggled at something Cinder said, and she knew then that she had to stick with this, for whatever other reasons, but mostly to make sure Ruby and Cinder didn’t become a thing.

Was that shitty of her? Maybe. But the thought of that happening made her blood boil.

~~~

“How about I take you both for a drink?”

The offer felt like it came out of nowhere. The three of them were waiting on a bench not far from the gallery. Night had fallen, and while they had gotten plenty of photos and Blake had gotten the chance to take some notes about the various artists, it wasn’t that late. Blake was about to hail a rideshare because she just wasn’t in the mood to walk all the way home, but (while she kind of hated that she did), Blake considered Cinder’s offer.

“That sounds like fun, sure!” Ruby said. She sat between Blake and Cinder, tapping away at her laptop as she backed up the photos of the day. Even as time went on, she hadn’t lost any energy, which Blake was impressed by. She certainly couldn’t say the same for herself she was fresh out of college.

“Lovely,” Cinder said with a smile.

Well, if Ruby was going with Cinder, Blake was definitely going, too. “Sure. I could use a drink. But I’m not staying out late, nor should any of us. We’ve got more work to do tomorrow.”

Cinder nodded knowingly. “Just a little excursion. We’ll save the proper night out for Friday.” Blake couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “I know I nice little bar near here. It’s the quaint type, for hipsters like us.”

Blake chuckled a bit at that. “Great, I love craft beer,” she said sarcastically.

“I’ve never had anything other than hard seltzer,” Ruby admitted with a shy chuckle. “Do they have that?”

“I’m sure they do, hun,” Cinder assured her with a smile that made the hairs on the back of Blake’s neck stand up.

Ruby rubbed the back of her neck bashfully as she shut her laptop, having finished saving her images. “Not to be a stereotypical gay or anything.”

Blake snorted a laugh, then blushed at the fact she’d snorted. “What, do gays like hard seltzer?”

“I guess?” Ruby shrugged, still blushing.

“I’m more of a red wine lesbian myself, we all have our tastes,” Cinder told her, her voice dripping with a flirtatious lull, as if she were already a glass deep.

Blake chewed on the inside of her mouth. She figured “whatever sounds good at the time bisexual” wouldn’t sound as sexy as red wine lesbian. Then again, she’d never had a hard seltzer. “I’ll get whatever you get, Ruby. I’m curious.”

Ruby giggled, her cheeks rosy and dimpled when she grinned. “Oh no, now I really hope you like it or else I’ll seem like I have bad taste.”

Blake smiled and shook her head. “Don’t worry, hun, I think I’ll like it just fine.” She felt proud of herself for slipping a “hun” in there like Cinder had. The combination of Ruby blushing and Cinder shooting her a glare of recognition was a satisfying confidence boost.

Ruby tapped her feet on the concrete a few times, like she was letting out a sudden excess of energy, and she hopped off the bench. “We should go! The night’s not getting any younger, right?”

Cinder stood with her, her hands tucked in her jacket pockets. “We should. I’ll lead the way.”

Blake sighed as she followed, the group beginning to follow Cinder’s lead away from the park. She hoped she’d seen the end of Cinder’s funny business, but she knew that was a hope in futility. She had to be planning something, right?

The best Blake could think to do was be there to see what it was.

#freelance love triangle au #pawling petals #rwby #ruby rose #blake belladonna #cinder fall #drabble

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tsarinastorm · 4 years ago

Text

Until Somebody Stops Having Fun-Adam Sackler/Reader-Chapter 1

Rating: Explicit

You met Adam at a party at the bookstore you owned. The bookstore would host poetry nights, book clubs, release parties, and numerous other events. You were even working on developing an app for your store to help bring it into the twenty-first century. You had moved to New York on a whim, deciding to pursue writing yourself, then you ended up merging writing with your legal background to become a literary agent. You loved helped getting writers the best possible contracts, through that you met Andy, who left you the bookstore. Andy decided to take an early retirement and spend his time traveling. Not a relationship person, you had liaisons or flings, however whatever this was with Adam felt different.

Things with Adam were still new, only two weeks, and it was still very exciting. He had been coming over every other night, you’d hook up, talk, and get a bite to eat. He’d normally sneak out after you fell asleep, he’d be quiet and lock up. Then he’d message you one or two days later asking if you could meet again and if he could come over. Tonight, he was coming over after his theater rehearsal, and he said he was bringing takeout. You had never talked about what you were, if anything at all besides fuck buddies, and a part of you wanted to clear the air, while the other part didn’t want to mention it in case it would ruin whatever you had. You didn’t want a relationship yet but you had wanted some clear title on the situation.

You throw on a cozy sweater, take off your bra, and then put on a pair of cheekie underwear. You decide to veg out since you had some free time and it would still be a while before Adam would show up. Your two dogs, Benji and Barney, beagle mix brothers you rescued, join you on the couch. After you put on the same show you’ve been binge-watching lately, and before you know it you’re dozing off.

TWO WEEKS AGO

This was a limited release party hosted by one of your friends, and things seemed to be going well until you could hear an altercation taking place. When you move towards the scene, you can see a petite blonde woman screaming at a large, dark-haired man. Before you can step in between them, she takes her drink and throws at him, the liquid going all over his face, hair, and shirt. As you go towards the woman to tell her to get out before you call the police, she’s out the door. The man tries to dry himself off and is somehow un-stunned by the woman’s reaction. You go up to him, offer him a napkin. He takes it and says, “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Hold on, I have towels in the back. C’mon.” You say and you can tell the man takes a moment to register your statement because there’s a pause before he follows you. Trotting towards the back linen closet, you can’t help but look over your shoulder at the man. First, he’s much taller than you, and broad-shouldered. Second, he’s got a unique looking face that you find very attractive. And the hair, you’re a sucker for good hair. Your night has definitely become more interesting. You can see him eying you up too, or at least you hope that’s what he’s doing.

You hand the man the towel, and he gives you a slight smile. As he wipes himself off, he says again, “Thanks, you really didn’t have to help me.”

“Now, c’mon I couldn’t just let that happen, unless you deserved it.” You say as he hands you the towel back, and you notice how his hand brushes yours ever so lightly. He raises his eyebrows and says, “That happens a lot with us. I usually deserve it.”

“Did you cheat? Are you an abusive asshole?” You ask and he shakes his head no to your inquiry. You tell him, “Then you didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m Adam, by the way. Adam Sackler.” He says and offers you his hand. You take it and introduce yourself to him. He then asks, “Do you work here? You look familiar.”

“I actually own it. That’s why I know where all the towels and good stuff is. I’m also an agent, hence the party.” You answer and you see him smile at you. “Damn that’s impressive. I’m an actor and I write some too. I did a short film not long ago.”

“Aren’t you the Torpica guy?” It clicks in your head that’s why he looks vaguely familiar. He however, looks embarrassed and starts defending himself, “Shamefully yes. I routinely get told from guys that they can’t get their dick hard on Torpica.”

You laugh at his last comment before asking him, “Broadway or non-Broadway?”

“Broadway for now. I’m in The Seagull.” You’re impressed, The Seagull is one of your favorites, and Broadway is always huge for actors. He must be talented you think to yourself. His eyes lock onto yours like a predator locking unto prey. Just not yet though. You move slightly away from him and start walking back to the party. He follows you, and soon the two of you are mingling with others at the party like you never met.

Honestly, you’re a bit disappointed because you thought that was going somewhere. Maybe that’s why the girl threw her drink on him in the first place. It was New York after all, you could end up seeing him again and again, or he’d become a ghost you’d only see once. Time would tell.

********

Apparently, Adam would not be rid of so easily. The next day your shop opens, he strolls in within a half-hour of opening. At first, he tries to appear oblivious, looking through the shelves, then stealing a glance from you before he finally decides to approach you. You smile and he gives you a crooked smile that makes your heart flutter.

“Hey, I guess I wanted to see you again.” Adam says when he’s only feet in front of you. You raise your eyebrows in fake shock, step away from the register, then ask, “Really? Are you intrigued?”

“Very, very intrigued.” He says and his eyes stay locked with yours. The sensuality is practically rolling off this guy, even if he’s not the best at small talk. You’re going to have to step it up a notch than you usually use on your conquests, so you ask, “What do you want to know about me?”

“Everything. Or whatever you want me know.” He stammers, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. You begin moving around the store, Adam joins you, and you chuckle as you tell him, “Good catch. Not looking for a stalker.”

Before you know it, the two of you are in chairs side by side in the classics nook on the upper level. You had to have your employee, Annie, cover your post downstairs. Adam had been here for two hours, and the two of you talked bad dates and bad nights. You were surprised to hear that a woman throwing a drink on him wasn’t even in his top ten. You then moved onto your favorite books, writers, poets. Then he says, “You’re a fan of the classics, then?”

“I certainly am. But how did you know? My favorites were varied.” You ask back, leaning into him, then you take a drink of your coffee. He responds with, “This the first real place you took me in this big store. We’ve been here the longest.”

“You do pay attention. It’s very calming up here.” You stand up and start browsing the shelves that you already check every day. Adam comes up beside you and you can feel the heat rolling off his body. The two of you start talking about the classics: which ones are overrated, which ones are underrated, and which are wrongly categorized. He asks you what you’re currently reading and he’s surprised that you’re on a poetry kick, mainly a female poetry kick. He confesses he’s read a lot of Chekhov to help him with the role. This chitter-chatter between you feels effortless and natural, even when it’s awkward at times. When his eyes hit 100 Years of Solitude, he adds, “I once dated a girl who was related to Gabriel Garcia Marquez.”

“Okay, I’ll admit you certainly live a very interesting life. Now I’m curious about your other relationships? Mainly the girl who caused the scene in my store.” You say and you’re wondering if he’ll open to you, or if the wall will come up. It’s really none of your business, but the fact he brushed off that incident with the drink makes you wonder what his love life must normally be like.

“That was Jessa, and that was a whole clusterfuck of a situation. It was batshit crazy. But it’s kind of a long story.” He admits and runs his hands through his hair. You turn to smirk at him, angling your body to lean against the bookshelf while you purposefully graze your fingers along the back of his hand, “I have time.”

Then, you hear about his soapbox of past relationships. Hannah, fuck Hannah, Natalia, also a bitch, MiMi Rose, who was just awful, and Jessa, queen of toxicity. That’s why you never really wasted time dating or in relationships, they get so fucked up so fast. You listen to his side of the story, only commenting to let him know you’re still paying attention to him. He has flaws like anyone does but you can’t imagine anyone treating him poorly. Adam seemed like a sincere and genuine person. He then tells you, “You know, I don’t think anyone’s ever just listened to me before. Except you, that was nice.”

“No problem, I’m sorry you’ve had such rough luck in relationships.” You say back and you really didn’t mind listening to him. He was funny, charming, and nice to be around, listening to him was easy.

“I brought most of it on myself. What about you?” He admits. That’s the million dollar question. Every guy you’ve ever been interested in or has been interested in you, wants to know. You hate discussing it, and normally you’d leave mystery around it, but Adam was open and honest with you. You should be open and honest with him.

“I don’t really date or do relationships. I’ve had one serious boyfriend in the last five years.” Your eyes drift downwards even though you try to prevent them from giving in. What it is about this man that makes you feel vulnerable and is turning your world upside down after two days? Adam gently places his hand on your shoulder, trying to cheer you up from your sudden downshift in mood. When you look up at him, his amber eyes look confused like he’s trying to work out a difficult math problem in his mind. He finally asks you, “Why not? No doubt you must have men crawling over you all the time.”

“Commitment issues. It’s just not my thing.” You try to brush it off. Adam’s not fazed by your negativity or your attempt to push him away. It seems to strengthen his resolve.

“Well, if you think that’s going to deter me, you don’t know how persistent I can be.” He says while giving you a smile. Most men you would blatantly shot down by now, or you would eat them alive, but something about Adam felt right, and it felt good. And it terrified you.

*****

The next evening, he shows up as you’re closing up the shop. You invite him to come with you to a party, and you’re surprised that he agrees without hesitation. The party is in a penthouse in Noho, owned by one of your acquaintances. She was the type who was born into money, so she hopped from thing to thing, been in and out of school several times. She was one of your writers, for a short time before she moved onto something else, but apparently she liked you well enough to invite you to her ragers. You and Adam make your way towards the bar, where you order your usual drink and you’re surprised when he orders seltzer water.

“You don’t drink?” You ask. He tells you, “I’m an alcoholic.”

“Damn, if I had known I wouldn’t have invited you here. I didn’t even think.” You feel bad, you just assumed he wouldn’t have a problem with the party. Now you felt bad that you could be tempting him or making him feel uncomfortable. It must show on your face because he leans in, and touches your shoulder saying, “It’s really okay. Don’t feel bad about it.”

You nod your head, and you eye the dance floor. He watches you, then he offers his hand, and asks you dance. He has crazy dance moves and you can’t hide how it makes you smile. You throw your classic, go-to moves. Then he pulls you into him, spins you and dips you. You raise your eyebrows in surprise. You come back up, and your body is flush against his, you can feel every muscle he has, even his heart beating in his chest. You can smell his cologne, and you’re feeling lightheaded, not from the alcohol but from him.

Adam’s face is inches from you, you can feel his breath on your cheek. You think he’s leaning to kiss you, but instead his hand moves to the small of your back as he whispers in your ear, “Want to get out of here?”

“Sure.” You smile, he grabs your hand and you move your way through the crowd.

*****

About an hour later, you’re sitting in this eclectic diner across from Adam and you’re still trying to read him. He’s certainly very interesting and tells you about himself while at the same time telling you nothing really. You decide to appraise him with your three question game.

“Bookstore, e-book, or audio book?” You ask as you take a drink of coffee. His answer is bookstore. Check. “London, Paris, or Florence?” “Mac and cheese, sushi, or Mexican?” “Fitzgerald, Wilde, Kafka?” “How do you take your coffee?” He answers all of your questions satisfactorily. You’ve decided that you’re taking him home tonight, but you have to check off a few more rational boxes first.

“Criminal record?” This one makes him laugh and he explains how his one ex called the cops on him. You think he’s explained enough, so you move on to the next major question. “Married or in a relationship?”

“Single” He says with emphasis. He already explained that the British blonde chick was Jessa, his ex who he still fucked sometimes. Next, “STDs,” you ask coolly, watching closely for any reactions. He answers with, “I’m clean and get routinely checked.”

“Where do you live?” He tells you Prospect Heights, and that is a shock to you though he does definitely strikes you as a Brooklyn guy. Then, the most important question you do a drum roll on the table before leaning in to ask in a low voice, “How often do you masturbate?’

“Twice a day at least,” he says like it’s no big deal, like you just asked him his favorite food. You can’t hold back a laugh. You’re pleased with his honesty, and raise your hand to request the check. Then, the two of you were in your apartment, with him fucking you from behind on the couch. You later moved to your bedroom, where you rode him, then you woke up that morning to him eating you out. So yeah, you were impressed. You had never had that many orgasms from a partner before.

Later that morning, after he makes you eggs for breakfast, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, you lean into him. After giving your head a quick kiss, he says, “We should do this again sometime. I had a good time, I think you had a good time. Or I can take you a date.”

You feel yourself tense involuntarily. Adam removes himself from you, so he’s now standing in front of you, waiting for an explanation. It’s not fair how perfect he looks, how are you supposed to have this conversation when an Adonis is standing in front of you? You tell him, “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not really the dating type, relationships make me feel claustrophobic.”

“Really? I don’t believe you” He says in a sing-song voice as he leans in to press kisses on your each of your cheeks, and then down your neck. Your hands go straight to his hair again to lace through the soft tresses. You feel your voice get airy and your concentration starts to go as you say, “Yeah, I’m too busy, kind of self-involved, and I’m not the type who goes to meet your family, goes out for anniversaries or anything.”

“So what do you do then?” He murmurs against the skin of your collarbone, where he’s now left a bruise. His lips don’t stop caressing your skin, grazing the tops of your breasts, and you can feel his hand slip the back of your thigh. You grab onto his hair, and bring his face to meet yours. His pupils are darkened with lust, and you answer his question with, “Liaisons. I do liaisons.”

Adam inches forward to kiss you softly, and it’s you that asks for more, running your tongue along his bottom lip. He grants you entrance as his hands go to cup your face, then rest on your neck. You’re stunned by the passion and sweetness of this kiss, you really might be a goner for this guy. He pulls away, his face turns serious, then he tells you, “I promise I won’t take you to meet my family, but I do really like you so no long term promises.”

“I can guarantee that you’ll want me to meet your family. I like you too.” You chuckle back, and he starts laughing too. His large hands palm your ass, before moving upward to rest at your waist. This affection is nice, nearly addictive. His eyes flicker when he asks, “What happens now?”

“We fuck. Hard.” You say and he’s on you kissing you, as he picks you up to head towards the bedroom once again.

********

PRESENT

You’re awoken from your nap by Adam buzzing into your apartment. The noise makes Benji and Barney howl slightly. You try to shush them as you go to let Adam in. Once you open the door, he eyes you up and down. You suddenly feel self-conscious because you’re still not really dressed and your hair is up in a messy bun. Adam looks like he wants to eat you.

“You look hot as fuck.” He says and quickly follows you inside. You barely make it through the door before he’s on you. He drops the takeout, and his jacket to press you against the door. His lips crush yours, and his tongue is instantly licking into your mouth. Your hands fly around his shoulders to run through his hair as he grinds his hips into you, he’s rock hard already. His lips descend upon your neck while his hand makes its way into your panties. His fingers waste no time dragging along your wet folds.

“So wet, already? My dirty slut ready for my cock?” He taunts while his thumb circles your clit, and he thrusts his middle and index finger into you. You moan while his other hand squeezes your tits. You’re going to cum soon if he doesn’t slow down, apparently he’s in that kind of mood because your moans only encourage him to add more pressure, and rub circles fervently. You feel the pleasure build in your lower stomach, and creep down your legs, then Adam abruptly stops his ministrations to your chagrin.

“Ah, what the fuck?” you groan. Adam’s fingers are still between your legs, his thumb drawing light circles on your clit. He looks so smug, with a sly smile and blown out pupils.

“You didn’t answer my question. Answer and you’ll get to come.”

“Yes, your dirty slut is ready for your cock, Please let me come.” His thumbs presses down on your clit again, and thrusts his fingers into you, crooking up to your spot. Then your orgasm rocks through, leaving your muscles to clench, while your head drops to your shoulders. He watches you as you come down, then he picks you, you wrap your legs around his waist. You kiss him everywhere your lips can reach and your hands search under his shirt for his skin. He sets you down on top of your table with your legs spread wide, and he’s placed himself in between them.

You reach to pull off his shirt as he then pulls yours off too. He then turns to your panties and they’re quickly removed from you. As you kiss him, your hands unbuckle his belt, unbutton his jeans and start working his cock. Your hand jerks his cock and spreads the bead of precum around the tip. He moans and thrust into your hand.

“Can’t wait any longer to fuck you.” He says as he guides his cock into you. You lean back nearly flat against the table and pull your legs up to give him the deepest angle. His thrusts start off rough and hard, then are more drawn out, leaving you both moaning. He picks up the pace again, you can hear the sound of your bodies slapping together, his balls smacking against your ass. He leans into to kiss you, you hitch your leg behind his hip, while his hand sneaks down to work your clit. Your second orgasm is building fast and you can tell from his thrusts he’s close too.

“Ah, I’m gonna come!” You shout, then you clench around him. There’s filth coming out of his mouth.

“ Fuck, your cunt is milking is my cock! Such a cumslut! Where does my cumbucket want me to cum?” He says jaggedly. You tell him, “Cum on my tits, I want you to cum on my tits.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses as he pulls out and pumps himself. Soon, there’s streams of his cum on your chest and on your stomach. You both catch your breath, then he kisses you sweetly, retrieves his shirt and cleans you up. You thank him and get up to recover the takeout that he left by the door. Silently, you heat up a plate for yourself then one for him. You take the plates over to your coffee table in front of your couch. Adam looks very distressed for some unknown reason, you hope he didn’t want to actually eat on that table after you fucked on it.

“Adam, is something wrong?” You finally ask while you shovel food in your mouth. You’re starving so if he’s having a post-coital meltdown it will have to coincide with dinner.

“Are you mad at me?” He asks and you have no idea why he thinks that you’re mad.

“No, why would I be mad?” You ask.

“You know I have no idea what I say before I cum. I didn’t mean anything I said about you” He answers and looks down.

“Oh my gosh, I’m not mad at you. Do you seriously think I’d let you stay here if I was offended or thought you meant it?” You tell him. What he said during sex didn’t bother you at all, that was how dirty talk worked. Of course he didn’t mean it seriously.

“I guess not.” He says then smiles before finally digging into the takeout.

“I happen to like your dirty talk, I find it very sexy.” You say and stand up to take your plate to the dishwasher. You’re sure to perk your ass out as you walk in front of him, enjoying seeing how his eyes follow you.

The next morning you wake to find yourself surrounded by a hulk of man sleeping beside you, or precisely, partially on top of you. Adam must have stayed the night after round two. You had always considered yourself in touch with your sexuality, but with Adam you felt utterly insatiable, always wanting more. No matter how many times you came. You maneuver out of bed towards shower. You let the hot water relax you, then as you’re lathering up, Adam joins you.

After yet another round of fucking, you’re now both fully dressed and ready to go about your days. The two of you walk out of your apartment building, and once you’re on the street, he pulls you flush against him, asking, “When can I see you again?”

“Don’t get attached to me, I’ll break your little heart. But you really want to do this?” You ask and he nods his head yes. This would be your time to define this relationship. You pull him back in the street to give the two of you some privacy. He says, “I want to do whatever you want me to do. No labels, or labels, I don’t give a shit. I want to be with you.”

“Alright. Friends with benefits then. I’m free from Sunday to Tuesday afternoons, but sometimes catch up on work those days. I work long hours at the store on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday because there are readings, book clubs and releases. I hate getting up early in the morning, and am monster without coffee. In the bedroom, I like some choking, bdsm. I’ll try any toy, I’ve never done anal but I’m willing to try it with the right partner. I’m on birth control but I’d still prefer you to wear condoms and come outside sometimes. Just don’t come in my hair. But I’m sure you already know half of that.” You say, taking a deep breath and he’s followed your whole statement as evidence by his slightly amused face. He kisses you deeply, pushing you against the brick wall and says, “I think can do all of those things.”

“I’ll come by your place, tonight then.” He says as he walks down the street and you smile and nod your assent. You’re looking forward to seeing him again, and wonder how long he’ll stick around. Normally, your dalliances never lasted more than a month or two, but Adam was unique.

#adam sackler #adam sackler x reader #adam driver #adam sackler smut #reader insert

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flaneuriste · 5 years ago

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Really, Roger? Really? This is how you choose to react. I kind of wish I could say I am surprised. Yes, respect for Roger’s work and yadda yadda yadda but NOT a good look for a man who is generally concerned about the world’s welfare. During COVID-19? Seriously? People have got more important things to worry about. I am appalled by his digs at Polly Samson and David’s family. Whether or not their “Von Trapped” family videos and Polly’s books should be featured on the PF website? I suppose an argument could be made against it BUT she is/has been the main lyricist of PF now. And David is heavily featured in the videos, and he is a member of PF. David and Polly are collaborators in every part of their lives - in his music and in her writing. And Nick’s solo stuff is featured (which of course is more PF-focussed). Roger just sounded so snide and condescending when he mentioned that. What I heard was a lonely old man who misses his glory days and might just be envious of the happy madness that is the Gilmour home, full of dogs and cats and kids. Develop your own website, Roger! It’s not like it’s hard for people to find out everything they want to know about you and your work if they want? Why do you even care if you’re on the PF website & Facebook page? I don’t see how David can be blamed for quarrelling. My impression is that David has no interest in scrapping with Roger and so.....knowing Roger as he does, has no interest in having anything to do with him anymore. ‘Cause it inevitably leads to disagreements. If you give Roger an inch, he’ll take a mile. Put his solo stuff on the website and next thing you know....hell, it could even lead to legal complications as he is no longer a member of PF. David and Nick are the legal owners of the name. Of COUUUUUURSE Roger will ALWAYS be associated with Pink Floyd. Just as Richard and Nick and David and Syd will be. But legally, D & N are the owners. I think they’re wise to be extremely cautious with their content. And by the way, as Nick said, there were a LOT of people who thought they were not entitled to the name of Pink Floyd when Syd was ousted. Where were Roger’s scruples about the name then? He voluntarily quit the band nearly 40 years ago (unlike the way he ousted Richard). Why would his solo stuff be on the website? Let’s just look at a hypothetical situation: if Roger had continued on with PF and Richard had stayed outside, and sometime down the road, Richard thought that his solo stuff should be added to the website, just how do you think Roger would have answered? This was Roger’s choice. Nick mentioned this himself: that he thinks Roger regrets doing leaving PF, can’t undo it and can’t let it go. And the man who stands in his way was the one with whom he had the greatest collaborations of his life AND one of the few that simply will not be bullied or moved by him. I’ve written about this before, about how maddening David must be to Roger. I know he let Roger get to him lots of times when they were more involved and when David was younger but even then, he was able to stand up to Roger much more than anyone else. He cooperated with him to the extent that great music was created but (and I love this about David), he just won’t fucking budge when you reach a certain point with him. That is IT. I think his most dramatic action/retaliation was to move heaven and earth to make sure that the “Momentary Lapse of Reason” tour was (at least by the numbers) a roaring success. But once that was done, I think he relaxed back into his more genuine state which is (as Guy Pratt said), an easy-going nonchalance. He doesn’t fight or flail about or post dramatic updates. He just smiles that sardonic smile and declines to engage. It must drive Roger nuts. Stepping off my soapbox for now but I’m sure I’ll have MORE THOUGHTS on this later!

#Pink Floyd David Gilmour Nick Mason Roger Waters

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ourdawncomes · 4 years ago

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4, 9, 16, 25, 44, 49, 50

4. What are their views of the Chantry?

Despite Thora’s status as an Andrastian, and a fairly devout one at that, her perspective of the Chantry is still that of an outsider. Not as much as an outsider as a Dalish elf or a born follower of the Qun, but an outsider nonetheless. Like elves and qunari, dwarves are not included in Chantry customs or lore, not even being referenced in the Chant of Light itself. Thora herself grew up never attending Chantry services in-person, instead listening to the Chanters on street corners and worshipping in private, it isn’t until Inquisition she attends them and by that point her own way of keeping the faith is such habit.

Her view of the Chantry is that it lost its way. At the beginning of Inquisition she thinks it’s more recent, that at some point in near history the Circles turned against what they had been founded for and that the Chantry has become something meant to maintain power than spread charity and hope. Through the game she begins to realise it lost its way a long time ago, when the first Circle was built or when the second Exalted March was declared.

She isn’t in favour of dismantling it entirely, but would approve of and advocate for a reduction in the Chantry’s political power and a complete disbanding of its military. Even when she approves of the politics of Divine as is the case with Leliana the fact that one person can have that much power means that if the next person comes along and feels differently, everything’s undone. Similar to the reasons that she disbands the Inquisition, something as unaccountable as the Chantry can’t really be allowed to persist as it is.

9. Did they have Bull sacrifice the Chargers or the Dreadnought?

Thora almost doesn’t go. Had the Qun not offered forward the opportunity to strike a blow against the Venatori, she probably wouldn’t have, feeling any alliance with the qunari would inevitably cut both ways. Unsurprisingly, she chooses to save the Chagers, although it’s not an easy decision. If I can like stand on my soapbox for a second, I find this being one of the decisions that people will judge you for choosing the opposite missing the part where a boatful of people die if you sacrifice the Dreadnought. Now, sacrificing the Chargers also kills what’s likely a similar number, it’s implied the Chargers are a larger company than the half dozen we meet in-game, but my point is that your Inquisitor probably shouldn’t come away from that quest feeling good.

Thora doesn’t. She is sorry for the lives lost and the people who will mourn them back home, but ultimately felt that when the lives of civilians aren’t on the line her people take precedence. On a cold, practical note, she completes this quest sometime prior to What Pride Had Wrought, and that kind of blow to morale that close to a battle would bode poorly. But she can’t call what she did the “right” decision, because there wasn’t one.

16. How do they react to the corruption of the Wardens? Why?

It’s upsetting. Thora’s default Warden is Joly’s Aeducan, Tamar, who apart from being a shining example of what a good Warden can be is also a Paragon. That not all Wardens live up to the example set by her and later Blackwall (who she fully believed was a Warden) was a massive letdown to say the least. She had considered becoming one herself after the Blight, only deciding against it because she didn’t want to be unable to see her family. She’s glad she didn’t, now.

25. What makes them lose trust in someone?

When you take Blackwall and Solas into account deception alone apparently isn’t enough. I’ve explored it in fics, both lie about who they are but not how they feel, and in spite of that she still reflects upon the time she spent with them and feels she knows them both. Perhaps more than he cared to be known in Solas’ case. She can’t say neither deception hurt, but even when her faith in them wavers it doesn’t break.

Making and breaking commitments will cause her to lose trust. Tetrak and her always promised to watch one another’s backs, and him leaving shattered the relationship they had as brother and sister and salrokas. People who make promises they can’t, no, won’t keep will erode her trust faster than lying to her. The people in the Carta who lied to you were a dime a dozen, she lied about herself plenty, but if you kept your word you were golden. The people who promised the world and turned up with empty hands were the ones you had to watch out for.

44. How do they think their race plays into being Inquisitor?

She navigates a strange place in both being dwarven but not dwarven enough by the standards of the “traditional” dwarf. As a Carta dwarf she’s not recognised by the dwarven Surface “nobility” but as one put in a position of power her connection with the people she ran with isn’t as complete as it used to be. She wears armour that was fitted for her and not scavenged, she has coin, and while she builds up those connections again through Inquisition and after they contribute to her isolation during the early parts of the game. It’s important to note that it’s race and class that play into her role. Her experience would be very different if she were a dwarf of Varric’s status, for example.

And then, of course, to humans she’s a dwarf. Sometimes conveniently not dwarven enough to have her dual faiths respected (I’m not quite sure how Cassandra would react to Thora believing in the Stone and the Maker, but in-game if you choose to say you believe in the Stone Cassandra undercuts it with “but aren’t you a Surface dwarf” so), but then also too dwarven to be respected as a human might. Her skills must be in her abilities as a warrior and not a scholar, or as a thief and not a negotiator, even though Thora’s true shining moments as an Inquisitor come from her bookishness and striving for pacifism.

They try to fit her into boxes she’s too big for. They can’t be surprised when she climbs out of it.

49. What is their least favourite foe to fight?

Spirits and demons, of any sort. They’re the ones she has zero experience with, she’s fought Templars in Kirkwall, the Carta’s been seen to employ apostates so she’s fought mages, and she’s locked blades with the occasional Darkspawn in her time. When the Breach opened she’d never seen them before, they were nightmares in the Chant and nothing else.

It gets worse when Solas tells her they’re people, and worse again when she actually starts to believe him.

50. Are they proud of what they accomplished?

Yes and no. There are some decisions which will never sit right with her— Halamshiral, for example. She’s not sure what she could go and do different if she had the chance, and wonders if letting Briala continue her work from exile is better than if she could go back and secure her a position as ambassador or marquise, but it doesn’t stop her from regretting it. That quest is also the instance where she is reminded that her accomplishments are already being rewritten, the mages she allied with are now enemies she vanquished on the lips of the herald who announced her entrance.

Some things, like her alliance with the mages, she is genuinely proud of and the good it does alone is enough to make her think it was worth everything else. The Wardens look to be reevaluating their Order, and hopefully improving what wasn’t working (at least south of Weisshaupt).

She’s worried too much pride will make her complacent, especially because everything she accomplished she hardly did alone. It’s hard not to feel good when she’s walking through Skyhold and seeing the beginnings of what she hopes is a better Thedas starting within its walls.

#( long post )#ofrevas #( asks )#v; once more unto the breach ( thora | inquisitor )#become the storm you are hiding from ( thora | about )

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thetypedwriter · 4 years ago

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Only Mostly Devastated Book Review

Only Mostly Devastated Book Review by Sophie Gonzales

You know those feel good movies that are short and sweet and fun while you’re watching it, but mostly forgettable? You all know what I’m talking about. It’s the experience of something that is fine, enjoyable even, but largely unnoticed on the grand scheme of things?

Only Mostly Devastated is like that.

Now, before the fangirls attack, let me just say that what I commented above is not an inherent criticism. Not every novel that I read, or people want to read, has to be a masterful prose full of epistemological queries and agonizing philosophies on life.

Sometimes you want something sweet and fluffy, like cotton candy, to fill in the times when your brain needs a break. A good book does not necessarily equate to a challenging book, although English teachers in school will have you believe otherwise.

Sometimes books can just be fun.

Only Mostly Devastated tells the queer book version of Grease, down to allusions making its way even on the front cover. The plot is basic in its storytelling. The main character, Oliver, is staying in North Carolina for the summer with his parents as they help out his aunt while she receives treatment for cancer. During the summer, Oliver has a not-so-summer-fling with a boy named Will that both think will end when Oliver moves back to California at the end of the season.

But lo and behold! Oliver’s parents decide to stay in North Carolina for a year to help out, forcing Oliver to spend his last year of high school far away from home and unbeknownst to him, attend the same high school as his beloved Will from the summer.

However, predictably, Will from summer and Will the basketball player that Oliver meets in high school, seem to be two different people, with Oliver trying to reconcile why the boy he loves is pretending like he doesn’t exist.

This book...isn’t original. In any way, shape, or form. From the plot, the characters, the dialogue, and even the writing, nothing about this stands out too much to me.

Again, this does not make it a bad read, sometimes you want light and easy and predictable, but it does make it a forgettable one.

The plot is fine. It’s sturdy, it works for what Gonzales is trying to achieve, which is mainly the love story between Will and Oliver. She does try to throw some other things in there, like putting a side character who is struggling with being bisexual, another side character with PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome), some light stuff on body image, other airy commentary on fetishizing people’s sexualization, and of course, the death and loss of a loved one and the grieving process that goes with it.

Now, you might be saying, wow, thetypedwriter, what are you thinking? That is so much stuff that she put into her book! Incredible! How can you call it shallow and predictable?

Well, for one, the book is short. While again, nice for those readers who want something light to carry on their way to tan by the pool, great, but for those readers who want something more, this can be frustrating.

For an in-depth reading experience for any of those themes above, hitting the tip of the iceberg would be putting it lightly. The book skims the surface of those topics, but they aren’t delved into in any semblance of sophistication or depth that would actually make this a more memorable read.

Reason two, Sophie Gonzales does come across quite preachy sometimes.

Now, this can be tricky so let me explain. Putting forth your agenda or your beliefs and values in a book is not an erroneous thing to do. Actually, it’s an amazing thing to do and people have been using books as a form of expression for these types of things for centuries. Some may argue that the intrinsic value of a book is to express such opinions.

However, this is not Sophie Gonzales’ biography, nor is it an opinion article about how she feels about the fetishization of girls kissing girls for male entertainment. When you are going to put your opinions and beliefs into your book, it needs to make sense in the scheme of the characters.

For example, if J.K. Rowling randomly had Ron go on a speech about women’s rights and toxic masculinity, it would be out-of-character and baffling since Ron would not be the character to say such a thing.

However, if Hermione were to give such a speech, the ideas and beliefs would be passed along, message received, but without breaking character or pulling me out of the universe to think what the hell because a sermon came out of left field that held no continuity in the scheme of the novel as a whole.

This happened to me quite a lot in Only Mostly Devastated. It was like Sohpie Gonzales got to a certain point, told her characters to step aside, and then got on her soapbox to preach about love and acceptance.

Once again, I’m not against any of the messages she’s portraying at all.

What I think lacked finesse, however, was the way in which she got those messages across, which was often out-of-character and forced the plot to go certain places just so she could get the chance to talk about those issues.

With that out of the way, other slight criticisms I have mainly are to be found with the characters and the writing itself.

The characters were all likable enough. I’m not about to go write fanfiction about any of them though. They were largely generic, although entertaining enough for what this book is offering. They were also all pretty forgettable and formed pretty forgettable relationships as well.

Do I really remember any of Will’s friends? Nope. What about Oliver’s girl squad? Kind of? I did appreciate the attempt at including more characters of color, including Will.

I do think that Lara was the most interesting character. I honestly would have preferred to have had a whole novel about her rather than told from Oliver’s point-of-view, simply as Oliver is basic as all hell (white boy that plays guitar and is slightly awkward. I’ve only seen this character about 10 million thousand times before).

And if Gonzales had written this novel about Lara instead, all of her themes would have worked infinitely better. You still get the struggle with sexuality, you still get the side POC characters with PCOS and body image issues, and you could still have the plot of loss and death if you wanted to.

The friendship with the girls would make so much more sense, the fetishization topic could have been delved into way more thoroughly, and Lara was kind of a bitch, and I appreciated that about her. You would even still get a musical person in the form of Juliette even without Oliver on the scene.

But, nope. We get Oliver. Which is...fine. Mediocre, but fine, I guess.

Lastly, Gonzales is a perfectly average writer. The story flowed, it was funny, it had its moments of nuance and sarcasm, but there were moments where she would make comparisons, always with similes or metaphors, that left me literally confounded because of how bizarre and out-of-place I found them.

Some examples:

1. “Up close, she smelled like sugary flowers.”

-I’m sorry, but what do sugary flowers smell like? Why are the flowers sugary? Who would even sugar their flowers in the first place?

2. “Deep inside my chest, my heart was beating as though it was trying to tear free from bondage.”

-Just...an extremely odd choice of words. Why bondage, Sophie Gonzales, why?

3. “I’d rather floss with barbed wire, than watch a live sports match…”

-Ummm eww and scary?

I could go on and on with the frankly awful choices for comparison that are made in this book with incessant use, but I think you get the point. The similes and metaphors were downright baffling. Not really sure what Gonzales was going for with them, but...no. Just no.

Lastly, Oliver’s nickname Ollie-oop made me want to curl up and die. It didn’t make them seem like better friends. In fact, the whole rose gold-girl-group and Oliver was such a dumpster fire of a friendship that lacked any and all actual solid foundations for a relationship that it annoyed me, especially in the end when Oliver decides to stay in North Carolina to be with people he’s not even close to.

Additionally, the inclusion of Oliver’s two friends from back home was just...pointless, utterly pointless. I don’t even know why she bothered to write them into the story honestly. They added nothing.

Again, her themes are good in nature and provocative in theory, but the book was just too short and shallow to justify writing in any of it when really all she cared about was Will and Oliver sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G. It was almost like fanfiction, but published. Actually, nope, I think fanfiction is better.

Wow, I guess I had more feelings about this book than I thought, mostly negative too.

Once more, I want to heavily emphasize that I DIDN’T HATE IT. It was a super, light, super cute, very simple book that I’m sure a ton of people will appreciate right now with everything heavy going on in the world.

If you need a book in cloud form, this is your novel. But....if you wanted something more like me, if you found it just a little too simplistic in nature, just a little too forgettable, then that’s okay too.

Recommendation: If you’re too burdened down by carrying your sunscreen and your cooler out to the pool, this is the perfect light summer reading to tuck under one arm and melt your worries away for a little while. If you want an actually good, actually complex and refined LGBTQ+ coming of age novel then I’d definitely go for the likes of Red, White, and Royal Blue or Autoboyagraphy instead.

Score: 5/10

#only mostly devastated #sophie gonzales #ya fiction #YA Books #YA literature #LGBTQ fiction #book blog #books #book review #Book Recommendations

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angrylizardjacket · 4 years ago

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Brian May Exclusive Enterview: Queen, Debauchery and Freddie Mercury (May 21, 2017)

Originally from The Times (which you have to pay to read) but found on SpearHead News (who republished the whole thing for free and I love them for it). Not sure if people had seen it much before but Rock Dad Brian May is v sweet, and the spearhead link has images attached.

Tragedy, debauchery … and dwarves — the guitarist Brian May gives Krissi Murison an access-all-areas account of his life with Freddie Mercury and rock’s most flamboyant band. by The Sunday Times

Brian May does a great Freddie Mercury impression. He leans forward in his chair, clasps his hands together conspiratorially and channels the high-speed, staccato delivery of the greatest showman of the late 20th century: “ ‘I had an idea … you know Michael Jackson did this album and it’s called Bad?’ Yeah, Fred. ‘Well, the album we’re making, we could call it Good.’ ”

May laughs. “He would always knock you sideways. Sometimes it was great and sometimes it wasn’t.”

The visitors to Freddie’s dressing room started to change from hot chicks to hot men. It didn’t matter to us — why should it?

May, the guitarist in Queen since their 1970 inception, remembers when Mercury finally announced to him that he was gay, “years after it was obvious”. “In the beginning, the band lived on a shoestring. We couldn’t afford individual hotel rooms, so I would share a room with Freddie … There isn’t a lot I don’t know about Freddie and what he got up to in those days — which was not men, I have to tell you. It was fairly obvious when the visitors to Freddie’s dressing room started to change from hot chicks to hot men. It didn’t matter to us, why should it? But Freddie had this habit of saying, ‘Well, I suppose you realise this, that or the other,’ in this very offhand way, and he did say at some point, ‘I suppose you realise I’ve changed in my private life?’

“And years later, he said, ‘I suppose you realise that I’m dealing with this illness.’ Of course, we all knew [he had Aids], but we didn’t want to. He said, ‘You probably gather that I’m dealing with this thing and I don’t want to talk about it and I don’t want our lives to change, but that’s the situation.’ And then he would move on.”

Dredging through old memories has been the subject of May’s latest project: a compilation book of his personal collection of 3D photos from his time striding around the globe during Queen’s heady reign of stadium-rock supremacy. The accompanying words mark the first time any member of Queen has written about their experiences in the band.

It is harrowing to read of Freddie’s final days and the devastating effect the HIV virus took on his body before he died in late 1991. “The problem,” May writes, “was actually his foot, and tragically there was very little left of it. Once, he showed it to us at dinner. And he said, ‘Oh Brian, I’m sorry I’ve upset you by showing you that.’ And I said, ‘I’m not upset, Freddie, except to realise you have to put up with all this terrible pain.’ ”

Equally hard is May’s belief that the “magic cocktail” of drugs that has since stopped Aids becoming a death sentence was discovered just too late to save Freddie.

“He missed by just a few months,” May sighs. “If it had been a bit later he would still have been with us, I’m sure. It’s very …” he breaks off sadly. “Hmmm. You can’t do ‘what if’ can you? You can’t go there because therein lies madness.”

Brian May on his Queen picture book and Freddie Mercury

Honestly, I had expected to meet a sanctimonious old git. May has been dubbed “the world’s grumpiest rock star” thanks to his online blog, Brian’s Soapbox, on which he posts pious rants about politics, the press, badger culls and animal rights. There are flashes of the same hectoring tone in the book. But it must be a mean trick of the typing, because in real life he seems a terribly gentle and pleasant soul.

I meet him in Windlesham, Surrey, in the vast pile where he has his offices. The bookshelves are lined with antique cameras and 19th-century volumes of Punch. In the middle of the room is a female mannequin wearing a sweeping Victorian crinoline skirt — another of May’s esoteric interests.

He wanders in wearing clogs, gardening trousers and a woven red jacket, almost as arresting as his bright grey corkscrew barnet. Under the jacket is a white shirt, unbuttoned dangerously low for someone who turns 70 in July. Bohemian chain pendants clatter against nipple as he leans in to say hello. He is very tall — or maybe that’s just the hair — and frightfully easy-going.

Tea is arranged and he briefly excuses himself. I assume he’s gone to use the facilities or take an urgent phone call. But after 20 minutes I look out the window to see him tottering around the back garden taking pictures of his rhododendron. Has he forgotten me? When he finally returns, it’s with a box containing his treasured collection of “stereoscopic” (3D) cameras and some of the original slides he took.

He shows me one of his favourites: a picture of Freddie and the Queen bassist John Deacon on a private plane in 1977. A blonde woman gazes at Freddie from the seat next to him.

“That’s Mary, his long-term girlfriend.” Despite Mercury’s sexuality, Mary Austin was his longest relationship and the woman he called “the love of my life”. “They were still very close right to the end,” May nods. “He took care of Mary in his will.”

We look at another photo of Freddie having his make-up applied before a show. “You just feel he’s so close there, don’t you?” May smiles. “It’s almost painfully real. He was this strange mixture of flamboyance and shyness,” he says, remembering his first impressions of Mercury. “He had already built this image around himself, which was very confident and colourful. He was a rock star long before he made a record. In the old days they would have called him a dandy. And more recently a metrosexual. He was like a peacock, a person who brought his own fantasy to life.”

Mercury was born Farrokh Bulsara in Zanzibar, east Africa, to Indian Parsi parents in 1946. He had already started calling himself Freddie before his family came to England, fleeing the Zanzibar revolution for Feltham in west London when he was 17. May grew up a few miles away in leafy Hampton, a studious only child who would later quit a PhD in astrophysics at Imperial College London to pursue his rock’n’roll dreams. (He eventually completed it 36 years later in 2007, specialising in zodiacal dust.)

May tells me about the day he met Freddie. The guitarist was already in a university band called Smile. One day Smile’s singer unwittingly brought his colourful, outspoken mate from Ealing Art College to watch a rehearsal. “Freddie was full of enthusiasm, really fired up,” May remembers. “He loved watching us. Then, on the other hand, he was: ‘But you’re doing all of this wrong. Why are you just standing there looking at the floor? Why aren’t you giving a show for people?’ ”

Was he angling for the frontman job himself?

“I think so. He was very complimentary to me. He said, ‘You should be my Jimi Hendrix.’ Freddie loved Hendrix, he followed him everywhere, he was like a disciple.”

A band, Queen, was born with Mercury as singer. I had no idea how revolutionary his crowd interaction was until May explains that most audiences going to watch a rock band in the early 1970s would sit on the floor, nodding. “These days groups encourage audience participation, but Freddie asking people to sing along was almost uncool in those days. It was viewed as something that might happen in cabaret. What we did, if you want to be crass about it, is we amalgamated rock with music hall. That’s why we wrote We Are the Champions, We Will Rock You and Radio Ga Ga — it was consciously allowing the audience to be part of the show.”

Then there were the outfits. May’s book features some beauties: early 1970s Freddie in flowing locks and Zandra Rhodes’s white pleated “winged” capes; gay-icon Freddie, barechested in black leather trousers and black leather biker hat; “Mediterranean prawn” Freddie with his porno moustache, bouffant wig and strappy red leotard.

Wasn’t he scared of getting beaten up?

“No, not really. There were times when we went, Fred, are you really going on in that? I think the maroon sequin shorts were close to the edge as far as we were concerned. But he loved to outrage people. We were very much a people’s band. If people stopped us in the street and got excited, it was generally bricklayers or truck drivers. Freddie had an amazing way of being in contact with everyone, making people feel like their inner selves were going to come out. We liberated a lot of people.”

Mercury the daring peacock, May the soft-spoken brainiac … it is hard not to see them as two polar opposites, but May disagrees. “We were all striding around the world being big-time rock stars, but actually we’re quite fragile inside. It’s probably the reason we’re rock stars, because it’s a big compensation thing, playing a loud guitar or strutting around singing. You do it because you want to feel confident, you want to find yourself and achieve your potential.”

It says much about Mercury’s light-sapping charisma that May spent much of his time in the shadow of the singer while he was alive. And it says much about May’s strategic brilliance that he hasn’t subsequently faded into obscurity, but become the figurehead of a band that is now even more successful than it was during Mercury’s lifetime. According to this year’s Rich List, May is worth £125m, while a recent survey named Queen the favourite band among fiftysomethings.

Next year will finally see the release of a long-awaited Freddie Mercury biopic, with Rami Malek playing the singer, and May and Queen’s drummer, Roger Taylor, on board as music producers. We Will Rock You, a musical based on Queen’s hits, ran at the Dominion Theatre for 12 years from 2002. Since 2012, Queen have toured live with the American Idol finalist Adam Lambert singing Mercury’s lines (heresy in my opinion, but apparently Freddie would have loved him). Nothing, though, can eclipse May’s 2002 moment astride the top of Buckingham Palace, playing a guitar solo of God Save the Queen for the jubilee. The roof was his idea; the organisers had initially envisaged him wandering through the state rooms for the performance, but he thought it lacked impact. Perhaps he is more like Freddie than we will ever know.

Absent from any of the post-Mercury Queen activity is the bassist, John Deacon, now said to be a recluse. “I don’t see him at all, no,” says May. “It’s his choice. He doesn’t contact us. John was quite delicate all along. He could be very outgoing and very funny, but I think some of the stuff that happened in Munich gave him a lot of damage, and I think losing Freddie was very hard for him as well. He found that incredibly hard to process, to the point where actually playing with us made it more difficult.”

Munich was where Queen holed up at the end of the 1970s and early 1980s to write and record. Things got out of hand. May coyly refers to it in the book as a period of heavy drinking in a local bar, “living in a fantasy world of vodka and barmaids”.

Today he is more forthright: “We all lost our minds … we were all in a perilous place where our emotions were out of control. It manifested itself in way too much drinking, a certain amount of drugs, which I didn’t share — but certainly an awful lot of vodka went through my body. We all fell to bits. That’s the moment Freddie wrote It’s a Hard Life. If you look at the video, it’s a metaphor. There’s all this wonderful, fanciful clothing and excess of food, wine and debauchery, but Freddie’s saying ‘It’s a hard life’ as the grapes are thrust into his mouth. The Freddie writing that song was actually in a very painful, emotional place.”

It inevitably also had an impact on the band dynamic. “We overreacted with each other at times. We all left the band at some point. The studio’s a hard place for a band anyway, but in our case all four of us as writers had had worldwide hits — and I think that’s unique, I don’t think there’s another band in history where that’s true. You have four writers trying to create the next statement of what we are, so what could that statement be except a fight between the different visions? The lifestyle we led magnified that conflict.” In Deacon’s case, it culminated in “John disappearing to Bali and seeing God or whatever”.

When it comes to legendary Queen decadence, May’s book does its best to brush over the carnage. So let me be the one to remind you: there was the Madison Square Garden aftershow party at which male guests were served by topless waitresses in stockings and heels and female guests by men in nothing but gym shorts (to avoid accusations of sexism). And the champagne bill for Freddie’s 35th birthday in New York in 1981, which is said to have been £30,000. Most outrageous, though, was a 1978 album-release party in New Orleans, involving “a flock of transvestites, fire-eaters, dancing girls, snake charmers and strippers dressed as nuns”, according to Mark Blake’s well-respected Queen biography. The tales of what happened next range from the lurid (naked mud-wrestling, public fornication) to the unprintable, but perhaps the most famous involves a fleet of dwarves carrying platters of cocaine strapped to their heads. Does May remember seeing them?

“We knew a lot of dwarves,” he concedes. “I’m still very friendly with the dwarf community because my wife, Anita, used to do pantomimes. I don’t want to sound big-headed, but I’m pretty big in the dwarf world. I’ve spent many long nights propping up bars with dwarves.”

Of New Orleans, he says: “We chose to launch the album there because it was completely broad-minded. We knew a lot of people on the ‘edge of society’, as you would have called it then. You wouldn’t call it that now, you’d call it LGBTBF or whatever it is now. To that party came all sorts of pretty outrageous performers of every sex — and there are a lot! It was fun, nothing sinister went on at all. Nobody was abused, nobody was taken advantage of.”

Fat Bottomed Girls — I was proud of that song. The nude photoshoot was fun at the time, but I wouldn’t find it amusing now. Attitudes change

He would rather distance himself from some of Queen’s less politically correct japes. “For instance, Fat Bottomed Girls. I am very proud of that song, but as part of the album packaging we had this nude [female] bicycle race for a photo session and it all seemed quite innocent and fun at the time. Now I wouldn’t think that was amusing. Attitudes have changed to lots of things.”

He was far from the hardest-partying member of Queen. He’s never even tried drugs, having decided while still a student that “I want to get to the end of this and know that everything I felt was real”.

His weakness was always “company”. He bemoans his sensitive and emotionally immature nature, which meant he was endlessly trawling the world for “the perfect bond with the perfect partner … the place where you could dissolve with someone to the point where you don’t know where they start and you end.”

Did he ever find it? “No, it’s impossible. I’ve glimpsed it. Various times, various moments. But it’s a wonderful fiction, really.”

Don’t feel too bad for him. While he was searching, his then-wife, Chrissie Mullen, was stuck at home with their three children.

“It was very different in those days. There were no mobile phones and phone calls were incredibly expensive if you were on the other side of the world. There was this feeling that life on the road was this separate bubble from your life back home. Nowadays you can’t even begin to think that because communication is so good. We lived in a time that was very exciting, but lonely because you were cut off. You were exploring the frontiers of what was around you, but also the frontiers of what was inside you. In the same way as people who went to look for the Northwest Passage in the 1950s. It felt a bit like you were an explorer in another universe.”

As justifications for adultery go, I suppose it’s a pretty classy one.

He met his second wife, Anita Dobson — aka Angie, the original Queen Vic landlady from EastEnders — in 1986 at a film premiere, while he was still married to Mullen. He and Dobson wed in 2000. There was much amusement in the early days about them both having the same huge poodle perms — though May’s is the real deal and Dobson has been platinum and straight for some time now. In his book’s acknowledgments, he thanks her for managing to live with “possibly the most infuriating man in Britain for 30 years”.

“I know I’m not easy,” he says. “I’m constantly obsessed with one thing or another — astronomy, stereoscopy, music, saving animals … Living with someone like that is appallingly difficult, so I think she deserves a medal. I’m not going to tell you she’s easy, either. She’s an artist and a fearsomely creative person, so our life has always been turbulent, but I suppose that’s what’s kept us young.”

He has previously spoken about the depression he suffered from in the late 1980s and early 1990s, as he dealt with the fallout from his first marriage breaking down and the deaths of both his father and Mercury. Last year he cancelled a tour due to a mystery “persistent illness”. And on Christmas Day he published an alarming blog on Brian’s Soapbox. “I’ve been going through some radical and painful changes in my life … if you had seen me a few weeks ago, you would’ve wondered if I was going to make it to Christmas,” he wrote, before publishing a “tool kit” of apps, a book and a prayer to help others struggling to cope “physically or mentally or spiritually”.

“I went through a very bad period before Christmas and cancelled everything, not just the tour, everything,” he explains. “I just knew I couldn’t handle it.”

Would he call it depression?

“Strangely enough I prefer not to call it depression now. I’ve recently got very much into the body and mind. All my life I’ve been pathetic at doing exercises. I now have a regime — every morning I do 40 minutes’ exercise, then I finish with meditation. It’s really enabled me to recentre. I feel like I’m in a much better place.”

He is an advocate of mindful meditation — a way of living in the present that he believes Mercury used in the final days of his illness. May is happy to speak openly about his own mental health. “I noticed Prince Harry opened up in a similar way. I’ve always thought it’s nice to be open and I get reinforced in that because I get tons of mail saying the fact that you talked about it has helped me feel like I wasn’t alone and wasn’t a freak. I don’t think all this taboo business is helpful at all.”

I wonder if it might be a better use of his platform than his zealous activism on behalf of badgers, which seems a rather niche concern. In brief, then: he is a fierce campaigner against the policy of culling badgers to try to eradicate bovine TB. It is his scientific belief that the cull isn’t working. But it is muddled by his more deep-seated conviction: “Martin Luther King said we hold it self-evident that every man is born equal. I hold it self-evident that every creature is born equal.”

He can point to numerous childhood traumas that led him to this conclusion: watching his mother pour boiling water over an invasion of ants on the path outside his house; squirting a bumblebee with the pesticide DDT, then recoiling in shame as it dropped to the ground, buzzing to its slow and agonising death. If he hasn’t yet had therapy for the latter, he really should.

The animal fanaticism is odd, because on everything else he seems so calmly rational. Perhaps he learnt some of that composure from Freddie. Despite his pain, Freddie was determined to keep working during the band’s final days together in a recording studio in Montreux.

“What we did was get on with business as usual, which is what Freddie wanted,” May remembers. “He said, ‘I don’t want anything to change. We just do what we always do and we love what we do, so it’s going to be fine.’ Certainly those days towards the end were fabulous, full of laughter and joy, Freddie as wicked as ever. He was incredibly matter-of-fact about everything. ‘Oh darling, I’ll just get on with it.’ There wasn’t any self-pity at all. He wanted a ballad, so I very quickly sketched something in the studio and Freddie liked it. He said, ‘Gimme some words’. It was a question of scribbling a few lines and he’d chuck a couple of vodkas down — because he could hardly stand at that point — ‘Oh darling, I’ll do it now.’ Then he’d prop himself up on the desk and sing the lines. We didn’t quite get to the end. I gave him the last verse and he said, ‘Oh darling, I’m not feeling too good now, so I’ll come back to it. In a couple of days I’ll be fine, we’ll do it then.’ And he never did.”

May finished the song after Mercury’s death. It’s called Mother Love, “an attempt from the two of us to look at life and sum it up, to reconcile the end with the beginning, although we wouldn’t have put it that way.”

What does he think Freddie would be doing now if he were still alive? “I don’t think he’d have the patience for social media, because I hardly do and he was much more impatient than me. I don’t think he would be tweeting, he would probably be still writing his little memos on pieces of paper. He was becoming more and more reclusive towards the end of his life. That was partly because he was becoming more and more visible, but partly not wanting his illness to be public. But he was very private anyway and I think that would have continued.”

He is adamant Mercury would still be creating music. “His creativity would have carried on. He was unstoppable and very lateral-thinking. Always coming up with things that were surprising. Often Roger and I, if we’re creating something for Queen, both of us have said that we feel like he’s in the room and you know what he’d say. You can tell if he would have been scornful or enthusiastic — although of course the whole thing about Freddie was that he wasn’t expected.”

We have touched upon May’s depression, infidelity, the painful death of one of his closest friends and the painful death of a bee. Yet there is one subject so sensitive, I have avoided raising it until the very end. His hair. He hates talking about it, but he must on some level like the attention it brings, otherwise why doesn’t he just cut it off?

“I’m comfortable with it,” he says. “It’s completely real. For a time when it was going grey I got very worried that I had to keep it a certain way or I wouldn’t be me any more. Anita encouraged me not to worry about it.”

Would he ever cut it off?

“If it would achieve world peace, I’d do it tomorrow. If it would stop the badger cull, I’d probably do it tomorrow. Because the badger cull is a worthless, senseless operation, it’s not working and sooner or later our government has to realise …”

The images in May’s new book are not just any photos, but 3D pictures, taken on one of the Queen guitarist’s prized “stereoscopic” cameras.

Alongside music, astronomy and badgers, May is deliriously passionate about 3D photography. He first became hooked, aged 12, when Weetabix gave away free stereoscopic picture cards. He petitioned his parents to send off 1s 6d for the photo viewer so he could see them properly in 3D. “It’s probably about £2.50 by today’s money. But we were poor in those days — £2.50 was a lot of heating and lighting.”

“Stereoscopic” photography was originally a Victorian phenomenon and May’s book is published through the London Stereoscopic Company, a 19th-century business he brought back to life in 2008. He has also designed and prototyped his own stereoscopic photo viewer, the Owl, to see the images in their full, 3D majesty; it comes with the book. “It’s just magic to me,” he says, “when you see a picture of Freddie in the viewer and he springs to life.”

#brian may #queen #freddie mercury #roger taylor #john deacon #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #the angry lizard speaks

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