#or at least make it seem like something of value bc of the memories attached to it

[fishing-lesbian-catgirl]

This is kind of a personal ramble but…

In my last semester of high school I had already gotten accepted into college, took no difficult classes, and had the freedom to take 2 art classes in which I was the only person in “art 3” a class that happened in the same room at the same time as art 2. I was basically free to do whatever I wanted.

That semester I decided to make a scale model of Summoner’s Rift, the map from league of legends. I worked really hard on it and was proud of how close I got it. But it was too big to be displayed anywhere and too fragile to be hung on a wall or anything. So I left it at my parents house when I went off for college, where it collected dust.

This year I went back to their house to stay for the holidays, and my mom wanted me to clean out my room. Along with many other things she asked if she could throw it away.

The map became outdated less than a year after I made it, when they added alcoves to the top and bottom lanes. Later years made even bigger changes making it even more outdated. The map is made of salt dough on a piece of cardboard, with the towers being made of hot glue gun sticks I cut and carved that hold wire staves. Everything is painted with cheap low-budget high school art class acrylic paint. I never had time to make a little model of Baron Nashor, the dragons, the shopkeepers, or any of the jungle camps. It just looks barren, empty, and lonely.

The map is covered in dust. It has no function (despite my idea at the time of making it that I could model jungle pathing on it). It doesn’t look pretty. It takes up space. It’s hard to display. It’s hard to appreciate. Objectively speaking it is a piece of junk that is wasting space in my parents’ house. And despite being addicted since 2015, I haven’t even played league in a year.

But it’s something I made. Something I worked hard on. Something I burned my fingers with a hot glue gun far too many times to be seen as junk to me. It’s useless, kind of ugly, takes up space, and yet I can’t bare the thought of throwing it away.

As an art piece it has no meaning, no emotions to invoke when you look at it. It’s some high school kid’s creation of the thing she saw in the game she loved. To anyone but me it is a piece of junk, even if you know what it’s from you have no reason to care. But when I look at it I see all the little details. All the extra touches, all the mistakes I didn’t have time to fix, and all the ways time has aged it poorly.

It would’ve crushed that kid’s heart to see something she worked so hard on destroyed. Did she not already suffer enough from the dysphoria, from the way her friend groups fell apart, the way she got burnt out from trying hard in school, the way everything in her life felt like it was falling apart and the things she enjoyed stopped being fun. She already went through so much, she was so strong and she’s the only reason I’m alive now. So I can’t do it, I can’t destroy it. I took dozens of pictures from as many angles as I could to preserve it as best I can. But it doesn’t feel like enough.

I am her, but I don’t care about it for me, I care about it for her. But she’s not here, she’s gone. Nothing I do now can affect her in my memories. So why do I care?

[whyarewecalledtheshipname]

idk where this came from. kairi ramblings, in which i repeat myself a lot, with a smidge of soriku:

how i interpret the dynamic of destiny trio, mostly from kairi’s eyes. headcanons ahead. i also project onto kairi a lot. i label them with brother/sister terms, but i’m not saying that’s how she labels them in her mind. found family doesn’t need to follow traditional roles. family can just be people closest to you. anyway—

i see kairi as the little sister. the only girl, boyish, a little shit but also precious, isn’t weak but is perpetually under the guard of the older brother anyway, her world revolves around her brothers and she has attached much of herself to them.

i see riku as the big brother. kairi’s known him all her life, strongest, smartest, most experienced, always there, couldn’t imagine her life without him, a guardian.

and i see sora as the younger brother. he’s closest to kairis age, her partner in crime, he is under her wing as much as she is under his, is perpetually “little” and must be protected even if he’s taller than her, a baby beneath it all, silly and precious.

this is how kairi sees them, in a way. and that’s why even though she’s often with riku (game-wise), bc younger siblings usually gravitate towards the eldest, she’s always more vocal about making sure sora is safe. because you always take care of the kids, first. she doesn’t see him as “littler” than her, but by virtue of being her equal, or close to it, she feels that he needs protection similarly to her. she also feels like she could give him that protection, even if she couldn’t fully protect herself. this could be why she mimics sora’s battle pose and not riku’s, bc she feels sora’s style is something she could achieve and that could benefit her. bc she sees more similarities between herself and sora.

this is actually part of why she comes across as kinda “pointless” in her appearances. she thinks she can be there for sora, bc like i said she naturally sees him as closest to her equal. but because she can’t even protect herself, her attempts to protect sora fall flat.

that’s also why she doesn’t really voice any concerns about keeping riku safe. one, because he’s the older one, and has always been the strongest one, she’s never felt the need to, not as prominently as for sora, and two, she partially feels she can’t do that. if there’s something riku can’t protect himself against, she doubts she’d be able to do it for him. but it isn’t a primary concern, bc there’s little riku has ever needed protecting from.

this is why she shares paopus with sora, and not riku. she’s resorting to the supposed “magic” of the paopu for luck, for a way to keep sora safe.

riku on the other hand, is the strongest of them all, and older. she believes he knows what’s best for himself, and that he can take care of himself, better than she ever could, so she lets him be. she’s let him be for most of her life. sora is the one who’s always needed talking-to’s, after all. riku will always be there, but sora’s the one who would suffer more if he strays from the path. riku couldn’t be kairi’s responsibility, but sora could.

to me, it’s a matter of “scaling”, or even just relativity. sora and kairi have always been the closest by virtue of being the same/similar age. riku, despite being only a year older than them, IS, in fact, older. he’s “the big kid” in their group. and that’s part of why there’s always been a gap between riku and them. kairi can see sora as her peer and equal, but with riku, despite kairi being under /his wing/, she sees herself as /under/ him regardless. (not in a derogatory way relax)

it doesn’t help that riku always tried playing the part of the older brother until recently. and kairi and sora were very much partners in crime. kairi could be a brat at riku, but sora’s the one she could hit and boss around and scheme with.

there’s less fear that riku might not come back to her than that sora won’t. to a degree, it probably doesn’t even fully register in kairi’s mind that she could lose riku, whereas that caution is a real fear when it comes to sora.

for sora, it’s actually probably the same. at least in regards to kairi. because he and kairi really are equals. protecting kairi is a prominent priority in sora’s mind, because he sees her as “small”, or young/younger.

but his feelings aren’t the same when it comes to riku.

riku may be older, he may seem untouchable, but sora obsesses over staying close to riku anyway. not necessarily protecting riku, but staying /with/ him. sora /needs/ to know riku is safe, and preferably by his side, physically, even though sora knows they’re always together. (this is fact, see: DDD)

Sora is way more vocal about wanting to be with riku than kairi is about riku, because sora is in love with him. That’s the difference.

Kairi is family. Kairi brings sora comfort, and happiness.

Riku /completes/ him.

Kairi has been attached to Sora in a slightly less than healthy/optimal way. She feels like she needs sora (and less obviously, riku) to be physically with her to be okay. If Sora or Riku aren’t physically with her, in the same place, she feels alone.

Sora, on the other hand, can be without riku. And this is because sora knows riku is always with him, even when it might seem like he’s not. Though naturally, sora would rather he and riku be together, physically.

All of this reflects on why kairi’s relationship with sora and riku is lacking. She doesn’t feel their togetherness, because their bond is weak, or weakening.

Sora and Riku’s relationship is—I don’t even know how to put it, honestly. Sora and Riku’s hearts resonate with each other, gravitate to each other, they are literally shining onto each other, and all of this is why Sora and Riku can feel each other. Because no matter what, they’re always together in heart.

This is part of why Kairi in Melody of Memory is great. She’s beginning to realize and accept that she can’t be with sora and riku until she can at least /be/ there /for/ them. She’s never been able to do that, so hopefully her training, /her decision/ to train, will be the beginning of her learning and experiencing more things.

Who knows where her path will lead. Maybe it’ll lead her back to Sora and Riku, or maybe away from them. But that’s the whole thing. She has to break away from the one thing she’s always known, out of the rut she’s been stuck in, to discover what it is she really needs and wants. to grow as a person and a character.

again, these are all my personal interpretations, based on my own relationships and views of my brothers. but it’s what helps me connect with kairi when at face value, she doesn’t feel very interesting or compelling.

i doubt this reads as “i hate kairi” bc after putting thought into it, i’ve discovered that i really do like her, and her role in the general story. it’s maybe a role i don’t see often, or done well. i’m starting to think kairi really is top notch, even if her role is unappealing, and difficult to fully appreciate, because that’s the whole point.

i’m sure i’m not the only person in existence who’s ever been afraid of change, taken my personality from the people around me, invested too much of myself in others and forgotten myself, lost something very important in childhood that’s held me back in the years since, been overdependent on others, unable to connect with people in the healthiest way, etc.

people sometimes say kairi feels like an empty shell of a character, but maybe some of us forget that sometimes, there are people who feel like an empty shell of a person, too.

i’m not tryna get philosophical here, or pretend i’m smart. i’m just saying i really relate to (my interpretation of) kairi, and i’m tired of certain kinds of people reducing kairi to “girl who likes sora”. even if she did, she’s so much more. fuck off.

to anyone else who read all this, thanks lol

[blahblahwritings]

Contracts and Captains. - IV

A/N: Remember how I posted something before one of my other fics saying that I had been consistently updating for weeks? Neither do I lmao who was she? Don’t know her anyway heres the fourth chapter of this black sails fic.

Words: 1823. Honestly I’ve been writing this since about 12pm I don’t know how its so short and its probably shit bc I haven’t written anything in months.

Warnings: Mentions of vomit as per the last chapter. Think thats it lmao. See you in three months.

As your eyes opened, there were a blissful couple of seconds where the previous night’s encounter didn’t exist in your memory. But, just like the sun flooding the room, unwanted flashes of vomit and slurred words rose like a tidal wave in your minds eye. You rolled over, burying your face and groaning into the pillow out of sheer embarrassment as a dull throbbing started in the depths of your skull. 

Why did you keep drinking? You could’ve simply had one or two before retiring for the night and you wouldn’t have met that boatswain or thrown up on your own boots. What was his name again? Ben? Boyd? No, they weren’t quite right. Either way you made a mental note to apologise again whenever you next saw him. 

Slowly, you tugged your still clothed limbs from the thin sheets, trying not to jostle your stomach too much for fear of whatever was left in there making an unwelcome appearance. Your pants were scuffed from where you took a tumble outside the tavern, your shirt was half undone, probably from a failed attempt to undress before not-so-gracefully falling into bed. A single boot was thrown on the floor alongside your coat, the other still stuck on your foot. What a mess. 

A hot bath, that's what you needed, and a hearty breakfast if your insides don’t bring it back up. Pulling on the other boot, you made your way to one of the girls working downstairs, trading her coin to fill the tub in your room. You must’ve looked rough as you passed her to get to the man at the bar because when he turned to look at you, his brows shot up, disappearing behind his hair. 

“You look like you could use a little hair of the dog, love.” He chuckled, eyes scanning your disheveled form. A grimace was your immediate response. “Some food then.” He offered, filling a bowl with something that you didn’t stop to look at as you practically inhaled it. The man watched you with a knowing smirk and had you not felt so terrible you’d have spat out a snarky comment. You chose to gulp down your water instead.

“Thank you.” You huffed with a small nod, tossing some money on the counter before you headed back upstairs. The state you were in just added to this morning's growing list of regrets but you weren’t quite sure if you cared how you looked to anyone else right now. All that was on your mind was a piercing headache and a good soak.

Stripping off, you stepped into the water, sinking down slowly as your body got used to the heat. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you rested your head on the back of the tub, your aching muscles beginning to relax. Scented oils and soaps were left on a stand by the bath. Working a generous amount between your palms, you massaged your limbs and torso getting rid of any tension and purging the memories of last night’s… festivities. In the quiet of your room, you took a moment to trace the small scars that littered your form, fingers landing at last on the freshly healed knife wound from only a few weeks ago. The soft pink flesh was still tender, and if you moved the wrong way it would ache. It was dangerous to be alone on this island, in this line of work. You needed friends, not just contacts. A crew, perhaps. 

Letting your mind wander, you thought about your new found place among Flint’s men. You had to keep bringing in leads to be of any value to him, lest you risk being tossed aside and left in the dirt. He and his crew were among the most revered on the island, therefore cementing your part in that would bring security. It would ensure that other crews would leave you alone, as you were important to someone they feared and the consequences of harming you could be severe. 

Then again, there was a little more than security on your list of perks as you thought more about the taller man from last night. He was kind to you, not that the others weren’t having bought your drinks and all, but, he made sure you were safe and fed. Billy Bones. You recalled. Replaying the meeting in your head, you winced at the slurred introduction and the puking soon after. Why did you care about how he saw you? Was it because he was the crew’s boatswain or because he was handsome and softer than most pirates you’d met. 

Catching that last thought, you shook it from your head, refusing to let it take root in your brain. Attachments like that are a weakness here and you cannot afford to have those. You’d only met the guy once and he probably didn’t want anything to do with you anyway, especially after that drunken show you gave him. Cupping a handful of water, you splashed your face, scrubbing any further thoughts of the man from your head, instead, choosing to focus on finding a new lead for Flint. 

They would be leaving to chase down the details you gave him yesterday in a couple of days, if not sooner, which meant you probably had around two weeks to find something of substance upon their return. You’d struggled last time but after sending out letters to old friends in neighbouring ports, you were hopeful something would turn up. 

Padding your way to the dresser, you pulled out some fresh clothes and got ready, feeling much better than you did even an hour before. The food had settled your stomach and the water you guzzled seemed to bring some life back into your face as when you left to go hunt down some work, the barman from earlier spouted something along the lines of ‘A whole other woman’ when you walked by.

---

An uneventful morning led to an uneventful afternoon. There were no new letters or leads and the streets were pleasantly calm compared to usual. You certainly weren’t complaining, you had been feeling better since this morning but your body was still recovering. The easy day was probably just what you needed. You were sat on the beach, sipping some water and watching passersby as you sketched in the journal you kept.

It was something you’d taken to keeping since arriving in Nassau just over two years ago. A small leather book to help keep track of potential jobs and record anything interesting that happened. Really, though, you just loved to draw. You’d already filled a couple just like it with sketches of people, ships and landscapes that caught your eye, often accompanied by your messy scrawl. You were just about satisfied with your latest addition when Mr Gates clapped you on the shoulder making you jump and slam the journal closed. You’d never shown anyone the contents before. 

“Sorry, Miss Devereux, didn’t mean to startle you.” He began, chuckling lightly at your reaction. “I heard you and the lads had quite the night..” He moved to stand by you as you got to your feet, dusting the sand from your pants. Tucking away the book, an amused smirk finds its way to your face as you look at him. 

“Depends on who you ask.” You replied. “How were they this morning? Feeling sorry for themselves?” Your brows raised in question as you both started aimlessly wandering along the shore. A snort met your ears as his head fell forwards, looking at the ground then back at you. “I didn’t see the majority of them until at least noon and they were still in a sorry state, although I wonder how you must’ve been. I heard that you hurled your guts up right after meeting our boatswain.” Gates mused, eyes crinkling as he watched your entire face turn a lovely shade of red. You tried to keep your cool but your expression faltered into one of sheer embarrassment. Apparently, this was hilarious as Mr Gates exploded into a fit of hearty laughter, and as much as you told him to stop you couldn’t help but have a good chuckle yourself as you covered your face with a half-sandy palm at the thought.

When you both regain your composure, he gives you a reassuring pat on the back.

“Don’t worry, the only people who know are Billy and myself, the men still think you can hold your drink.” He winked. You made a move to argue that you could in fact hold your drink but he began talking about the plan to set sail the day after tomorrow. You listened intently and explained that you were awaiting correspondence from friends in other ports to supply more promising leads upon their return. 

---

It had been four days since the crew left in search of another haul using your most recent information. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you’d made some money here and there through smaller jobs and pickpocketing but overall, there was nothing of real interest. You spent the days reading anything you could get your hands on or drawing and you’d even had your eye on some paints in one of the markets, but all you could do was wait. Checking for mail at the front desk of the inn you were staying at every morning had become a routine, desperate for any work or ships that you could relay to Flint. It was on the fifth day that you had gotten a response from someone in Port Royal.

As you read over the letter for the third time, you could feel your eyes widen in disbelief, your heart hammered in your chest and you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding. This was far too good to be true. Surely this was a myth. A prize of this magnitude was simply unheard of. Your eyes scanned over the paper again, barely able to focus on the words because your hands were trembling so violently. Calm down. You told yourself. It can’t be the truth. You thought as you stared at the other envelope that had arrived alongside it. At the bottom of the letter it read:

“P.S

Should you doubt my information, I sent you the correspondence shared between the dead man and the merchant with evidence pertaining to this gold. Best not ask how it came into my possession.

Your dear friend,

Josiah.”

You ran to shut the windows to your room and close the drapes. If anyone found out you had this information and the evidence to go with it, you would surely be killed for it. Tearing open the paper, you unfolded its contents. It was all here. The initials of the merchant, R.P., details alluding to the existence of this gold and the name of the dead man involved in plotting the course it would be on. 

Vasquez.

[ddaenggtan]

lay me gently | ksj

there is no time for loneliness among the fires of your forge, no room in your buzzing mind for thoughts of anything but your next invention and the pain in your leg. your life is tilted off its axis, though, when your parents arrange a marriage without your knowledge or consent, and your new husband begins to situate himself into your life despite protests from either of you. you don’t know what zeus and hera have planned, but a volcano is no place for a love god like seokjin. | monsters and gods pt 2 (masterlist)

pairing | seokjin x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, aphrodite!jin, hephaestus!reader, disabled!reader (kind of. more technically accurate would be chronic pain!reader. but thats a whole discussion that ur welcome to have with me), fluff, slight angst but not a ton, v brief allusions to violence but its purposefully vague, not so brief descriptions of physical injury, descriptions of chronic pain, cyclopes! everywhere! i use that word so many times!, smut, literally the most vanilla smut i’ve ever written there are only two warnings, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, there are mentions of a war god that is a dick but it is Not Ares i promise, everyone still hates zeus bc he sucks, this also features dionysus!jimin but only a little, 

word count | 12.9k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | this is the second installment of gods and monsters!! i was actually in the middle of writing from eden when i stumbled across a really fantastic blurb about retelling aphrodite’s story the way we’ve all collectively decided to retell persephone and hades, so that there are two decent fucking couples in greek mythology, and there were a lot of good comments on said blurb that made those last two braincells in my head run into each other and make an idea. and then i promptly opened a new doc and typed half of this and a vague summary before sleeping for longer than i should have! and i’m always weak for aphrodite jin bc i mean....look at him....man looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo like who am i to deny the gods, y’know? and i figured that since i had olympian!reader in the last one, i’d continue that and have olympian!reader in this one, also i wanted an excuse to write from a hephaestus pov since i’ve loved that dumbass blacksmith since i was ten and wrote a greek history article in school. so here, have this aphrodite retelling!! | title from work song by hozier

It's hot. It's always hot here, the consequences of living inside a volcano, you suppose, but the callouses on your skin have long since made you immune to the burns. You glide down through the halls, an old habit since the day you crafted the wheels you attached to your sandals. No longer did you need to carry the awkward and hefty cane everywhere you went, or struggle to make your leg move the way you wanted it to. The invention of the wheel was one you were forever proud of. 

The forge is already blazing when you arrive, each of the hundred levels full of cyclopes all hammering away. Steam hisses and rises through the air, and you chance a glance at the lava bubbling miles below you. 

"Careful today," You call to the cyclops closest to you. "It looks like she's feeling the burn again. Raise the guards soon, and keep them up until she blows. No sense letting good work go to waste." The cyclops nods and barks an order out at others across the levels. You wheel yourself further along, the sound of the celestial bronze shields being brought up serving as background noise. You probably could have waited another day or so to raise them, if you were honest; cyclopes are fireproof, which is useful in a forge, and you yourself aren't likely to be taken out by a mere volcanic eruption. The work, though...heat like that could affect even the strongest of your creations, and everyone works much too hard here to have to reform every bolt, repour every blade. 

You valued your time too much for that. 

"You have a guest, my lady," one of your workers called. You look up from the notebook in your hands - soot-covered, bound in leather, edges singed, with bits of paper sticking every which way from the many times you've jotted something down for later and stuffed it inside quickly before tying the leather cords that bind it - and frown. The cyclops grimaces slightly. "It...seems to be Lord Zeus."

You scoff and spin yourself around to follow him to the elevator reluctantly. "Probably wants to commission another throne, the bastard. Should've stuck him to the last one, maybe he'd get it through his head that not everyone wants to fuck him." You wave a hand and your guide gives you a curt nod before returning to work. You settle yourself in the lift and flip the lever. It's not a long journey, thanks to the many improvements you've made over the years, but it still seems that too soon the grate is sliding back into the wall to allow you exit. 

You tap your heels together twice as you glide off the lift, already reaching for the cane that you keep there for situations like this. The soft clicks and whirs are nearly imperceptible as the wheels break themselves apart and regress into the hidden compartments in your soles. Your leg becomes dead weight once more, and you wince at the way it drags behind you. You've half a mind to curse whoever came to call on you this time; you hate walking, even if the charade is a necessary one. You're still contemplating the idea when you hobble into your entry to see Zeus himself, stoic and cold as he ever is. 

"My lord," You call, barely keeping the venom out of your voice as you do. Many would say it's the heat of the mountain making your blood boil, but you know the truth. Very little in the world sets you off like the man in front of you. 

He turns and fixes a blinding grin on you. "My dear Hephaestus!" You scoff at the title; no one has called you by your name in centuries, lest they inherit your lameness. "Wonderful to see you, truly. It's been too long since my last visit."

"Yes, four hundred years does seem to crawl by without you to grace the halls of my forge," You drawl. His eyes steel for a moment, your sarcasm not as lost on him as you'd hope, but it quickly passes. "Why are you here, my lord?"

"Well, you remember how I said I would owe you a favor?" Your eyes narrow and you nod. In the handful of times Zeus has repaid the hundreds of favors he owes, it's hardly ever been something positive. "I'm here to pay it! I brought you a gift."

"A gift, what-?" You don't get the chance to finish. Zeus has already waved forward a steward he brought along. Your heart aches for the boy as sweat drips down his body and his tunic is already singed. Your own leathers are slightly oppressive in the heat, but at least they don't catch fire. Zeus takes a scroll from the boy, harsh and rough, and shoves it into your hands. You unravel it quickly, your eyes darting across the words on the paper.

"A marriage?!" Your screech echoes throughout the mountain and the clanging of metal on metal pauses for a moment. "What am I supposed to do with a marriage, much less one to a-" You scan the paper again. "A love goddess?"

"Not a love goddess," He tuts. "The love goddess. Well. Love deity. Aphrodite is a beauty, you're lucky I could arrange such a thing." Your eyes strain against your skull, threatening to pop out with every word Zeus says. 

"What in all of Tartarus is a ‘love deity’ supposed to do in my forge?" You ask him. He scoffs and waves the question off as if it doesn't matter. Your hand twitches with the urge to throw him into the lava, and the only thing keeping you from doing exactly that is the pain striking through your leg - a bitter reminder of just what Zeus is capable of - and the knowledge that it wouldn't even kill him. 

"Your mother was adamant about this, Hephaestus." You echo his scoff at this; you're sure she was. "Aphrodite will arrive within the week. See to it that everything is fit for a god." He chuckles at his own joke, and a vision of your cane shoved through his skull implants itself in your brain. You force yourself to take in deep breaths. The scent of hot metals, sparks, and sulfur calms you, as it always has. 

"Fine," You say, though Zeus is already on his way out. "I'm not keeping anyone here against their will, though!" Your shout goes ignored, as you knew it would. You grumble under your breath and hobble back to the elevator. Within moments you're shooting down to your bedroom, large and situated close to the heart of the volcano. You don't bother to activate the wheels of your shoes, instead leaning on your cane until you get to your bed. 

The plush mattress and blankets are a relief on your aching hip and leg and you let yourself lean back and just relax for a moment. The notice is still clutched in your hand and you find yourself staring at the looping curves of Hera's signature, wondering what she's up to this time. 

Memories flood you before you can stop them; being a young godling in Olympus, attached and in awe of your mother as she led you around the city, light gleaming off the golden columns. Seeing the fire in Zeus' eyes the first time he struck her in front of you, and the blaze that came when you stepped in front of her. Starlight glinting off her silver robes as she cried in her garden. The bruising vice he kept on your calf, the feel of the winds against your skin as you fell, the way Helios painted the sky as you kept falling. The feel of a hammer in your hand for the first time, juxtaposed to the throbbing pain in your crippled leg every time you so much as twitched. 

The notice is across the room before you realize you've thrown it. You want to believe she isn't playing games; Hera has always been somewhat conniving, but your mother has never been outright cruel to you, not since the night you tried to save her from her husband, and she always had her reasons. You may not always agree with her reasons, but that didn't change the fact that she had them. Still, condemning an innocent person to a life here...condemning you to live your days with a constant reminder of your plainness, your deformity, wasn't something you expected from her. Zeus, yes, but not her. 

You let yourself fall back onto the bed, only to adjust a few moments later when the pressure on your hip becomes too much. You're angled now, weight resting on your good side to alleviate even a bit of the pain from the other. It was the only way you could get a moment's peace since your fall, the only time the pain lessened. 

You allow yourself five breaths. Five breaths to let the tear slip down your cheek, drawing its path through the soot and the smoke. Four to let your breath shake in your chest and shudder in the air. Three for the ache in your hip to disappear completely, so you are blessedly free from your pain for once. Two for the thorns to tighten impossibly around your heart and let it bleed for you. One for the hole in your chest, shaped like a loving father and a true family that doesn't constantly commission weapons from you to throw at each other.

Pain arcs through your leg once more and you wince. Your hand massages the muscles there absentmindedly; it provides no relief to anything but your mind. You stand and click your heels together once more, glad when the wheels are stable once more. In seconds, you're off, flying through hallways to get to your workshop. 

You've got work to do. 

It's nearly the entire week later when one of the workers knocks on the door of your workshop. 

"Aphrodite has arrived, my lady." You wave at him and he disappears back into the mass of his brothers. It doesn't take you long to get to the entryway, rolling through the halls until you're just outside the large bronze doors. You retract your wheels and grasp your cane, reminding yourself that the more people thought Zeus had crippled you debilitatingly, the better. Your hip aches again and you tune it out in favor of tapping the end of your cane against a small hammer at the base of the doors. There's a quiet whir as they slide open, and you limp forward as best you can. 

The foyer is packed with people, cyclopes everywhere with bags slung over their shoulder, forest nymphs tapping at their smoking roots, naiads hissing with steam. In the midst of everything stands two still figures, one infinitely more familiar than the other. 

"I thought I told you that the next time you step foot in my forge, I'd stoke my fires with your bones." Your voice is loud as it reverberates across the walls. Both figures turn to look at you, but your glare doesn't falter. 

"Aw, are you still mad about that?" His smile is deceptively innocent. "You never would've gotten her off that throne otherwise." 

"It wasn't supposed to be her throne in the first place, was it?" You spit back as you make your way to him. It doesn't escape your notice that everyone but the cyclopes is staring at you, and you're glad the heat from the mountain keeps you flushed. You can't show weakness in front of this crowd, you can't let them know that you know they think you're below them. 

You can't let them know that in your worst moments, you agree. 

"Get the fuck out of my mountain, Dionysus, before I throw you out."

"Ooh, take after your old man a little too much there, don't you?" Jimin's smile never leaves his face and you resist the urge to smack it with your cane. Instead, you tighten your grip on it and take a breath. 

"What are you doing here?" You eventually ask through gritted teeth. 

"Just escorting a dear, dear friend." His grin has turned predatory as he rests a hand on his companion's shoulder. "My dear Hephaestus, I'd like to introduce you to Aphrodite." You glance over, looking the man up and down briefly. 

He's taller than you - though, with your pained hunch, many are. His shoulders are almost as wide as his eyes as he looks around the room, taking in the granite walls and bronze moldings. His clothes aren't practical in the least; soft and sweet and flowing linens in a pale lilac that complements the purple of his hair. It's a stark contrast to the harsh reds and greys of your soot-stained leathers. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are the same color as the grease you use to oil your inventions and give you no clue to his thoughts.

He's fucking beautiful and it brings a sob to your throat.

"It's...a pleasure." He looks you up and down, not unlike you did him, but whatever conclusions he makes, he says nothing. 

"Your quarters are on the fifth floor," You reply in lieu of an actual greeting. "Delius will show you the way. Be careful, or you're likely to lose your head. Keep a cyclops with you while you learn your way around, they can get anywhere." The god looks surprised, though you aren't sure why, and you turn. "They'll see to your meals and needs, as well, so if you find yourself wanting, just let one know. I'll have a key made soon, so you can come and go as you wish." 

Aphrodite starts to say something as you walk away, leg dragging slightly behind you as you go. Jimin seems to cut him off, though, already asking for wine. 

"And get that bastard out of my forge!" You yell over your shoulder. "If he's still here when I get to the lift, I'm throwing him to the pit." 

There's scrambling behind you as the doors close. You feel a twinge of regret; the love god has done nothing to you, you could have given him even the slightest chance. The memory of his eyes as he looked at you flashes in front of you and you lean against the wall for support. No love god would want to associate with someone like you. He is beauty and elegance, a practiced dance in a moonlit gazebo, and you…

You are a mistake, cast from your home and crippled for all to see exactly what happens when you get in Zeus' way. 

You take a breath and let the heat from the stone wall soothe the pain in your hip as much as it will before you set off for your workshop.

Seokjin isn't quite sure what to do with himself that night. His friends - suitors - have all gone, unable to bear the heat of the mountain for more than a brief goodbye, and Jimin was quick to go when the cyclopes started for him. What the story there is, he doesn't know. He doesn't know anything, as a matter of fact. 

He doesn't know why Hera pushed so hard to have him wed to Hephaestus. He doesn't know why the girl was so cold at their first meeting. He doesn't know why she seemed so normal. Most people he met fell to their knees within moments, desperate to please him and showering him with vain compliments that used to sound like music in his ears. Most were insistent in their offers to him, throwing out their bodies and souls and anything else they thought he might want, just for a single glance from him. He used to laugh as he blew them kisses, delighted by their mindless adoration. 

Used to. 

He doesn't delight in such things anymore. Centuries have passed, and still, not a single one of the people and creatures that fought to stand in his presence cared about him. All of them saw Aphrodite, god of love and fertility, beauty and passion. They vied for just one night with him, fighting wars to win his hand, throwing whole festivals across Greece for his blessing. It was and would always be an honor. He is beautiful and is thankful for it, but…

Just once, he would like to be beautiful as Seokjin instead of Aphrodite. Would like the people attempting to woo him to hear the words he speaks instead of merely listening to the musicality of his voice. Would like to be believed, trusted, valued for something other than his face. Seokjin has a mind, a creative, capable mind that has - more than once - developed solutions to issues plaguing the mortals, only for him to be brushed to the side while the smart ones figured things out. 

He hates it, just like he hates that Hera sprung this on him without so much as a warning. One day he'd been lounging in her garden, the one place he could find some reprieve from the hordes of suitors, and talking to Artemis about her life as a maiden, and the next, Zeus thrust a marriage certificate into his hands and told him to be packed by the end of the week. 

And now his wife doesn't even care to look at him. You're not entranced like everyone else. The stories have grossly exaggerated your looks; he was prepared to look upon a monster, not a woman, pained and covered in soot with a limp. Still, there had been no emotion in your gaze, not even an ounce of the hatred or disgust he may have dreaded in his journey to this volcano. 

Nor do you care to dine with him, clearly. He's been sat at a scorched rocky table longer than three of him, by himself, for nearly two hours. Olympus has spoiled him, clearly, or perhaps it's that your own manners are lacking. In the skies, everyone dines together, lounging on cushions and waiting until Zeus and Hera arrive before digging into the food presented to them. It's respectful, a way to honor the hosts of the home. Even there, however, he would not be kept waiting for more than ten minutes.

"You, there," He eventually calls to a cyclops in the corner, polishing goblets that likely haven't been touched in centuries. It turns to fix its eye on him, and Seokjin represses the instinctive shudder. "When does Hephaestus intend on dining tonight?"

"Apologies, my lord, but the lady has her dinner served in her workshop." Seokjin frowns at that and the cyclops continues. "She stays there most hours of the day, takes her meals there to ensure she makes the most of each day to create her inventions and improve upon her current ones."

Seokjin huffs and debates with himself for a moment. It would be rude to eat without his hostess present, but if you had your meals delivered elsewhere there was little chance you'd bother to come to the dining hall. He couldn't possibly go to your workshop to dine with you either; the cyclops could show him the way, yes, but he would no doubt be intruding on things he had no business being near, even as your husband. 

He spews out a slew of curses that make the cyclops in the corner blush and digs into a roll. He would simply have to eat alone tonight, and perhaps if he catches you tomorrow, he can request your presence at meals. 

You don't see Aphrodite again until the next evening. 

You've almost forgotten anyone else lives in the mountain you call home, still used to being on your own besides the cyclopes. Roniah had informed you that morning that the god inquired as to your whereabouts the previous night during his supper, and the slightest bit of guilt shoots through you. You should have joined him if only for a moment to be polite, but you'd gotten entranced in your latest designs. Your own food had been taken away in the wee hours of the morning, stale and unwanted. It was commonplace, but you need to at least be polite to your husband. 

You sink deeper into the steaming water around you, rubbing away the last bits of soot and grease as you ponder. The hot water is heaven on your aches, the warmth seeping through and relaxing them into painlessness. You don't allow yourself the luxury of bathing often, usually just wiping yourself clean every so often when the remnants of your work become too thick on your skin or the ache in your bones is too much to ignore. It's a nice reprieve, though, one you bask in each time. The water is close to boiling, comfortable and warm for a goddess such as yourself, and the steam makes it difficult to see much of anything. 

You've long since come to terms with your life; you aren't beautiful, you won't ever walk without pain again, you won't be the daughter your parents wanted. But it's moments like these that you let yourself pretend, if only for a moment. Pretend you weren't thrown from your home. Pretend your leg isn't covered in scars from where the rocks of Olympus sliced it open. Pretend you're the same woman you were all those years ago, clutching at your mother's skirts as Zeus thundered towards her. 

Your head starts to spin and you stand, clumsily making your way out of the pool and to the stone bench where your linen towel waits. You slip your robes over your shoulders and sigh at the softness of them. The black linen you keep here was woven by Ariadne herself, enchanted by Athena and dipped in the fires of your forge to withstand the heat. It allows for a slight breeze as you move into your bedroom, not bothering to tie the material closed completely so it hangs limp on your shoulders, torso exposed. Your skin is overheated from the water and you enjoy the way the air cools you just slightly as you sit on your bed.

You don't think anything of it until a throat clears behind you and you whip your head around to see Aphrodite standing just inside your door. 

"Apologies, my lady. Horedon did not mention you were indisposed when I asked him to show me to your quarters." His voice is pleasant, soft and gentle. It matches his image and makes you acutely aware of how loud you always are, always must be in order to be heard over the forges.

"It's an honest mistake," You say eventually, tugging your robes tighter around you. "What do you need? As I said, the cyclopes are more than capable-"

"I wanted to extend my gratitude, actually." You can't even be mad he cut you off, too surprised by his words. "You and your workers have been very kind in the day that I've been here, and I appreciate that. I know that this isn't exactly something we had planned."

You nod in understanding. Pain flares in your leg once more and you massage the muscle out of habit. "Are your quarters to your liking? I did my best to position you high enough that the heat from the magma wouldn't be too overbearing, but not high enough that the forge smoke would choke you. Ah, and your bed also has a screen function built in to help to filter the air, so it may be more like what you're used to."

"Thank you, it's lovely. Delius showed me yesterday, it felt very much like Hera's garden." If he notices your flinch at the words, he doesn't say anything. "Listen, Hephaestus, I know neither of us may have wanted this, but I think we should make the most of this. We can at least be civil. If you would, your company at dinner would be most welcome." You stare at him, a laugh bubbling up in your throat that you can't stop. He looks baffled upon hearing it and it takes you a full minute to calm down enough to speak. 

"Thank you for inviting me to dine at my own table, Aphrodite," you say with an amused smile. "I shall do my best to attend, should I find myself near the hall." His ears turn a lovely shade of pink as he inclines his head in a small bow and leaves. You laugh again once he's gone. The entire situation is too hysterical for you. 

You, a plain and hobbled smith, are married to a love god who is beauty personified, who has already taken it upon himself to invite you to dine at your dinner table with him. You really should have expected him to pull something like this; already comfortable enough to show up unannounced in your private chambers and issue invitations and probably demands of your workers. You're not sure why Hera has banished him here; he's so much like her, he should be a favorite, and yet she must hate him if she's sentenced him to live here for the rest of existence. 

With a sigh you settle back into your bed, pillows supporting the weight of your bad leg and sheets thrown haphazardly around you. 

You don't expect to sleep, so when you wake, you're disoriented. You're not sure how long you were out, but it seems to have been a while based on the hunger that gnaws at your stomach. You click your heels and wheel your way to the kitchens, rubbing at your eyes to clear the sleep from them. 

You're focused when you enter the kitchen and give a curt wave to the mass of cyclopes situated around the island. It isn't until you're done making your gyro that you turn, deliciousness only a bite away and lock eyes with Aphrodite.

He looks radiant, as always; the pale yellow cloth drapes along his form in a most appealing way, and there's an amused smirk playing over his lips. His hair is still that soft purple, but it's faded some. 

"It's nice to see you again, wife," He says with an incline of his head. "It's been a while since anyone's seen you roaming through the halls." You feel heat rise to your cheeks as you lean back against the counter, wheels dig into the stone underneath your feet. 

"Yes, well, I was resting. Nothing strange about that, is there?" His lips quirk in a knowing smile and he shares a glance with the cyclops to his right. You notice for the first time how soft his mouth looks, pillowy and full, and you absently wonder how many have felt those lips against their skin. 

"Eat up, my lady," Aphrodite says eventually. "After a week-long nap, I expect you need it. Zeus dropped by a few days ago to deliver his wedding gift, it's waiting in your workshop. I've already commissioned a new necklace for Hera as thanks."

You frown, stuffing the gyro in your mouth. It was one thing to learn that you've been asleep for a week - not uncommon, for a god, but useful knowledge - but to know that Zeus stopped by without waking you, and that Aphrodite has been running things in your stead… You glance quickly around, noting the way each cyclops in the room is turned toward the love god as if they had all been deep in conversation before you arrived, and the sprawling mass of gems and stones atop the island in front of them. 

"You're commissioning the cyclopes for jewelry now?" You eventually ask. He nods. 

"They truly have an eye for detail," He says, a cheeky grin growing on his face. The cyclopes look amused, a couple even laughing outright, and you stifle a sigh at the terrible joke. "And I had no idea that these gems are so common here. The quality is astounding, honestly, I only ever see it in the gems on Olympus."

"That's because the stones on Olympus are from here," you tell him. Your eyes rake over him and he seems...happier than last you saw him. The soft light from the magma tunnels highlights his features beautifully, only enhancing the natural beauty, and there are gems decorating his hands and wound tight around his throat in a choker. More than that, though, he looks peaceful, relaxed. His muscles are relaxed as he sits among the one-eyed giants, a smile never far from his face, and they make conversation with him easily, despite their usual hesitance to be around any of the other gods. It warms you to see them so at ease around someone other than yourself.

"Well, if it's for Hera, it must be the best. Get me the designs, Aphrodite, and if there's anything else-"

"Seokjin."

"Hm?" You turn, already halfway to the door. 

"Seokjin is my chosen name. Please, you don't need to keep using my title." 

"Oh." Your eyes must be as wide as saucers as you stare at him, but the soft grin on his face doesn't falter in the least. "Alright then, Seokjin."

"We'll get you the designs when we're done, then, Hephaestus." You nod a little at his words and roll yourself away from the kitchens. It isn't until you get to your workshop that you realize you never gave him your own name.

Seokjin is...confused, to say the least. 

The stories on Olympus about your mountain forge are varied and extravagant, but they all seem to agree on the basics. The mountain is a terrible place to live, always filled with soot and impossible to navigate and as hideous as its master. The cyclopes are unfriendly and outright rude to everyone, if not openly hostile, likely because they are forced into servitude. The forge goddess that rules over the volcano is as violent and temperamental as the mountain itself, liable to explode at any moment after being cast out of Olympus for her own hubris. You're said to be cold and unfeeling and cruel, whipping any cyclops that doesn't do what you say when you say and beating the others into submission as you forge more and more powerful weapons for Zeus, your punishment for daring to stand against him.

Seokjin was finding more and more that none of those things were true. 

Yes, there is soot everywhere, but a simple wash and blessing upon his clothes keep them clean and beautiful. The mountain itself is a bit harsher than what he usually would consider beautiful, but the crystal mines glow with the magma behind them, lighting the walls with a myriad of colors, and the soft light in the palace does wonders for his looks, not to mention the way the ash and charcoal have helped his complexion. The halls are winding and strange, but following the system of bells and strings that he's seen messages shooting along means that even when lost, he can easily find a cyclops to help him to where he's going. Said cyclopes were unfriendly that first day, but now? They were nice beings, each one enthusiastic about the things they create and excited to be there, especially now that there's another person to talk to. They warmed to Seokjin fairly quickly after he asked what they were making; some kind of automaton, apparently, and when he asked what it was supposed to do, how it works, each eye lit up with glee as they began to explain it to him.

And you.

You are not violent at all. Every time you look at one of your workers, it is with friendship and happiness, and while you are easily distracted and yes, a bit temperamental, you are ultimately kind. He wants for nothing, everything he could ask for is given almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, he is free to come and go as he wishes, which is more than can be said for some of the other gods he's met. You have been unfailingly kind in the wake of your marriage to him. Everything he's witnessed, from the way you rushed to stamp out a flare at the bottom of his robes one day to the way you held a cyclops in your arms as he sobbed for a brother who had been lost to the sea, nothing has shown him that you are anything like what the Olympians say. You are frequently absent, locked away in your workshop for days at a time and leaving him to his own devices, but even that is a breath of fresh air. For so long, he's been surrounded by people - gods, nymphs, mortals, anyone and everyone all vying for his attention because he's beautiful and elegant, stealing precious moments of solitude where he can, and now he has as much as he desires. It makes him want to cry, he's so thankful for it. 

He's only left a few times, determined to visit Hera and see the few friends he keeps - Dionysus is always glad to see him, odd enough, and loves to hear his tales of life under the mountain. Each time he leaves, however, he's swarmed. Not always immediately, but it's as if the world can sense his return, and they come in droves, all to catch a glimpse of his beauty. It's exhausting and overwhelming now that he's had so much time on his own, which is the exact reason he doesn't leave very often. The worst of them is an especially willful war god, who Seokjin swears has been camping outside the volcano to know the second he leaves to visit a friend because the man is on him in a heartbeat and refuses to leave him alone. 

It's irritating and the way the man looks at him leaves him uncomfortable for days after he returns. He has half a mind to ask a cyclops to start accompanying him out, but even Seokjin knows better than to bring one of them to Olympus; Zeus would strike the gentle being down in a heartbeat just for daring to step where the gods live. 

He ponders what else he can do as he wanders the halls of the mountain, a habit at this point. He's been here weeks, each day better than the last, and still hasn't explored the entire place. He's on the lowest level now, heat scorching the hair on his arms and sandals blackened with ash. There's been quite a clamor down here somewhere for the past few days, and he's curious to see what project is being hammered out. 

He doesn't expect to turn a corner, walk past an open door, and see you, wheeling frantically around a large room, papers tucked in all sorts of pockets on your overalls, hair wild, face covered in soot. He watches, fascinated as you screech to a halt beside a large worktable, rifling through paper after paper before finally finding whatever it is you're looking for, only to push yourself to the other side of the room to pull a steaming piece of celestial bronze out of a pail. You look harried and distracted, not even having noticed him yet, and it…

It's honestly beautiful. 

He's always loved seeing beauty like this; the sheer, unfiltered rawness of creativity and passion. The way you and others lost themselves in their work, blind to everything but the vision in their heads, forgoing sleep and food and everything else in favor of making something out of nothing. It's beauty in its most naked form; the naked truth of being real, in the fleeting moments of existence, and Seokjin lives for it. It's his personal favorite of all the beauty in the world, and you encapsulate it better than anyone he's ever met. 

It's also beyond fascinating to watch you roll around on the wheels attached to your sandals. He can't help but wonder what it's like, to not have to take step after step and instead just roll through the slightly slanted halls of the mountain. 

"Did you make those?" He regrets the words almost immediately, reaching in futility to catch you as you turn and trip over a pail set just too far in your path for you to dodge. "I'm so sorry, I should have announced myself. I don't mean to keep startling you." 

"It's fine," you groan, though the hand on your hip is white-knuckled and your teeth are gritted. "I should have been paying more attention." He strides over and helps you to your feet, not missing the way you lean on him for support until you can sit on the now-overturned pail. "What did you need?"

"Oh, nothing, I was just exploring. Those, on your feet, though. You made them?" He smiles at your nod, however hesitant it is, and settles on the ground beside you to get a better look. "They're amazing. This compartment here, are they retractable?" You click your heels together in response, and Seokjin watches with wide eyes as the discs fold themselves up and slide into the soles of your sandals. "Amazing. Can you make me a pair?"

"You...you aren't going to tell Zeus, are you?" Your voice is the most unsure he's heard it, and he frowns.

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, I just...he wouldn't really be happy if he knew I made these. Since I'm supposed to be suffering and everything, and they make it...not as terrible."

Seokjin scoffs. "No, I won't tell Zeus. You really do have to make me a pair, though, these are amazing. What else have you made?" Your eyes are wide when he looks back up at you, but you quickly pull papers out of your pockets to hand them over. 

"Well, this is my current schematic. I've just got to figure out how to get it to work."

"Is this...is this a person?"

"Kind of. The muses asked for some kind of...enhancement that would let them be heard in more places at once. So I've created this," You point to the left-most figure, which could only be Calliope. "Which is going to essentially absorb whatever the muse is doing, and then these," You run your finger along the other eight figures, each distinct but still matching overall, "Will distribute that to wherever they are. I've got a good basis for the visual representation, I think, and the audio system should be fine, but the issue I've been having is that I can't seem to get it to all...click."

"So you've got the transmitting figured out?"

"Yeah, that part was easy. And I built the miniatures, and they've been working fine, but I can't get the full sized ones to work correctly. I've smelted them down at least five times just to rebuild them." Seokjin stares at the papers in his hands, trying to make sense of the little scratches of handwriting that dart on and off the papers. He shakes his head, and pulls back, squinting.

"This may be a stupid question," He starts, looking at the front and side views you've drawn out, "But did you account for the weight?" You're silent for a long while, and when he looks up, you're gaping at him. "Sorry, of course you did, that was dumb."

"The fucking weight," You mutter. You're off in a flash, pulling the papers out of his hands to throw them down on a workbench and start scrawling again. "Because it wouldn't affect the smaller models since they use less material, but the full-size automatons would have the pressure which would affect the-" You start whispering to yourself, too rushed and quiet for him to make sense of, but he softens as he watches you go. He pulls the pail out of the way and sets it back against the wall before settling in on top of it.

He stays there for what feels like hours, watching as you pour adamantine into the molds and weld parts together and breathe that spark of life into the core of Calliope's automaton counterpart. He doesn't dare to breathe as you watch, hope clear in your eyes. Then the whirring starts and the automaton assumes a very Calliope-like pose, and you actually start to laugh and jump up and down. He can't keep the smile from his face, but he's satisfied now that he knows you're happy, so he moves to leave.

He's stopped by your voice, softer than he expected it over the hissing of the dying forge. He turns and you repeat your name. It sounds awkward on your lips, like you haven't said it in so long that your voice has forgotten what it sounds like, but you're smiling at him and you have soot on your face and he has to resist the urge to wipe it off. He echoes you quietly, and he thinks he's never heard a name more beautiful and fitting for someone like you.

Later, as he sinks into the steaming water of his rooms to wash the soot from his skin, he surprises himself. For the first time in his life, he wishes he wasn't a love god not for the unwanted attention, but because now he knows. He knows this feeling blossoming in his chest, and he knows how it mirrors that spark in your own heart. He can sense it, can feel it in the air as if it had actual weight to it, and he just...knows. He knows that you don't know what this is, that you probably will never realize what he feels, that you'll brush off your own feelings as some reluctant fondness while he can feel every step you take further into the magic of love.

And he won't be able to do anything to keep himself from falling in love with you and you won't ever be able to see that.

You've been locked in your workshop for days, putting the finishing touches on the Muses' automatons and adding the decorative bits you know they'll love. You haven't slept in twice as long, food even further from your mind, as it usually is when you get into one of your projects. It's a shock when Seokjin returns to your workshop balancing several trays of food and drink. You hold a strange fondness for him, unable to resist after he'd pointed out something so obvious in your designs. Anyone that could help you with your designs was worth at least knowing a little, you figure, but you never expected him to keep coming back.

And yet here is, directing three cyclopes to set cushions and blankets and all manner of soft, plush bedding on the ground just inside the door of your workshop. You gawk, wondering just how much nerve he has to be doing this and also what possible reason he thinks is good enough to disrupt you. 

"You need to eat," He says when he notices you staring at him. "Besides, you're basically finished with them, and you need sustenance and rest if I'm going to get my awesome wheel shoes." You refrain from mentioning that you've already got them made; you don't want to encourage him too much. Pelion gives you a look as he exits the room and you huff. Just because they spend centuries here, they think they can tell you when to take breaks and eat. Typical cyclops. 

You grumble as you wheel yourself to the mass of cushions Seokjin has created, but you quiet at the way it does ease the soreness in your leg. As good as you've become at drowning out the pain, the steady onslaught to your nerves has been fraying your attention more than you'll admit. 

Seokjin sits after you have and presents the food with a flourish. It all looks delicious, much better than the hasty gyros and wraps you put together, and your mouth waters. He very kindly does not mention how disgusting you must look as you begin to dig in, instead talking about a recent trip he'd taken to see Dionysus.

His tone eventually catches your attention more than his words. "Wait," You stop him, slurping down some ambrosia. "Back up. Someone's stalking you?"

"I...don't think I'd call it stalking, exactly. I don't think he's going to do anything, either, it's all just talk, but...well. It's still frustrating when I'm just trying to visit friends." 

"No, if it's bothering you, then it's an issue, then it needs to end. Tell me everything." And Seokjin does. From how the war god waits for him, either outside the mountain or outside Olympus, spends every moment Seokjin is gone following him around and saying some truly crude things. All of it makes your blood boil - Seokjin is kind, to the point that even the cyclopes love him, which is rare, and he gets harassed enough apparently without some god running around hitting on him constantly. 

The rumors, though. The rumors are what get you seeing red. It's no secret on Olympus that this was an arranged marriage; they aren't uncommon among gods, and they aren't usually a scandal, but yours apparently is. Seokjin hesitates when he tells you about them, and you nearly break your fork in your effort to keep your rage from him. All sorts of stories, from you abusing him, forcing things he isn't comfortable with, keeping him chained up, feeding him pieces of your cyclopes, that you had bought him from Zeus with promises of gifts from the forge. Each is as terrible as the last, and all of them have your stomach rolling, and Seokjin reluctantly explains that he believes the war god to be the source of most of them. 

"Well," You say, violently spearing a grape. "That must be stopped, immediately. I refuse to allow people to think of you like that, it's utterly disrespectful." You wobble to your feet and roll over to the wall of ideas you hadn't managed to get around to yet. "What do you think? Maiming? Or is that too quick? I've got a truly brilliant idea for a bull, it could eat him if I use the right materials. It'd take at least a hundred years for him to get out of that."

"Well," Seokjin eventually says. You turn to look at him, excitement bright in your eyes. The wheels in his brain are turning and he's got a fondness on his face as he lounges on pillows and cushions; it melts your heart. He looks every bit the love god he is, and something in you wants to sob at the thought. "I would say, personally, if he's going to embarrass us in such a public way, then it should only really be fair to embarrass him in such a way." He tosses the knife in his hand and it embeds itself in one of the papers on your wall. You ignore the throb of arousal that runs through you, looking instead at the design he's chosen. 

"Oh," You whisper. Ideas are already running rampant in your mind. "Yes, I think this could be a very good plan." 

Seokjin is in stitches when he next sees you, clutching at his sides as his laughter echoes through your workshop. The sight of his harasser in your net as he spouted off a variety of kinks that made even Zeus blush, in the middle of the golden city with all of the gods around him isn't one Seokjin is likely to forget. 

"I still don't understand how you did it," He says, calming slightly as he wipes tears from his eyes. "How did you weave such a net, and how did you enchant it to make him say such things?"

"It wasn't much," You say. Your smile is beautiful, a treasure rarer than all the gems that he wears and more valuable than anything he's come across. He wants to wear it, wants you to keep smiling like that, with such pride in your work and happiness radiating from you. "...and then Arachne wove it all together." He nods as if he'd heard the rest of what you said. Part of him feels guilty for not listening; it really is fascinating, how you craft such wonderful things out of such pedestrian supplies.

"You're amazing," He says. He doesn't mean to, but it's true. Even now, as you lean against your workbench, fingers digging into the skin of your hip without even realizing you're doing it, smile slowly fading into something else - something more - you are radiant. Soot across your face and wheels on your shoes and the kindest heart he's ever seen in a goddess, and he wants you like no one else. There has always been beauty in creation, always been love in inspiration, and you are the ultimate mix of the two, painted over with enough cunning and determination to keep at your work no matter what. 

He steps closer to you, slowly, and brings a hand up to wipe at the soot on your cheek. It smears under his thumb and your breath hitches in the most attractive way.

It's unbearably attractive, honestly, and it makes an ache swell within him that goes deeper than the physical. He wants to keep you smiling like that, wants to watch you work and bring you gyros and cart you to a hot bath on a bad day. He can see it, all of it, splayed in front of him as clear as if he were an Oracle. He'd waltz into your workshop and pepper you with kisses before pulling you out after him. Your wheels would squeak along the stone floor but you wouldn't complain even as he settles you in hot water and makes you forget your pain as he asks about your newest designs and creations. He can see it, and it's beautiful, and he wants it so bad that it hurts. 

Almost as much as it hurts when your face falls, expression closing off into the same passive coolness that greeted him when he first arrived. You slide your way around him and turn to face another worktable. It hurts, the way you won't look at him, and moves something deep and primal inside him. It urges him to go on, to trap you against that table and make you open up to him, make sure you know that you can trust him to satisfy you.

He stamps it down with a long breath. 

"Well," He says, pointedly ignoring your shaky breathing. "Thank you, again, for helping me. I suppose I'll see you around."

"You don't need to thank me, Seokjin," You say. Your voice is tight and your hands twitch and he wants to kiss you until the pain is gone forever. He doesn't. "You're my husband, I was only doing what was right."

"Still," He says, "It means more to me than you know."

You don't respond, and he leaves before you can. He doesn't want you to, doesn't want to hear the reluctant rejection spill from your lips when he knows. He's a love god, he knows when someone is in love, can feel in the air and taste it on his tongue. He knows that scent better than his own face and your workroom was suffocating with it. 

He has no doubt that some was his own; he knows this fluttering in his chest, the rolling of his stomach, the spark of lightning dancing along his skin. He knows. 

But he can smell the hesitation, too. Can see the way you fight the feeling, in every aborted reach for his hand and each averted gaze when he looks at you. You love him, he's so sure of it, but you don't want to be.

And he cannot force you to change your mind about that. He won't. He just isn't sure how long he can last without telling you that he loves you, too.

Curses spill from your lips as you glide cautiously through the hallways. You've grown too complacent, comfortable around your husband. You very nearly slipped the other day, were a hair's breadth from throwing caution to the wind and kissing him; it was a miracle you caught yourself. He'd just looked so happy. The smile, that laugh, everything about him was just glowing in the light of your workshop, and then he'd complimented you. 

It's been decades since someone complimented your work like that, and none of them had done so with that look in their eyes. The gentle warmth, the fondness, the glow.

The love.

That was what startled you out of your thoughts, the sheer love that radiated from him. That was what made you push him away. It's what has kept you from seeing him for nearly a week, turning on your heel and going the other direction when you spot him. You can't handle love.

Not just because you've never known such an emotion, not just because you've never had anyone look at you that way, but because...he's a love god. A man like Seokjin surely falls in love every day with each passing stranger that catches his eye, and you...don't. You've never felt this before, you've never had someone love you, you don't know how it works, and worse, you can't figure it out. 

You can't take love apart and look at each gear and cog and spring until you can piece it back together into a whole again. You can't observe and tinker and improve on something like love. Clouds and lightning? Simple mediums. Celestial bronze? Malleable as clay under your hands. But love? No, that was something utterly foreign to you. 

You drop to your bed and pull your leg up beside you to inspect the wheel. It's cracked, badly, and it's a shock that it survived long enough to get you to your room. You lean closer and flinch at the stabbing pain that rolls through you. It's a stark reminder of yet another reason you don't belong with Seokjin. A god like him has almost definitely lain with the most beautiful in all creation; he surrounds himself with only the finest gems, the softest cloth, the richest wine. He only accepts the best. 

You are far from being the best. Mutilated and scarred, left to limp around your mountain in solitude. You're past acceptance of your pain and the scars that mark your skin, you don't really care much that they exist anymore most days. Life could be easier without them, but would you have become the person you are today without them? You wouldn't have been so determined to find an easier way around, you wouldn't have worked for days on the wheeled sandals, you wouldn't have discovered your passion for creating. 

You wouldn't be in pain, though. And maybe, just...maybe, Seokjin would find you beautiful. As beautiful as the twinkling stones around his throat and the flowing silks across his chest. Beautiful enough to stay beneath this mountain in the smoke and heat, to press his pillow-soft lips against yours, to love without abandon. Now, though, with your scars and pain and awkward gait, you find yourself doubting what you saw. It could have been love, yes, but how likely is that? A love god forced to live in a suffocating cave, wed to the laughingstock of the pantheon. It's more likely that he's attached himself to the nearest person that shows him any affection, despite how desperately you want him to really feel something for you.

Three succinct knocks on the door of your room jar you away from the thought.

"Come in," You call. You wish you were more surprised to see Seokjin, purple hair prettily faded and matching the soft lavender cloth that drapes from his shoulders. 

"Can I have a few minutes of your time, Hephaestus?" He hasn't used your title since you told him your name, and it hurts to hear it now. Cements the fact that you are too different.

You nod, and the pain in your hip keeps you from moving away when he comes to kneel before you. 

"I love you," He says matter-of-factly. "I've let you avoid me this past week because it's not my place to force these feelings on you, but the stench of heartbreak is too much now. It just lingers in the halls and it's starting to seep into my clothes and if it keeps up, I might have to double my skincare routine because it soaks into my pores. So I love you. A lot more than I ever expected to, and probably more than I've ever loved anything in my life."

You gape at him. "What...why…what?"

"You are creative and cunning and petty and inventive and intelligent and determined and it's so beautiful," He says. There's not an ounce of hesitation in his face, and it steals the words from your throat. "I love you, and I need you to know that so you stop stinking up the forge with your angst and heartbreak. I understand if you don't want to be with me-"

"What heartbreak, what-"

"Well, I don't actually," Jin continues, ignoring your protests. "I'm really quite the catch and to deny yourself of me when you love me this much would be an entirely new and advanced form of masochism, but nevertheless, I will accept your rejection, however inane and ill-advised it may be, because it is, ultimately, your choice. You can tell me to go, and I will, and you won't ever know I'm here again. But, if you accept this, then…"

He trails off and his eyes soften impossibly as he wraps his hands around yours. You've never believed people could communicate so much with just a single look, but you're proven wrong by the sheer emotion in his gaze. Your name falls from his lips, and it's never sounded so nice to your ears.

"If you accept, then I swear to you, I will spend every hour of every day ensuring you feel loved. I will bring you food when you forget to eat, I will tidy your workshop when you can't find anything, I will carry you wherever you need to go when the pain is too much to bear." One hand moves to rest along your hip, warmth distracting you from the stab of pain that ghosts through it. "I will be everything and anything that you need, always and forever, and I won't let another moment pass with you thinking otherwise."

He looks at you with expectation in his eyes, and you...can't speak. There are no words for what you're feeling; the sureness of his love warring with the anxiety of not being worth it. You open your mouth several times to respond and find that you can't; of all the words flying around in your mind, none of them make it out. He waits, for longer than you would have, before he sighs and nods. 

"That's fine. Love is complicated even at the best of times." He stands, and the loss of his hands on you feels like part of you is being ripped away. "If you ever change your mind, let me know." 

His smile is sad as he leaves, and the clink of the door behind him is the last nail in the coffin. Something wet and warm hits your hand, and you realize you're crying. When did you start crying? You struggle to your feet, rolling wildly across the room before you gain your balance. 

The door swings open as you shove past it, the last bit of his purple robes turning the corner, and you shove off the wall to gain speed. You can't let him go. The knowledge surges through you with surety you've never felt, and it feels like there's a timer above your head, counting down to the moment you lose him forever. His name echoes through the halls, even though you don't remember calling it, and you speed around a corner to him. 

He's half turned to face you already, about to head down another hall since this one dead ends, and it's as you go to brake that you remember the cracked wheel. There is no braking, you're lucky you've made it so far, but you're at top speed right now and there's no time.

"Don't-" is all you can get out before you're crashing into him, wincing as he falls down to the hard ground and the wheel splits in half beneath you. The pain comes an instant later, too much weight too suddenly, and it would bring tears to your eyes if you didn't fight them down. 

"Wow," Jin says after a second. "You really did fall for me, didn't you?" His laughter drowns out your groan, but it's worth it for the way he's smiling at you. 

"I…" You hesitate, unsure of the words. He waits, patient and relaxed even as he adjusts you to sit on his lap instead of the rock. "I do. I want this."

"I know," He says with a grin. "It's nice to hear you say it, though." He doesn't flinch at the smack you give his shoulder, just presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"I swear to all the gods, Seokjin, if you don't stop, I'm going to put this discus through your skull."

"Ooh, please do. I hear that's how Athena was born."

"Seriously?"

"You're right, we don't need anyone else like that running around." 

You let your tools fall to the table in front of you and spin around to face your husband. He's exactly where he has been for hours, lounging among pillows and silks on the bed he's had installed in your workshop. A bowl of grapes sits nearby and he's been working his way through them for what feels like forever. If you weren't so irritated, you'd be struck dumb by the image he paints, half-naked and glowing as he pops a fruit between his lips. 

As it stands, you're just frustrated and horny now, which is never really a good thing, but especially not on bad days. The ache has made it hard to think, and you've been shuffling around all day trying to find a position that made it hurt just a little less but had no such luck. You've made no progress on the designs in front of you, either; between Seokjin's commentary and the fog of pain in your mind, you had no concentration. 

"I'm trying to work, Seokjin. We had an agreement, remember? You could have the bed installed, you can hang out here, I don't mind, but you have to let me work." 

"You've been trying for hours," Seokjin whines. "Take a break with me, please? You need to rest your hip anyway, or you won't be able to focus." You hate that he's right, and you hate that he knows he's right, and you really hate that he knows you know he's right. You grumble as you wheel over to him and as you slide your shoes off. It's his one rule about the bed, no shoes, and while you can't blame him since they were covered in ash and soot and rock, you still like to complain about it. 

His hands are on you in an instant, gliding under your shirt and massaging your hip. You sink into the touch, sighing as the pain lessens slightly.

"Let me help? We've still got some of the lotion that Apollo sent as a wedding favor. I brought it down, just in case." Lips press soft kisses to your shoulder, and you know it's only a matter of time before you give in. You should probably be a little ashamed of how little it takes for your husband to distract you, but you can't bother to care now. 

You nod, and you feel him smile against your skin. He's gone and back in a heartbeat and he lays you back against the pillows carefully. You wince when your hip rests flat, instantly adjusting to bear your weight elsewhere. 

"Is it bad today?" He mutters as he slides your usual leathers off. Any shyness and embarrassment you once had are long gone, softened by the passage of time and the sheer amount of times he's seen you naked. 

"No," You respond quietly. He shoots you a disbelieving look. "It's more annoying than usual, I suppose, but it's not any worse than usual."

"You shouldn't have irritated it by working," Seokjin says as he runs some of Apollo's lotion between his hands to warm it. "You could have stayed right here and gotten more done."

"I can't forge a throne from the bed, Seokjin."

"No, but you can draw designs for it. And for the jewelry I promised Dionysus."

"I still don't know how you talked me into making something for him that isn't a chastity belt or a guillotine." The heat in your words is dulled with every slide of your husband's hands over your hip. The lotion starts working almost immediately, sinking into your skin and dissipating any discomfort it reaches. Seokjin is smiling as he works and pats your thigh lightly. You twist more, laying on your side so he can reach the back of your thigh. 

"You can't be mad at him forever, can you?" He asks. You open your mouth to disagree - as a goddess, you quite literally can - but only a squawk comes out when he slaps your ass and watches it jiggle. He laughs as you slap at his shoulder, no real strength behind it. 

"That's it, give me my clothes, I have work to do." 

"Mm, I don't think so. Apollo said you have to rest for a while after applying, remember?" He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek. 

"What do you expect me to do, just lay here and do nothing? I can't turn my brain off, Seokjin, I'll go mad if I have to lay here without being able to work."

"I actually had other ideas." The smile never leaves his face, and as he leans over you, you can feel the length of him pressing into your thigh. "Still just laying there, but much more enjoyable."

"Scandalous," You whisper, fighting a smile. "What would my husband think?"

"That you look sexier than anything he's ever seen like this and that he wants nothing more than to make you forget about anything but him." 

“That doesn’t sound very restful,” You tease as he kisses along your neck and down to your collarbone. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you can feel his familiar smile against your skin; he always does love it when you get flustered.  “I’m pretty sure Apollo specified ‘no sex’ in his definition of resting. He was pretty clear about it, actually, which makes me wonder what you’ve told him.”

Seokjin nips at your collarbone lightly. “Didn’t I say I want you to forget about anything but me?”

“Didn’t you say you were going to make me?” You retort. It’s a familiar argument, as comfortable and warm as Seokjin’s hands massaging your hip and thigh. His silk-soft hands dip downwards even as he rises, lifting your leg up and hooking your ankle around his neck. The discomfort that hits is overshadowed by the relieving stretch, and heat pools in your belly when you feel his length press against you once more, significantly closer to where you’d like it. He straddles your free leg, pressing against your naked core. 

“Seokjin, please,” You mutter. His touch is feather-light now, fingertips ghosting over your skin and marveling at the goosebumps they raise. You wiggle underneath him as he begins to trace your scars. The first time you’d done this, you didn’t let him linger; you were too embarrassed, too ashamed, too aware of the marks that start just above your hip and travel nearly to your knee. He’d insisted on it the next time, but you’d kept the room dark so you wouldn’t have to see his face. Months had passed before you could bear to watch him look at you, and when you did, it shocked you. It still does. It never seems to matter how many times he sees you like this, bare and vulnerable, scars on full display underneath his large hands. He always wears the same expression, the same awe reflecting in his eyes each time, his touch always gentle and careful, like he doesn’t want to make it worse than it already is. There’s no disgust, there’s no carefully crafted neutrality, nothing that you convinced yourself to expect. Just pure, unfiltered love.

It’s there still, radiant as he slides his hands along your skin. The sensation is dulled along the scar tissue, and yet you feel it in your very core. Wetness seeps into the fabric Seokjin is still wearing, and you whimper a little. He shushes you softly, grinding lightly to give you just a taste of the friction you so desire.

“Oh, my beautiful little blacksmith,” He coos. “You are absolutely soaked, did you know that? I haven’t even started yet, and you’re already so ready for me.” You whine as he slides a finger along your folds. You try to buck into his touch, but his other hand holds your hips firmly in place, though he never stops his massage. “Ah-ah, none of that. You’ll make the pain worse.”

You huff slightly under your breath, but you know he’s right. It’s a lesson you’ve learned several times over. 

“Seokjin, don’t tease,” You plead. You let your lip pout, knowing he can’t resist the very rare sight. “You said you would distract me. Or should I go back to my designs?”

“If you think you can,” He responds amicably. You turn slightly, your back resting flush against the bed while he moves your leg to wrap around his waist. It’s still twisted to the side, but the position helps with the pain leftover from the ointment. You open your mouth to snark at your husband, but all that comes out is a loud moan as he sinks two fingers deep inside you. His length, pressed into the meat of your ass, twitches at the sound. 

“Fuck, Seokjin,” You breathe. The way his fingers fit inside you is like no other feeling, and you could spend centuries trying to recreate it with no luck. 

"That's it, love," Seokjin purrs. His eyes are blown wide with desire and focused entirely on where his fingers disappear into you. "You take my fingers so good, sweetheart, like you were made just for me." A whimper escapes and you roll your hips slightly so he hits deeper inside. He grins and quickens his pace, knowing all too well what your body wants at this point. His thumb comes up to rub circles into your clit, gentle but firm; your back arches and your vision goes white with the force of the orgasm that's torn from you, and when you open your eyes, Seokjin is glowing. Literally, because you found out after the first time he made you come that that's a thing that happens to him.

"Please, love. I want you inside." Seokjin chuckles a little at your words, and if you had the energy, you'd kick him, but your legs don't work very well on a good day, so it's unlikely.

"Always so impatient," He tuts, though he does slide his fingers out of you and into his mouth. He moans at the taste of you, and your pussy clenches around nothing, because it's absolute sin to hear, and you wonder idly if maybe those Christians were on to something when they started talking about things being so good it's unholy.

Seokjin grabs your attention with a soft nip to your calf, accustomed to the way your mind wanders. He smiles at you, soft and private and beautiful, and lifts your hips with one hand. He slides a pillow underneath you and stifles a laugh at the way you wiggle into comfort as he settles your legs on either side of his hips. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” You huff. Seokjin doesn't respond, but you can see him trying not to smile as he pumps his cock lazily with one hand. "It's not very polite to laugh at your wife. In fact, it's considered fairly rude."

"Oh, is it?" He teases as he leans down to brush his lips against yours. The contact is brief but has your heart jumping in your throat nevertheless. 

"Yes," You reply, "It is. You should be nicer to m- fuck, Seokjin." He grins against your lips at your reaction, stilling as he bottoms out inside you. The stretch is perfect, would hurt if it didn't feel so good, and he knows it.

"What was that?" He asks. He nips at your lips when you whine. He drags his cock out, slow and delicious as you tighten around him, before sliding himself just as slowly back in. You'd be embarrassed about the moan that escapes you if you could focus on anything that isn't the way he feels inside you. 

From the first time he slid inside, there's always been something so right about the feeling. He fills every part of you, thick and long and harder than the bronze you work with every day. You've never been to the underworld, but you imagine this is what the Isles of the Blessed are like for the mortals, because it's rapturous. 

He thrusts gently in the beginning, always, careful to be sure he isn't too rough with your hip. He doesn't stop kissing you, plump lips moving sinuously against your own and breathing in every little moan and whine you make as he moves. He's so slow, so considerate, lets you set the pace each time, and right now? Right now, this is good. The slow, sensual strokes that you can feel against your walls, the steady press of him against your g-spot with every thrust, the warmth of his hand traveling from your thigh up your torso to tweak your nipple as he moves to glide a thumb over your jaw and then retrace his path back down. This is exactly what you want: the two of you moving together, slow and soft and perfect. 

You have plenty of time to try some wild new position later, after all. 

Your stomach lurches at the thought, heat pooling between your thighs as the band in your tummy steadily stretches. He doesn't change his pace at all, just adds a bit more force as he thrusts inside, and the added force against that spot inside has you seeing stars. Your moans are echoing and loud and with each one, Seokjin's glow just gets brighter and brighter. His hand wanders between your legs, rubbing small circles into your clit in time with his thrusts. 

"Show me, love," He mutters in your ear. "Love you so much, show me how it makes you feel. Let go for me." You whimper, blunt nails digging into the skin of his back. He doesn't stop, whispers exactly what he wants to see you do, but it's the way he says your name - quiet and reverent, like you may disappear if he's too loud - that finally has the cord snapping.

It must be too much, because you come to after a few minutes - maybe, time is so strange as a goddess - to find Seokjin rubbing soothing circles into your hips and pressing gentle kisses along the column of your throat. Your pussy contracts around him, and you whimper when you realize he's still hard inside you. 

"You didn't…?" You mutter, finding more words are too much work right now. 

"No, I don't need to," He assures you. He starts to pull out, but you manage to get a hand on his shoulder. 

"Want to," You mumble. Talking is hard, but you manage. "Want to feel you. Inside. Fuck. Please." He asks you if you're sure and you nod, and that's when he kisses you, soft and sweet and completely at odds with his next words.

"Gonna fuck you so good, my little blacksmith," He groans as he begins thrusting once more. He's faster now, hips snapping roughly against yours as he chases his high. "Can't wait to fill you up, wanna see you so full of my cum, want you to swell with it." He grins as you moan, tightening around him as another orgasm approaches. "You like that, love? You want me to fuck you full of my cum? Fill you up so good that it spills out of you for days?" He hisses a curse under his breath as you buck. Your free hand moves downward, rubbing at your clit gently. It's just the right edge of overstimulation, and it sends you off the edge once more, clenching around him. His hips stutter, and the feeling of you milking his cock sends him past the brink as well, and then he's painting your walls with cum. 

Later, after he's fucked his cum into you three more times and then eaten it out, he watches you draw a lazy sketch on the little bit of paper that you can reach. 

"It looks good," He says softly. You hum, wrinkling your nose. 

"I'm worried it's too...understated, I guess."

"No, I think it's perfect for her," Seokjin assures you. "Very Hera. Though, you should put in a secret compartment here, so she can stash her sex toys somewhere he won't look."

"What? No! I'm not building a secret sex toy stash in my mother's throne!"

"Fine." He's quiet for a few more minutes as you sketch. "I'll just get the cyclopes to do it."

[gayasinstupidpodcast]

What’s up gamers!!! Our fourth episode plowed through the chaos of thanksgiving holidays and is Here w/ some Facts and Opinions about creating shit and being LGBT and how being LGBT influences creating shit. HEADS UP we recorded this while I had a cold so my voice is probably a little off, but ik Isaac put SO much work into the editing so it would be ready on time and we have recorded statements from some amazing artists (transcriptions under the cut below!) & this is honestly one of my favorite episodes we’ve done so far, so give her a listen if you’re gay or enjoy fun things!

BIG thank you once again to everyone who participated in this month’s episode!! Your contributions are so valued and so beautiful!!

You can find us on the Itunes Podcast App/Webpage at Gay As In Stupid Podcast! You can also find our episodes uploaded to Youtube and Soundcloud!

You can also follow us on twitter at gayasinstupid!

Further Reading on LGBT Artists

Montage of a Queering Deferred: Memory, Ownership, and Archival Silencing in the Rhetorical Biography of Langston Hughes

The Political Provocations of Keith Haring 

Pop art politics: Activism of Keith Haring 

E M Forster’s Gay Fiction

Alok Vaid-Menon Tells Us What It’s Like To Be Femme In Public

Shea Diamond Speaks Her Truth

Aaron’s 2018 November Recs!

Alok Alok Vaid-Menon is one of my favorite poet/activist/performance artists out there! Their writing and stage presence is gorgeous and witty in a way that’s SO clever and still feels like you’re in a room trading jokes you don’t need to explain with your closest trans friends. The way they balance their art creates a real, deeply touching experience that feels very essential to our world.

Miles (2016) Miles is set in 1999 and is a coming of age story about a gay teenager trying to get a volleyball scholarship for college in Chicago. It’s not revolutionary and it’s not over the top dramatic, but it’s funny and honest and it makes me feel nice. Definitely the movie to watch when you’ve just been through something emotionally taxing and need a light crying session and some mediocre pastries.

Isaac’s 2018 November Recs!

The Adventure Zone I know half of you already kin the Mcelroys while the other half either don’t know or don’t care, but the Adventure Zone is one of my most favorite things in the world. It’s a DND podcast (yes, all episodes are transcribed, and they have a graphic novel for the first arc of Balance with a second one on the way!) by three brothers plus their dad, and not only does it have the most amazing story and is ungodly funny, but TONS of gays (Griffin went ape with those Lesbian NPCS)! And just because they can! Same with trans characters. It’s a story where they just exist, and that’s really important to me because in a lot of media LGBT have to almost prove why they deserve to take up space. And it’s not just something that goes on in their first campaign, Amnesty also has those sweet sweet gay! I could talk about this podcast for hours, so if you needed that final push to give it a listen, THIS IS IT!

Stardew Valley You get to farm and be gay. And if THAT hasn’t sold you on this charming video game, then maybe the super cute graphics, beautiful soundtrack and a handful of interesting characters will! TBH I spend so much time playing this game it’s concerning. It’s just such a fun way to relax, and I just really REALLY like video games were I can chose to be gay. Like. God Tier. YOU CAN HAVE CROPS AND CHICKENS AND BE GAY C’MON YALL!!

The Amazing Quotes And Artists Featured!

Meg | instagram | esty

“My identity as a bisexual woman influences my art in many ways. As a woman, i create art about the issues that effect me, such as abortion and gender equality, in order to resonate with the people that matter most to me. As a bisexual individual, my subjects often appear from a gaze that falls outside of the stereotypical eye. My figure drawings and portraits all come from a place of admiration, and don’t fall into the stereotype of the male gaze or womanly care- they are the space inbetween, equally sexualized and normalized. I feel lucky to be a bi gal in the art world because it is a place that is my own to create in. There are so many queer artists that i look up to such as Mapplethorpe and Warhol, and many female artists i can cite as influence (Jenny Holzer, Kiki Smith, and Louise Bourgeois to name a few). My identity gives me a whole new world of content to draw from and allows my work to resonate with a wider audience, and I really think that any artists goal is to reach and touch as many people as possible.“  

Cameron | twitter | instagram 

“I don’t think that it influences the form really, but it definitely influences the subject matter! (Much as I hate to admit it, my identity influences the majority of choices I make in life.) I write a lot of poems about lgbtq related things and religion, as well as other stuff too. I was raised catholic, so realizing that I was “different” at more than one point in my teen years was scary AF. Being a member of the lgbtq+ community and also trying to still feel like I belong, or wanting to, in a religious community is hard, the two things are usually at a crossroads in my life so writing about them makes it easier for me to get through. My hope is that someday someone reads what I wrote and finds some peace in their own life/experience.” 

Vince | art instagram

“Well, being transgender I feel like I’m constantly aware of the lack of representation of my community, and I feel like it might be because of that I tend to experiment with showing all sorts of different type of people in my work. Because there’s so much diversity in the world, why not showcase that?”

Fox | art instagram  

“Oof…I’m gay so my characters always be gay. Gotta Fill the void in media w my own bullshit so I don’t have to rely on straight showrunners who will inevitably discard the character since they themselves seem to have no personal attachment and treat lgbt characters as disposable extras. Bc if I don’t at least attempt to create representation in the field I’m going into then I can’t rlly complain about the lack of it right? If I don’t try and change it I can’t complain about the lack of change so being an lgbt artist is lowkey Big Pressure to be revolutionary in your work but sometime…..I just wanna draw funkey animeal and that’s aight too”

Jen | twitter | instagram

“As a female bisexual poet, I worry often that my poetry and art will be too niche to be appreciated. I’ve spent years editing my poetry down to its barest bones in hopes that someone will relate to it. Changing pronouns back and forth because I worry that if I do talk about a woman, the poem will be stripped of its context and suddenly be about my queerness when in reality it never was. When I write about love and people I have dated and have crushed on, I want the poem to exist outside of the gender of who I love. I fear my authorial death will result in a complete misinterpretation of what I mean. When I write, it truly does not matter to me if I am writing about a woman or a man. If I feel what I write and I can make someone else feel it too does it matter that I also love women? I write what matters to me overall, regardless of gender, I try to make my poetry as true as possible. Sometimes, when I catch myself over editing I try to take myself back to the moment, to the person, what I loved about him or her. “

Lain | art instagram

“My LGBT Identity has significantly impacted almost all of my art, especially my work over the last two years. Ever since I have allowed myself to accept that I am trans and began my transition (6 months on T!), the impact that my Roman Catholic upbringing has had on my bisexual trans identity has bled into my artwork. Because of the way I was raised, accepting and allowing myself to be authentic has been an upward struggle. And what better way to process and document struggle than art?  

Much of my recent work has had a focus on the trans body, particularly the “sanctity” of self-actualization and the god-like power that comes with accepting and creating yourself in the unique and exceptional way that LGBT people must in order to live authentically. Two of my pieces on this topic were actually recently exhibited at UWM in the Trans-lucent exhibition, and will remain there until December 15th (I think). I got sick and tired of never seeing trans representation, so now I am creating that space that I crave in my own work.”

Kobe | instagram | soundcloud

“My art from is very influenced by my LGBT identity. It is very influenced by my LGBT black Identity. I think that whenever an artist makes their art (in my case writing music, singing, dancing) they should incorporate as much of themselves as possible. I think my LGBT identity definitely adds a sense of representation as well. I want people like me to listen to my music to know they aren’t alone. So it influences my work a lot. “

Nat | art instagram

“I think the fact that I am part of the LGBT+ community influences my art directly. Even though I don’t draw as often as I wish, I believe both my drawings and college projects (I am a 3d art/animation student), and my creativity in general is inspired by my personal experiences as a gay woman and common things experienced by the community. I try as often as I can to bring representation of some kind in the things I do, mainly personal projects. I also feel that it influences me on my motivation to keep creating; whenever I listen to, see drawings, watch movies or see whatever form of artistic expression from LGBT+ artists it gives me the energy to keep going, to keep creating.”

[carterhaughs]

Desire, Duty, & Transformative Self-Love: How Revan Saved Bastila

I posted this analysis some years ago and wanted to repost it now that I have more friends into SW following me.

The thing I’ve thought most about since finishing KOTOR a few days ago (I’ve yet to play KOTOR II but I will when I get home for winter break and have access to a PC) is why Bastila turned to the Dark Side, and why she returned to the Light (or in my interpretation, the Gray, although KOTOR I doesn’t really make this clear).

In-game, there are a number of factors alluded to as being decisive in her choice - her headstrong, wilful tendencies are twice brought up by Jolee in his reasoning as to why she turned despite being strong, and I think it was also he who mentioned that Bastila exposed herself to Revan’s “dark taint” when she touched his mind. The dark influence of the Star Forge on those in its presence is mentioned too - it drove the entire race of the Rakata mad with power and jealousy, after all - and even though the connection is never made explicit, this, too, probably had some impact on Bastila as it was the facility in which she was tortured. It’s easy to think of this dark influence functioning in a way similar to that of the One Ring in the Lord of the Rings series - it preys upon one’s weaknesses, as Jolee explained Malak did upon Bastila’s.

In addition to all the nebulous yet substantive reasons given in-game, I believe a few other influential factors can reasonably be inferred from Bastila’s upbringing. It seems likely to me that Bastila was raised to be a weapon but never fully understood for whom she was meant to pull the trigger. Like all jedi-in-training, she was purposely isolated from the world she was meant to protect for much of her childhood, but I imagine her isolation was even more complete than that of other younglings and Padawan. The moment her affinity for Battle Meditation was discovered, I think she was probably further isolated from her peers in order that it might be honed as quickly and effectively as possible - she had the potential to be an extremely powerful weapon, exactly what the Republic needed in the Jedi Civil War. Bastila’s fierce strength of will probably lent itself well to the unprecedented speed with which she developed her Battle Meditation ability, and in her isolation she probably came to believe that it was the end all, be all of her existence. She was a weapon for the Republic’s use before she was anything else, and indeed, as a Jedi, there was little opportunity for her to be anything else. She was meant to live a life of non-attachment and stifled emotions, and on top of that, she was meant to serve as a tool. With no other substantive worldly connections besides her connection to the abstract good of the Republic, she likely felt very alone, and consequently based her self-worth on her ability to serve as an effective tool to the Republic. How else was she to value herself, with no other metric of human connection and no real understanding of her own self-worth beyond her efficacy as a tool?

While this would have been hard on anyone, it was especially hard on Bastila, whose capacity and need for love is singularly acute. It’s clear from her actions prior to falling to the Dark Side that she valued the connections she formed with others deeply - why else would she so willingly sacrifice herself for Revan and Carth’s sake without a second thought? How ironic that the first connection she’s ever truly allowed to have with someone is with a former Dark Lord of the Sith! It really speaks to her isolation that the only reason she is allowed to foster this bond is because of a technicality - she must probe Revan’s mind for the coordinates to the pieces of the star map to the Star Forge in order that she might, once again, serve as an effective tool for the Republic. And in the course of that mission, she can’t help but become attached to this bond, the first she’s ever been allowed to share, even though she knows of the dangers that come with valuing bonds in such a deep and abiding way. They lead to love, the form of attachment most offensive to the Jedi code, and love leads to the Dark Side (or so she has been taught). It’s not surprising that Bastila formed a Force Bond with Revan in particular - canonically, both of them have stubborn, headstrong natures conducive to an independent-minded strength of will that flies in the face of the Jedi Code.

Her lonely subconscious fed on that unorthodoxy - that potential “dark taint” that colored Revan’s memories - because in him (or her - I’m saying him simply for convenience’s sake and bc I played a dude Revan), it had unwittingly found a kindred spirit. Bastila was given to self-loathing because she could not purge herself of that unorthodoxy - that fierce, strident spirit so discouraged by the Jedi Order. I believe that the Jedi Order saw it as an inappropriate reliance on self-love and hubris, but their mistake was in assuming that a prideful spirit will inevitably meet its end in this way. Their attempt to stifle and eradicate it did nothing but suppress it instead of dealing with it in a healthy way by looking at it as a means for self-improvement and self-preservation that has its own rewards both for oneself and others. Pride can be a folly, but you cannot divorce the sense of self, no matter how disproportionate, from the quest for self-improvement. It would have been better to acknowledge Bastila’s self-love (which they only encouraged by reminding her daily that the entire Republic relied on her abilities) and teach her to deal with it in a healthy way and use it as a means to help others by way of the confidence and conviction required for effective leadership. Instead, they expected her to subjugate her fierce spirit (a spirit that likely developed at least in part as a defense mechanism when she was asked to become the only thing standing between the Republic and total annihilation) to complete humility instead of a healthy degree of self-regard that still made room for compassion.

When she was tortured by Malak, she was alone again - she’d lost the one connection in her life that she’d ever been allowed to have - her connection with Revan. Bastila was once again just a weapon - it was all she was and all that mattered. Alone and vulnerable and in constant pain, she was open to suggestion. And as she explains when you fight her at the Star Forge, the Dark Side gave her free rein to rely on the passions she’d kept so tightly coiled for so many years. In unimaginable pain, it’s no wonder that she gave in to the way her proud spirit cried out at the injustice of it all. As a weapon with no connection to anyone, what did it matter for whom she pulled the trigger? What really mattered was whether or not she was in control - that she was the one pulling it, at her whim. That she wasn’t being used and that her personhood was respected. Even if Malak, too, only saw her as a tool, one day she could surpass him. For years, she’d been denied her passions and the need for connection they’d entailed so that she could fulfil her sole purpose as the Republic’s trump card. With no connection to those the Republic sought to protect, in her despair, she could see no inherent value in their protection. She could only see the value of self-love when self-love was all she’d ever been able to develop as it was all she was allowed to have, even though it, too, was discouraged. And her upbringing had encouraged her to view the world in binaries, so she chose the Dark Side instead of some third way that harmonized her desires with her duties. She’d only ever been allowed to love the good of the Republic in the abstract and had not been allowed to witness love with a human face.

Until she met Revan. She was encouraged to connect with him, even though that connection was meant only to be instrumental to the Republic’s cause. But in forging that first connection, he gave her something to hold on to and that’s why, canonically, he is able to pull her back. He was able to find some value in the Light Side not in spite of his passions, but because of them. He was able to channel his fierce love of the world into a desire to protect it with as much compassion as he can muster, and he is living proof that she can do the same, and that non-attachment and emotional repression are nowhere near as conducive to strength against the Dark Side as well-grounded love and compassionate fervor. And it is her recognition of this as the foundation of their bond - that this is what she loves about him - that leads her to realize that she, too, can become the best version of herself by following his path because she sees herself in him. She’s openly loved by him as a person, not because she’s a potent tool. To me, it’s as if they’re two sides of the same coin (and that is likely why they were Force-Bound) - Bastila’s will to resist the Dark Side was weakened by her having lived too little within the world and too much in the abstract without anything to which she might tether herself, while Revan’s fall was linked to cynicism - to having seen too much of the world and being sickened by it (like the destruction of the Cathar homeworld by the Mandalorians that lead to his acquiring his mask) and desiring to rectify it by any means possible. They are each others’ obverse, and together they are completed by love. It’s as Jolee said - “Love doesn’t lead to the dark side. Passion can lead to rage and fear, and can be controlled… but passion is not the same thing as love. Controlling your passions while being in love… that’s what they should teach you to beware. But love itself will save you… not condemn you."

[stumbling-while-balancing]

thanks so much for ur keith mental health post. he's been my fav since s1 bc of the way he isolates himself and shuts ppl out- things i rlly connect with, and ppl just bashing on him for what he does this season has been? emotional to say the least. he didnt want to be the black paladin, & honestly i think that 'leave the math to pidge' scene was supposed to hint at him already being prepared to step down once they found shiro... idk i just. think ppl are rough on him

Answering this one publicly, too, because I have some thoughts that are probably going to get long.

To start, I am so glad that you liked my posts. I know I’ve said it time and again, but it really is people like you who tell me that they identify with Keith and that my posts make them happy that inspire me to keep going on.

Now onto my thoughts. When I first entered this fandom, it was with the impression that Keith had social anxiety because of the way that he isolates and, as you say, shuts people out. My post about it was pretty much one of my first entries into this fandom, and I can’t say that anything the show has done has made me feel much differently. In fact, this last season has pretty much cemented my feeling that Keith struggles with social anxiety on a very real, very high level. And like you, I identify with him for it.

The thing is that people wrongly think that all people with social anxiety want to be alone. As someone with the disorder, I can tell you that this honestly isn’t true for everyone. I hate being alone. It makes me sad, to say the least. But I am often terrified of how I am perceived by other people, and so I avoid social interaction. Keith has a different but similar type of fear, I think.

He is more accepting of how strangers view him, but he seems terrified of how the people close to him view him.

He is constantly bringing down his own skills when referring to himself as a leader, so he obviously is very self conscious of how his actions are being viewed.

He also obviously has problems with his own self worth, something that is often associated with social anxiety.

He trains with the BOM just improve for the team, striving to turn himself into a better and potentially more likable leader. As someone with social anxiety, I am constantly trying to turn myself into a better and more likable person.

To me, his actions seem to come from this anxiety and a genuine desire to be someone that is better able to support the team, rather than from selfishness. Granted, his actions also seem to be driven from the desire to push the team away to keep himself safe. I personally imagine this is because he is so afraid that they don’t- won’t- like him or care for him as he does for them. As someone who has been in a similar situation, I can understand and identify with his need to protect himself.

And no, he did not want to be the Black Paladin. Fuck, the lead up to him becoming the Black Paladin was pretty much the very worst it could have been. People seem to forget so easily the state that Keith was in when he first became the BP to focus on the mistakes he made while leading. But reminder that Keith was very much not okay when he became the Black Paladin. He was in the middle of his grief, forced to pilot the Lion of the person that he was grieving. That’s a fucked up situation by any meaning of the term. Is it really such a wonder that being the BP is afterward something that Keith is very much against, considering the memories that it has attached to it? It’s a wonder that Keith was making any effort to pilot the Black Lion at all, tbh.

Not to mention that, as I’ve said before, Keith’s place on the team has always been defined by Shiro’s place, and being forced away from that place probably threw him off balance to a large degree. It definitely (and canonly) caused him to struggle with his place on the team.

And yes, I 100% believe that Keith told Lance not to worry because he was planning on stepping down himself so that no one else had to. I believe that because that’s what Keith did, the very first time the Lion’s were being called into action. Keith didn’t want to make Shiro feel like he had to give up his Lion, and he didn’t want to upset Lance or Allura by making them give up theirs. Instead, Keith did the 6 pilots, 5 lions equation and decided to subtract himself from it. Keith’s action’s, both in this season and the last, say a lot about how he feels about his place on the team, and how much he thinks that he should be valued. To say nothing of the way that he tried to sacrifice himself.

[fmdtaeyongarchive]

headcanon #023: opinion on his solo singles

word count: 829 words, not including song titles.

help: this song is one of the closest to ash’s heart to this day. it was very personal and he doesn’t perform it much these days, but out of all of the things in his career he’s unhappy with, he doesn’t regret this being the first non-ost solo song he ever released. recently, he’s been wanting to release a promoted single like this instead of the romantic or heartbroken niche he’s been cornered into with his singles.

i’m young: retrospectively, ash would consider this his weakest album title track, but it meant a lot to him at the time, so there’s some nostalgic affection still attached to it. he hated having to act so much in the music video when that’s far from where his talents lie, but the song itself was fine, if not anything extraordinary. he sees why it was out-shined by his collaborations at the time, though he’s somewhat loathe to admit it.

dream in a dream: musically, this is one of ash’s favorite songs he’s worked on. it was very different from his comfort zone and he learned a lot in the composition and production realm while working on it. it’s another one he doesn’t perform much these days since bc doesn’t seem as interested in pushing him as a dancer as they had been at the time and it’s not the kind of song that’s very interesting to perform without the choreography.

new heroes: new heroes falls middle of the pack for him. he’s not unhappy with it, but he did injure his ankle while filming it, so his memories of it are tainted by the other events surrounding it. it was his second all-english single and getting the opportunity to release a few songs in his native tongue was something he valued.

navigation: this is another one ash doesn’t see himself performing again very often, but it was a learning experience in its own right. it’s probably ash’s least known song since it didn’t chart and didn’t have a music video and was squeezed in as a portal release before he really rocketed to the tops of the charts with “untitled, 2014″, but he’s fine with it not being more widely appreciated. it was more of a cathartic release than one he was seeking validation for.

dive: ash believes making this song really helped set him on a path of finding his “sound” that he has today. he thinks it’s a rare song of his that works better as audio instead of a live performance, but it was the first song that he’d written, composed, and produced entirely without outside help that bc deemed good enough to be released as a single, even if it was only a pre-release, so ash is quite proud of it.

untitled, 2014: this song is a pillar in the middle of ash’s career that he can’t stop looking back on. to date, it’s his only number one non-ost solo single (his other two number ones are a collaboration and a solo ost) and the only number one he wrote, so he worries that it may be the peak of his career. he was thrilled not to get stuck with a sophomore slump, but, as more time passes, it feels like his sophomore album may have been his peak instead and he didn’t want that to be so early in his career. both writing and performing the song were very rough times in his life, so performing it even now isn’t very good for him, but it’s unlikely he’ll stop performing it in solo concert set lists any time soon seeing as it’s his best-performing song.

romanticism: it’s grown on ash and he’d like it well enough if it was by someone else, but having it practically forced on him to fit the concept bc wanted to sell leaves few good feelings toward the song.

d (half moon): ash considered this song a commercial failure at first because he was comparing it to untitled, 2014, but as time goes by, it’s found the most stability on the charts of any of his songs, so it’s a commercial success in its own way. bc had really trained ash to see good sales and streaming numbers as success, but on a personal level, ash quite likes this song. it’s very personal and he gets very into it when performing, but it’s not all-encompassing when he performs it in the way untitled, 2014 is that makes it unhealthy for him. he began writing the song in 2016, but feels like he could have written it today and related to it just as well.

woo ah: ash wasn’t a big fan of how the song was staged with female dancers body rolling in the background, as that wasn’t how he envisioned his performance and it felt like an unnecessary addition to fill the stage, but it’s fine. not his favorite song he’s ever written and the pride about it has already faded, but it’s fine. it was received well, but that only confused ash more about what people want from him.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

OK, I'LL TELL YOU YOU ABOUT SUCCINCTNESS

And yet a large number of Americans are deeply religious, and the people involved. I think everyone knows now that good hackers are much better than mediocre ones.1 People make it. Economically, the print media. Trevor. It certainly is possible for individual programs to be written too densely. Technology is a lever. Conversely, a language that talks down to them.

One reason the young sometimes succeed where the old fail is that they don't share the opinions of other investors. In fact, if Bill had finished college and gone to work for someone else would get an even colder reception from the 19 year old was Bill Gates? Maybe the situation is similar with malaria. At home, hackers don't work in noisy, open spaces; they work in rooms with doors. And you know, Microsoft is remarkable among big companies in that they give more power to startups, which is one of those rare people who have x-ray vision for character. But VCs are mistaken to look for it—to realize that it was a description of Google? A rounds. I have not yet seen evidence that seemed to me conclusive, and I feel as if I've learned, to some degree, to judge technology by its cover.2

And that takes some effort, because the less smart people writing the actual applications wouldn't be doing low-level stuff like allocating memory.3 For describing pages, we had a template language called RTML, which supposedly stood for something, but which in fact I named after Rtm. They'll simply refuse to work on your own projects than an undergrad or corporate employee would. So naturally the people at the startup work a lot harder when they have options. I suspect the most productive individuals will not only be disproportionately large, but will actually grow with time.4 When startups tank they usually do it fairly quickly.5 At Y Combinator we came up with the phrase that became our motto: Make something people want.

Perhaps the CEO or the professional athlete has only ten times whatever that means the skill and determination of an ordinary person.6 I think this sort of trick to pledge publicly not to. Craigslist. And you can quote me! There was that same odd atmosphere created by a startup as if it were merely a matter of implementing some fabulous initial idea.7 The Ajax boom didn't start till early 2005, when Google Maps appeared and the term Ajax was coined. Hypothesis My hypothesis is that succinctness is what programming languages are supposed to do, or by going to work for people with high standards. In fact, it may be both.8 And there is a common thread.9 As Fred Brooks pointed out, small groups are intrinsically more productive, because the rate of a successful startup out of curing an unfashionable but deadly disease like malaria?10 But here too we see the same principle: the way to get rich. Increasingly, startups are taking charge of their own stock in later rounds unless something is seriously wrong.

We've learned a lot since then, but if feeling you're going to succeed makes you work harder, that probably improves your chances of succeeding, but if I were drawing from life. If you do manage to threaten them, they're more right than they know, because the young have no performance to measure yet, and any error in guessing their ability will tend toward the mean. Most investors know this m. A Photoshop user needs Photoshop in a way that no one needs a particular song or article. In fact, the most innovation happens.11 Not surprisingly, people do what you want. Before ITA who wrote the software inside Orbitz, the people at Yahoo had managed to create a company worth about $8 billion in just six years.12

Now even the poorest Americans drive cars, and it also tends to make startups more pliable in negotiations, since they're usually short of money. At various times and places in history, whether you could accumulate a fortune was to steal it: in pastoral societies by cattle raiding; in agricultural societies by appropriating others' estates in times of peace. This essay developed out of conversations I've had with several other programmers about why Java smelled suspicious. It's like importing something from Wisconsin to Michigan. And fortunately at least two of these three qualities can be cultivated. Just be sure to make something people want is to be able to increase your ambition. A culture of cheapness keeps companies young in something like the way exercise keeps people young.13 Back when I was a kid. In most startups, expenses people and decreasing expenses. It's in their interest for content to be as cheap as possible, and since they own the channel, there's a lot they can do with it is enormous. This bodes ill for Sun's future.14 In it he said he worried that he was fundamentally soft-hearted and tended to give away too much for free.

Notes

In other words, it's usually best to err on the side of the 70s, moving to Monaco would only give you more by what you've done than where you get a low valuation to see what the valuation of hard work is a self fulfilling prophecy. Many people feel confused and depressed in their graves at that game.

Perl has. Success here is that present-day English speakers have a connection with Aristotle, but there has to be naive in: it's not uncommon for startups.

You're investing your own. Patrick Pantel and Dekang Lin. Median may be some part you can fix by writing an interpreter for the sledgehammer; if you include the prices of new stock.

If you're not consciously aware of it, is that it is generally the common stock holders who take big acquisition offers that super-angels gradually to erode. I managed to get to be so obsessed with being published. Some founders deliberately schedule a handful of lame investors first, but in practice investors discount merely predicted revenue, so we hacked together our own startup Viaweb, which merchants used to end a series of numbers that are only arrows on parts with unexpectedly sharp curves.

More precisely, investors treat them differently. Most people should not always tell this to realize that. I'm not claiming founders sit down and calculate the expected value calculation for potential founders, because you spent your summers. It's when they're really saying is they want it to the same attachment to their work.

So if you're good you'll have to preserve their wealth by forbidding the export of gold or silver.

Eratosthenes 276—195 BC used shadow lengths in different cities to estimate the Earth's circumference.

This is why, when Subject foo not to stuff them with you. Thanks to Daniel Sobral for pointing this out. It seems to have balked at this, I put it here. I know of a business, and as an employee as this.

They won't like you raising other money and may pressure you to stop, but it's always better to embrace the fact that established companies is that you'll expend a lot of detail. The angels had convertible debt is little different from technology companies. VCs.

If a big chunk of time on applets, but starting a company in Germany told me they do care about Intel and Microsoft, would increase the spammers' cost to reach a certain field, it's easy to get at it.

How did individuals accumulate large fortunes in an absolute sense, but this advantage isn't as obvious because it might take an angel-round board, consisting of two things: the separate condenser. This seems unlikely at the company's PR people worked hard to erase from a few actual winners emerge with hyperlinear certainty. Selina Tobaccowala stopped to say for sure a social network for x instead of working. Several people I talked to mentioned how much we really depend on Aristotle more than their lifetime value, counting users as active when they're on boards of directors they're probably a real poet.

A termsheet with a million spams. Super-angels gradually to erode.

Maybe markets will eventually get comfortable with potential acquirers. This is almost pure discovery. The point of a stock is its future earnings, you don't need empathy to design new languages.

Design ability is so hard to compete directly with open source project, but investors can get very emotional.

Thanks to Paul Buchheit, Ken Anderson, and Travis Deyle for their feedback on these thoughts.

[fearofbecomingahoarder]

So, it turns out I kind of like to write.  Or at least I think I like to write.  Obviously I’m pry not very good at it because I just started my first two sentences with conjunctions and I’m pretty sure that’s kind of a big “no-no” in the english book of grammatical correct-ness.  <- LOL what even..

Anyway, I’ve been reading Nick Langenberg’s blogs lately because I guess he’s like an aspiring writer or something and they are absolutely FANTASTIC.  I mean I’m probs being a little biased because he’s always been someone Iv’e looked up to as kind of a hero figure as he was my first rugby coach in highschool and has a heart of pure gold.  Seriously, he’s like the coolest of all cats.  One of my fave memories of him is when his fiance forgot to pick him up from work on the way to practice.  (He was working as an accountant or consultant or something at a bank at the time.)  Nick resorted to jogging all the way to Wedgewood Park in his suit and tie (not even sure where his office was at the time so who knows how far he was tryna go), until someone offered him a ride to where he was going.  He showed up late to practice in some random dude’s car, all sweaty in his work get-up.  Kat looked SUPER guilty and he came up and gave her a “I forgive you” squeeze and jumped right into coaching.  He will forever be just one of those amazing people who will inspire me in life and I’m SO glad he’s choosing to share his beautiful soul with the world through writing.  YAY.  

What I’m getting at is that his most recent blog thingy got me thinking about how much I would absolutely love to become a minimalist, but I just am SO attached to my things.  It’s probably because of growing up kinda poor, and the fact that I’m overly sentimental, but it’s pretty hard for me to throw things away.  Even articles of clothing and random crap that I won’t touch for even years at a time.  Yet when I go to throw something out that could be of any relative use to me someday, I end up putting it back in whatever stupid place i’ve found to store that worthless piece of crap and it stays there FOREVER.  Tank-tops, wrapping paper, markers, etc. Heck dude.  What is that even?  

After watching that minimalist documentary I tried to imagine myself doing that ish and I LOVE the thought of it.  Trying to choose quality over quantity.  Finding value in the small amount of things that I have.  I mean, I don’t have to go overboard like only having a couple pairs of shoes or whatever, but I can defs scale down all the worthless bullcrap in my closet and stop buying stupid bullcrap to fill my closet with.  The concept goes kinda great with the lifestyle I aspire for.. I’m what my mom would refer to as a gypsy.  I’m a rolling stone.  An energizer bunny.  A nomadic being who hasn’t really lived in one home for over one year since pry middle school.  Having less things means having to move less things every time I choose to pick up my life and put it somewhere else.

This also would tie in perfectly with my conservationist movement, as well as my trying not to spend money movement.  I would buy less waste and in turn produce less waste.  (I mean, that’s the idea, right?..)  

Side note of other “green” things I can do with my life:

1.  Buy less packaged goods.  (Means less garbage and less buying stupid ish I don’t need.)

2.  Recycle dat ish (Plastic bags and stuff..)

3.  Less TP, PT, and napkins.  (I know this seems gross but hey, barely used tp in the PH, towels are a nice lil washable alternative to paper towel and I could pry just recycle old clothes somehow to make them into rags/blow dry that ish, and napkins are pry unnecessary - at home anyway.. pitch towel napkin idea from Cody and Christian.)

4.  Shorter showers.  (This is a toughie.)  Less showers maybe?.. Or more showers at the gym to save on our electricity bill.  Yeah.

It was weird because when I was cleaning my room yesterday I was looking at all of my clothes that I was folding and did that thing where you hold up an object and ask “Do I value this?” and if nah then you toss that muhfuh out.  But then I couldn’t do it.  Like seriously I’d get close and then I’m like “Oh what if I want to wear it someday?” or “But I got this [insert some dumb-ass story of how I got that thing or how much I loved it way back when or blah blah blah].”  But seriously a lot of the clothes in my closet I held up and kinda hated.  (Like the thought of wearing them made me go “bleh” bc it was either old, not stylish, uncomfortable, unflattering, etc.)  One of the ideas behind minimalism is that your possessions are supposed to bring you joy, otherwise why own them?  (This is kinda weird because the definition of materialism is something along the lines of objects bringing you comfort, yet I almost consider materialism as the opposite of minimalism, but actually when I think about it they aren’t really opposites, but kinda.)

I think because I attach so much sentiment to my things I’m thinking I might be able to let them go if maybe I write about them.  Like I can tell the story of that object (because as if every object has some sort of story behind it.)  That was the memory of that thing can stay alive and it can also be kind of a fun writing exercise for yours truly.  Practice make better, right?  Let’s see if I can get rid of some of all the stupid clutter and maybe by the time I’m ready to move (either at the beginning or end of summer) I’ll not have so much poops to move.

Note: Whore-der

(def). Someone who hoards multiple dudes/girls/booty calls to do the nasty wit bc you a ho for sho.

[rebeccahpedersen]

Buying A Former Marijuana Grow-Op As Your Primary Residence (Pt2)

TorontoRealtyBlog

You know the expression, “Good things come to those that wait”?

There couldn’t possibly be a more incorrect way to describe being a buyer in the 2017 Toronto real estate market.

Those that wait either end up paying more for a semi than they could have paid for a detached a year earlier, or get priced out of the market entirely.

Waiting intentionally gets you nowhere.  But once in a while, you get somewhere after a while, by complete fluke…

What is marijuana anyways?

And why is it illegal?

We Canadians think it’s insane that our neighbours south of the border give out jail time for possession of a gram of herb, but they can walk a loaded handgun through a school gym class…

I think that if the U.S. government was able to regulate, and tax, the sale of marijuana, it would be a no-brainer.

Same goes for Canada.  I never met a Liberal government that didn’t love a tax!  Figure out how to profit from it, and the Liberals will make possession of marijuana legal.

In 2006, I went on a journey with my father and my brother, that saw us climb to Base Camp at Mount Everest, but then take a short side-trip to Bhutan.

I had never even heard of Bhutan until my Dad told us we were going.

I’ll never forget, driving from the airport (which was the size of your house) to the hotel, and you could see fields of marijuana from the window.

I’m not joking.

I’ve just gone into my archives, check this out – this is the view from where we pulled the car over:

Gorgeous, eh?

And then this is what was at our feet:

There are literally fields of marijuana, growing in the wild.

Our guide told us that it grows “like a weed.”

Hence one of the many reasons why it’s referred to as “weed.”

It seemed to come in all different shapes, sizes, and colours.

That classic light-green look above, and then something like this below, which shows the typical light-green leaves, but on a redwood stem that you’d expect to find on a maple tree:

We took hundreds of photos of wild marijuana on this trip.

Our guide kept asking us, “What is the fascination with this weed?”

We told him that back home, it was like a currency.  It had value.

He said, “It’s illegal to own it here.”

That made no sense!  It was growing wild everywhere, but it was illegal to own it?  And what was the value like, given it was readily available in fields as far as the eye could see?

“It has no magic powers, like yours back home.  It does not make you feel good.”

He went on to tell us all about the male and female marijuanas, how they’re born, how they grow, what metabolites they contained, etc.

For a guy that didn’t use it, didn’t own it, and claimed it was illegal to possess it, our guide sure knew a lot about it!

On Monday, I told you the story of my buyer clients, Duncan and Amanda, who were having a tough time finding a home that suited their needs, and was within their price range (like every buyer out there), but who stumbled upon a house that was priced like we were in the spring of 2014, only to find out that it was used as a marijuana grow-op thirteen years earlier.

When we left off, I told you that we had decided to make an offer.

And we did.

Our offer was conditional on financing and home inspection, since we needed to know if there was anything wrong with this house, but more importantly, we needed to know if a lender out there would finance it!

I knew it was a long shot, but it was a shot I was willing to take.

I don’t generally seek out the near-possible, but I have faith in my “team.”

I often tell my clients that I have spent 13 years surrounding myself with people who I know and trust.  My mortgage broker, home inspector, lawyer, stager, painter – if you need it, I have a guy or a gal for it.

And I knew that while most buyers wouldn’t want to own a “former grow-op,” and most agents would tell the buyers it’s impossible to finance, this was a situation we could use to our advantage.

As I said on Monday, this house was listed at $800,000, but was worth, in my opinion, well in excess of $900,000.

We didn’t waste any time with the offer – we made it an hour after seeing the house, threw the full $800,000 list price at them, and gave them until midnight.

We could have tried to work the price down under $800,000, but it was simply a risk-reward equation that we didn’t like.

I had no doubt that somebody else could try to buy this house.  They could outbid us, and tie it up conditionally, but they would never get financing.  So I wasn’t afraid of losing the house, but I was afraid of the house being tied up for two weeks.

The house had also just been reduced by $50,000 that afternoon.  Now would be the least likely time for the seller to negotiate.

So while we could have tried to get the house for $790,000 or $795,000, we couldn’t have put the midnight gun to their head, and I thought another offer would come in by the next day.

We bought the property, conditionally, and yet there was still a hint of excitement in the air.

I called Duncan to tell him, and he laughed.  Hard.  The classic Duncan-cackle that I’ve been hearing since 1985.

“Dave, one day we’re gonna be sitting around like two old men, and you’ll say, ‘Hey man, remember the time I sold you that grow-op?’”

At least we could laugh about it!  We had a tall order ahead of us.

And we were setting ourselves up for disappointment too.

We had a 1% chance of getting this deal firmed up, and we knew that.

I asked my mortgage broker well in advance if we could get financing on a former grow-op, and he said, “Next to impossible.”

Everybody in my office thought I was nuts.

But we got the ball rolling, and booked a home inspection for two days later.

I only use Gordon Mathieu from Carson Dunlop.  He is, in my opinion, the most knowledgeable inspector working in the city today.  I’ve probably used Gordon a hundred times, and I trust him emphatically.

When Gordon likes something, he’ll glow about it.  And when Gordon doesn’t like something, he takes it personally.  It’s like every house out there, is his own.

We spent three hours at the house, and Gordon was raving about it.  Not only did we find absolutely no evidence of mold, water damage, or basically anything wrong with this house (other than the 35-year-old furnace), but Gordon pointed out many of the super-adequacies, or features of the home that were built above and beyond the building code, or how it’s done today.

“The way it’s built” changes with the years, whether it’s the style, the aesthetic, or the materials.  Look at some of the detail in the beautiful old buildings in downtown Toronto, and then look at the glass towers we see today.

Gordon pointed out many of the features of the home that were built better in the late-1970’s than they are today.

Overall, he loved the house.  The report checked out, and we even added the thermal imaging (which few people do), just to be safe.

The sellers had done an Indoor Air Quality Inspection Report through EnviroSolve Canada – a 22-page report, which concluded that there were was no hidden mold growth within the wall or ceiling cavities of the home that were affecting indoor air quality.

Armed with these two important pieces of evidence, it was time to approach the lenders.

Just for good measure, however, I added a third bit of data, which I simply called logic.

I drafted an email that I knew my mortgage broker would forward to the lenders, which laid out the nuts and bolts.

The house, as I explained, was not a “former grow-op.”  It was a “former, former grow-op.”

The house was used as a grow-op for a few months back in 2002.  That was it.

The house was now inhabited by a family of four, who had been living here for thirteen years with no issues.

The basement, which is where the plants were grown, was completely gutted and renovated in 2003.

So was this really a “former grow-op?”  Was it really a concern?

Or was this just stigma on paper?

As somebody pointed out in the comments section on Monday, any sigma like this must be disclosed forever.  When my clients go to sell in 20-30 years, they’ll have to disclose this too.

So while the fact that this house was used as a grow-op in 2002-2003 had to be disclosed out of necessity, was it really applicable or important in 2017?  Or was it just a formality?

We started going to the lenders, and we got shot down left, right, and centre.

The bank that held the current mortgage, turned us down, which was shocking.

Imagine that!  The very bank that currently holds a mortgage on the property, won’t lend us the money.  Does that make sense to you?

The owners got a mortgage in 2003, renewed in 2008, and renewed again in 2013 – all three times, with no problems.

Now we were talking to the same lender, a Big-5 Bank, who was saying, “no.”

We talked to Big-5 Banks, credit unions, and monolines, but nobody wanted to touch it.

Then one credit union said they would lend, as a favour to my broker, but they wanted the following:

-2003 police report -2003 mold remediation report -2003 re-entry certificate -2003 environmental study -2017 home inspection -2017 air quality report -2017 environmental study -2017 appraisal

And I think that was it.  Wait…..there might have been one or two other things.

But overall, the list was exhaustive.

And as I soon found out, there was no 2003 mold remediation report, since no mold was found, and none was remediated!  There was no 2003 re-entry certificate issued, since this house wasn’t condemned or shut down by the police.  There was no 2003 environmental study.

This “grow-op” wasn’t much of a grow-op after all.  It was small-scale, short-lived, and made no impact on the house.

But the credit union wanted what they wanted, and we couldn’t get financing without it.

Now as you would probably assume from the tone of my story, and from the title of my blog, we did get financing on this property eventually.

Can you guess where we got it from?

A credit union?

A monoline?

An underground lender?

Nope.

We got financing from a Big-5 Bank.

I won’t say which one, just as I won’t name the bank that holds the current mortgage and turned us down.

But it wasn’t some fly-by-night, and it wasn’t a lender you’ve never heard of.  In the end, it was a bank you know and trust.

And it was 100% due to my mortgage broker’s relationship with the underwriter.

Some of the lenders told us, “We’ll do 10,000 mortgages this year; we don’t need to do 10,001.”  They saw this simply as a deal they wouldn’t touch, because of the stigma.

But the underwriter and the Big-5 bank we went to, knew my mortgage broker, and listened when he framed this deal as one that was just as good as any, if not better.  The clients had 35% down, their mortgage application was top-notch, and they were brilliantly qualified.  So what if the MLS listing had the words “grow-op” next to the date “2002.”  We had enough to refute that, and more.

My mortgage broker’s relationship with this particular underwriter made this deal, and that’s something that no other broker had up his or her sleeve.

I’m sure somewhere out there, there’s another mortgage broker, with another relationship, with another underwriter, that could have got the deal done

But this was truly 1/100 from the start, and thanks to the people around me, we got it done.

We almost lost the deal at the last minute, however, when the on-the-ground “mortgage specialist,” who worked retail at my buyers’ branch of this Big-5 bank, refused to close his own pre-approval on the buyers.  He told my clients, “There’s a rate hold on file, and it can’t be removed for four months.  I’m really sorry.”

This would have meant that the underwriter my broker was working with couldn’t have approved the loan on her end, and we’d be without financing.

My mortgage broker sniffed this out quickly.  He told my clients, “Put me on the phone with him, please,” and after a 30-second phone call, low-and-behold, the retail-rep said, “Oh, wait, I actually can closet this file, my mistake,” and that was that.

I’m all for getting business, but when somebody shows up at your door and says, “We got a broker to approve a deal that you never could have got approved, we’re going with him,” why try to deliberately get in their way?  I’ve heard a lot of bad stories about mortgages and lenders at the retail level lately, but that’s a story for another day.

So there you have it, folks!

My clients bought a $900,000+ house for $800,000.  In this crazy market!

Who’d have ever thought?

I can’t wait to be invited over for a summer pool party.

I really, really need to work on my Dad-bod…

The post Buying A Former Marijuana Grow-Op As Your Primary Residence (Pt2) appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

Originated from http://ift.tt/2lnoQZH

[ddaenggtan]

lay me gently | ksj (preview)

there is no time for loneliness among the fires of your forge, no room in your buzzing mind for thoughts of anything but your next invention and the pain in your leg. your life is tilted off its axis, though, when your parents arrange a marriage without your knowledge or consent, and your new husband begins to situate himself into your life despite protests from either of you. you don’t know what zeus and hera have planned, but a volcano is no place for a love god like seokjin. | monsters and gods pt 2 (masterlist)

pairing | seokjin x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, aphrodite!jin, hephaestus!reader, disabled!reader (kind of, it’s presented more as chronic pain, but that’s a whole discussion), fluff, slight angst but not a ton, v brief allusions to violence but its purposefully vague, not so brief descriptions of physical injury, descriptions of chronic pain, cyclopes! everywhere! i use that word so many times!, this also features dionysus!jimin but only a little, 

word count | 11.3k for now 

a/n | short lil preview bc i’m so close to finishing it but also have --89515221354 willpower to finish and edit this, so hopefully seeing that people are even halfway reading about this will kick my ass into gear!!!

It's hot. It's always hot here, the consequences of living inside a volcano, you suppose, but the callouses on your skin have long since made you immune to the burns. You glide down through the halls, an old habit since the day you crafted the wheels you attached to your sandals. No longer did you need to carry the awkward and hefty cane everywhere you went, or struggle to make your leg move the way you wanted it to. The invention of the wheel was one you were forever proud of. 

The forge is already blazing when you arrive, each of the hundred levels full of cyclopes all hammering away. Steam hisses and rises through the air, and you chance a glance at the lava bubbling miles below you. 

"Careful today," You call to the cyclops closest to you. "It looks like she's feeling the burn again. Raise the guards soon, and keep them up until she blows. No sense letting good work go to waste." The cyclops nods and barks orders out at others across the levels. You wheel yourself further along, the sound of the celestial bronze shields being brought up serving as background noise. You probably could have waited another day or so to raise them, if you were honest; cyclopes are fireproof, which is useful in a forge, and you yourself aren't likely to be taken out by a mere volcanic eruption. The work, though...heat like that could affect even the strongest of your creations, and you all worked much too hard here to have to reform every bolt, repour every blade. 

You valued your time too much for that. 

"You have a guest, my lady," one of your workers called. You look up from the notebook in your hands - soot-covered, bound in leather, edges singed, with bits of paper sticking every which way from the many times you've jotted something down for later and stuffed it inside quickly before tying the leather cords that bind it - and frown. The cyclops grimaces slightly. "It...seems to be Lord Zeus."

You scoff and spin yourself around to follow him to the elevator reluctantly. "Probably wants to commission another throne, the bastard. Should've stuck him to the last one, maybe he'd get it through his head that not everyone wants to fuck him." You wave a hand and your guide gives you a curt nod before returning to work. You settle yourself in the lift and flip the lever. It's not a long journey, thanks to the many improvements you've made over the years, but it still seems that too soon the grate is sliding back into the wall to allow you exit. 

You tap your heels together twice as you glide off the lift, already reaching for the cane that you keep there for situations like this. The soft clicks and whirs are nearly imperceptible as the wheels break themselves apart and regress into the hidden compartments in your soles. Your leg becomes dead weight once more, and you wince at the way it drags behind you. You've half a mind to curse whoever came to call on you this time; you hate walking, even if the charade is a necessary one. You're still contemplating the idea when you hobble into your entry to see Zeus himself, stoic and cold as he ever is. 

"My lord," You call, barely keeping the venom out of your voice as you do. Many would say it's the heat of the mountain making your blood boil, but you know the truth. Very little in the world sets you off like the man in front of you. 

He turns and fixes a blinding grin on you. "My dear Hephaestus!" You scoff at the title; no one has called you by your name in centuries, lest they inherit your lameness. "Wonderful to see you, truly. It's been too long since my last visit."

"Yes, four hundred years does seem to crawl by without you to grace the halls of my forge," You drawl. His eyes steel for a moment, your sarcasm not as lost on him as you'd hope, but it quickly passes. "Why are you here, my lord?"

"Well, you remember how I said I would owe you a favor?" Your eyes narrow and you nod. In the handful of times Zeus has repaid the hundreds of favors he owes, it's hardly ever been something positive. "I'm here to pay it! I brought you a gift."

"A gift, what-?" You don't get the chance to finish. Zeus has already waved forward a steward he brought along. Your heart aches for the boy as sweat drips down his body and his tunic is already singed. Your own leathers are slightly oppressive in the heat, but at least they don't catch fire. Zeus takes a scroll from the boy, harsh and rough, and shoves it into your hands. You unravel it quickly, your eyes darting across the words on the paper.

"A marriage?!" Your screech echoes throughout the mountain and the clanging of metal on metal pauses for a moment. "What am I supposed to do with a marriage, much less one to a-" You scan the paper again. "A love goddess?"

"Not a love goddess," He tuts. "The love goddess. Well. Love deity. Aphrodite is a beauty, you're lucky I could arrange such a thing." Your eyes strain against your skull, threatening to pop out with every word Zeus says. 

"What in all of Tartarus is a ‘love deity’ supposed to do in my forge?" You ask him. He scoffs and waves the question off as if it doesn't matter. Your hand twitches with the urge to throw him into the lava, and the only thing keeping you from doing exactly that is the pain striking through your leg - a bitter reminder of just what Zeus is capable of - and the knowledge that it wouldn't even kill him. 

"Your mother was adamant about this, Hephaestus." You echo his scoff at this; you're sure she was. "Aphrodite will arrive within the week. See to it that everything is fit for a god." He chuckles at his own joke, and a vision of your cane shoved through his skull implants itself in your brain. You force yourself to take in deep breaths. The scent of hot metals, sparks, and sulfur calms you, as it always has. 

"Fine," You say, though Zeus is already on his way out. "I'm not keeping anyone here against their will, though!" Your shout goes ignored, as you knew it would. You grumble under your breath and hobble back to the elevator. Within moments you're shooting down to your bedroom, large and situated close to the heart of the volcano. You don't bother to activate the wheels of your shoes, instead leaning on your cane until you get to your bed. 

The plush mattress and blankets are a relief on your aching hip and leg and you let yourself lean back and just relax for a moment. The notice is still clutched in your hand and you find yourself staring at the looping curves of Hera's signature, wondering what she's up to this time. 

Memories flood you before you can stop them; being a young godling in Olympus, attached and in awe of your mother as she led you around the city, light gleaming off the golden columns. Seeing the fire in Zeus' eyes the first time he struck her in front of you, and the blaze that came when you stepped in front of her. Starlight glinting off her silver robes as she cried in her garden. The bruising vice he kept on your calf, the feel of the winds against your skin as you fell, the way Helios painted the sky as you kept falling. The feel of a hammer in your hand for the first time, juxtaposed to the throbbing pain in your crippled leg every time you so much as twitched. 

The notice is across the room before you realize you've thrown it. You want to believe she isn't playing games; Hera has always been somewhat conniving, but your mother has never been outright cruel to you, not since the night you tried to save her from her husband, and she always had her reasons. You may not always agree with her reasons, but that didn't change the fact that she had them. Still, condemning an innocent person to a life here...condemning you to live your days with a constant reminder of your plainness, your deformity, wasn't something you expected from her. Zeus, yes, but not her. 

You let yourself fall back onto the bed, only to adjust a few moments later when the pressure on your hip becomes too much. You're angled now, weight resting on your good side to alleviate even a bit of the pain from the other. It was the only way you could get a moment's peace since your fall, the only time the pain lessened. 

You allow yourself five breaths. Five breaths to let the tear slip down your cheek, drawing its path through the soot and the smoke. Four to let your breath shake in your chest and shudder in the air. Three for the ache in your hip to disappear completely, so you are blessedly free from your pain for once. Two for the thorns to tighten impossibly around your heart and let it bleed for you. One for the hole in your chest, shaped like a loving father and a true family that doesn't constantly commission weapons from you to throw at each other.

Pain arcs through your leg once more and you wince. Your hand massages the muscles there absentmindedly; it provides no relief to anything but your mind. You stand and click your heels together once more, glad when the wheels are stable once more. In seconds, you're off, flying through hallways to get to your workshop. 

You've got work to do. 

It's nearly the entire week later when one of the workers knocks on the door of your workshop. 

"Aphrodite has arrived, my lady." You wave at him and he disappears back into the mass of his brothers. It doesn't take you long to get to the entryway, rolling through the halls until you're just outside the large bronze doors. You retract your wheels and grasp your cane, reminding yourself that the more people thought Zeus had crippled you debilitatingly, the better. Your hip aches again and you tune it out in favor of tapping the end of your cane against a small hammer at the base of the doors. There's a quiet whir as they slide open, and you limp forward as best you can. 

The foyer is packed with people, cyclopes everywhere with bags slung over their shoulder, forest nymphs tapping at their smoking roots, naiads hissing with steam. In the midst of everything stands two still figures, one infinitely more familiar than the other. 

"I thought I told you that the next time you step foot in my forge, I'd stoke my fires with your bones." Your voice is loud as it reverberates across the walls. Both figures turn to look at you, but your glare doesn't falter. 

"Aw, are you still mad about that?" His smile is deceptively innocent. "You never would've gotten her off that throne otherwise." 

"It wasn't supposed to be her throne in the first place, was it?" You spit back as you make your way to him. It doesn't escape your notice that everyone but the cyclopes is staring at you, and you're glad the heat from the mountain keeps you flushed. You can't show weakness in front of this crowd, you can't let them know that you know they think you're below them. 

You can't let them know that in your worst moments, you agree. 

"Get the fuck out of my mountain, Dionysus, before I throw you out."

"Ooh, take after your old man a little too much there, don't you?" Jimin's smile never leaves his face and you resist the urge to smack it with your cane. Instead you tighten your grip on it and take a breath. 

"What are you doing here?" You eventually ask through gritted teeth. 

"Just escorting a dear, dear friend." His grin has turned predatory as he rests a hand on his companion's shoulder. "My dear Hephaestus, I'd like to introduce you to Aphrodite." You glance over, looking the man up and down briefly. 

He's taller than you - though with your pained hunch, many are. His shoulders are almost as wide as his eyes as he looks around the room, taking in the granite walls and bronze moldings. His clothes aren't practical in the least; soft and sweet and flowing linens in a pale lilac that complements the purple of his hair. It's a stark contrast to the harsh reds and greys of your soot-stained leathers. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are the same color as the grease you use to oil your inventions and give you no clue to his thoughts.

He's fucking beautiful and it brings a sob to your throat.

[rebeccahpedersen]

Buying A Former Marijuana Grow-Op As Your Primary Residence (Pt2)

TorontoRealtyBlog

You know the expression, “Good things come to those that wait”?

There couldn’t possibly be a more incorrect way to describe being a buyer in the 2017 Toronto real estate market.

Those that wait either end up paying more for a semi than they could have paid for a detached a year earlier, or get priced out of the market entirely.

Waiting intentionally gets you nowhere.  But once in a while, you get somewhere after a while, by complete fluke…

What is marijuana anyways?

And why is it illegal?

We Canadians think it’s insane that our neighbours south of the border give out jail time for possession of a gram of herb, but they can walk a loaded handgun through a school gym class…

I think that if the U.S. government was able to regulate, and tax, the sale of marijuana, it would be a no-brainer.

Same goes for Canada.  I never met a Liberal government that didn’t love a tax!  Figure out how to profit from it, and the Liberals will make possession of marijuana legal.

In 2006, I went on a journey with my father and my brother, that saw us climb to Base Camp at Mount Everest, but then take a short side-trip to Bhutan.

I had never even heard of Bhutan until my Dad told us we were going.

I’ll never forget, driving from the airport (which was the size of your house) to the hotel, and you could see fields of marijuana from the window.

I’m not joking.

I’ve just gone into my archives, check this out – this is the view from where we pulled the car over:

Gorgeous, eh?

And then this is what was at our feet:

There are literally fields of marijuana, growing in the wild.

Our guide told us that it grows “like a weed.”

Hence one of the many reasons why it’s referred to as “weed.”

It seemed to come in all different shapes, sizes, and colours.

That classic light-green look above, and then something like this below, which shows the typical light-green leaves, but on a redwood stem that you’d expect to find on a maple tree:

We took hundreds of photos of wild marijuana on this trip.

Our guide kept asking us, “What is the fascination with this weed?”

We told him that back home, it was like a currency.  It had value.

He said, “It’s illegal to own it here.”

That made no sense!  It was growing wild everywhere, but it was illegal to own it?  And what was the value like, given it was readily available in fields as far as the eye could see?

“It has no magic powers, like yours back home.  It does not make you feel good.”

He went on to tell us all about the male and female marijuanas, how they’re born, how they grow, what metabolites they contained, etc.

For a guy that didn’t use it, didn’t own it, and claimed it was illegal to possess it, our guide sure knew a lot about it!

On Monday, I told you the story of my buyer clients, Duncan and Amanda, who were having a tough time finding a home that suited their needs, and was within their price range (like every buyer out there), but who stumbled upon a house that was priced like we were in the spring of 2014, only to find out that it was used as a marijuana grow-op thirteen years earlier.

When we left off, I told you that we had decided to make an offer.

And we did.

Our offer was conditional on financing and home inspection, since we needed to know if there was anything wrong with this house, but more importantly, we needed to know if a lender out there would finance it!

I knew it was a long shot, but it was a shot I was willing to take.

I don’t generally seek out the near-possible, but I have faith in my “team.”

I often tell my clients that I have spent 13 years surrounding myself with people who I know and trust.  My mortgage broker, home inspector, lawyer, stager, painter – if you need it, I have a guy or a gal for it.

And I knew that while most buyers wouldn’t want to own a “former grow-op,” and most agents would tell the buyers it’s impossible to finance, this was a situation we could use to our advantage.

As I said on Monday, this house was listed at $800,000, but was worth, in my opinion, well in excess of $900,000.

We didn’t waste any time with the offer – we made it an hour after seeing the house, threw the full $800,000 list price at them, and gave them until midnight.

We could have tried to work the price down under $800,000, but it was simply a risk-reward equation that we didn’t like.

I had no doubt that somebody else could try to buy this house.  They could outbid us, and tie it up conditionally, but they would never get financing.  So I wasn’t afraid of losing the house, but I was afraid of the house being tied up for two weeks.

The house had also just been reduced by $50,000 that afternoon.  Now would be the least likely time for the seller to negotiate.

So while we could have tried to get the house for $790,000 or $795,000, we couldn’t have put the midnight gun to their head, and I thought another offer would come in by the next day.

We bought the property, conditionally, and yet there was still a hint of excitement in the air.

I called Duncan to tell him, and he laughed.  Hard.  The classic Duncan-cackle that I’ve been hearing since 1985.

“Dave, one day we’re gonna be sitting around like two old men, and you’ll say, ‘Hey man, remember the time I sold you that grow-op?’”

At least we could laugh about it!  We had a tall order ahead of us.

And we were setting ourselves up for disappointment too.

We had a 1% chance of getting this deal firmed up, and we knew that.

I asked my mortgage broker well in advance if we could get financing on a former grow-op, and he said, “Next to impossible.”

Everybody in my office thought I was nuts.

But we got the ball rolling, and booked a home inspection for two days later.

I only use Gordon Mathieu from Carson Dunlop.  He is, in my opinion, the most knowledgeable inspector working in the city today.  I’ve probably used Gordon a hundred times, and I trust him emphatically.

When Gordon likes something, he’ll glow about it.  And when Gordon doesn’t like something, he takes it personally.  It’s like every house out there, is his own.

We spent three hours at the house, and Gordon was raving about it.  Not only did we find absolutely no evidence of mold, water damage, or basically anything wrong with this house (other than the 35-year-old furnace), but Gordon pointed out many of the super-adequacies, or features of the home that were built above and beyond the building code, or how it’s done today.

“The way it’s built” changes with the years, whether it’s the style, the aesthetic, or the materials.  Look at some of the detail in the beautiful old buildings in downtown Toronto, and then look at the glass towers we see today.

Gordon pointed out many of the features of the home that were built better in the late-1970’s than they are today.

Overall, he loved the house.  The report checked out, and we even added the thermal imaging (which few people do), just to be safe.

The sellers had done an Indoor Air Quality Inspection Report through EnviroSolve Canada – a 22-page report, which concluded that there were was no hidden mold growth within the wall or ceiling cavities of the home that were affecting indoor air quality.

Armed with these two important pieces of evidence, it was time to approach the lenders.

Just for good measure, however, I added a third bit of data, which I simply called logic.

I drafted an email that I knew my mortgage broker would forward to the lenders, which laid out the nuts and bolts.

The house, as I explained, was not a “former grow-op.”  It was a “former, former grow-op.”

The house was used as a grow-op for a few months back in 2002.  That was it.

The house was now inhabited by a family of four, who had been living here for thirteen years with no issues.

The basement, which is where the plants were grown, was completely gutted and renovated in 2003.

So was this really a “former grow-op?”  Was it really a concern?

Or was this just stigma on paper?

As somebody pointed out in the comments section on Monday, any sigma like this must be disclosed forever.  When my clients go to sell in 20-30 years, they’ll have to disclose this too.

So while the fact that this house was used as a grow-op in 2002-2003 had to be disclosed out of necessity, was it really applicable or important in 2017?  Or was it just a formality?

We started going to the lenders, and we got shot down left, right, and centre.

The bank that held the current mortgage, turned us down, which was shocking.

Imagine that!  The very bank that currently holds a mortgage on the property, won’t lend us the money.  Does that make sense to you?

The owners got a mortgage in 2003, renewed in 2008, and renewed again in 2013 – all three times, with no problems.

Now we were talking to the same lender, a Big-5 Bank, who was saying, “no.”

We talked to Big-5 Banks, credit unions, and monolines, but nobody wanted to touch it.

Then one credit union said they would lend, as a favour to my broker, but they wanted the following:

-2003 police report -2003 mold remediation report -2003 re-entry certificate -2003 environmental study -2017 home inspection -2017 air quality report -2017 environmental study -2017 appraisal

And I think that was it.  Wait…..there might have been one or two other things.

But overall, the list was exhaustive.

And as I soon found out, there was no 2003 mold remediation report, since no mold was found, and none was remediated!  There was no 2003 re-entry certificate issued, since this house wasn’t condemned or shut down by the police.  There was no 2003 environmental study.

This “grow-op” wasn’t much of a grow-op after all.  It was small-scale, short-lived, and made no impact on the house.

But the credit union wanted what they wanted, and we couldn’t get financing without it.

Now as you would probably assume from the tone of my story, and from the title of my blog, we did get financing on this property eventually.

Can you guess where we got it from?

A credit union?

A monoline?

An underground lender?

Nope.

We got financing from a Big-5 Bank.

I won’t say which one, just as I won’t name the bank that holds the current mortgage and turned us down.

But it wasn’t some fly-by-night, and it wasn’t a lender you’ve never heard of.  In the end, it was a bank you know and trust.

And it was 100% due to my mortgage broker’s relationship with the underwriter.

Some of the lenders told us, “We’ll do 10,000 mortgages this year; we don’t need to do 10,001.”  They saw this simply as a deal they wouldn’t touch, because of the stigma.

But the underwriter and the Big-5 bank we went to, knew my mortgage broker, and listened when he framed this deal as one that was just as good as any, if not better.  The clients had 35% down, their mortgage application was top-notch, and they were brilliantly qualified.  So what if the MLS listing had the words “grow-op” next to the date “2002.”  We had enough to refute that, and more.

My mortgage broker’s relationship with this particular underwriter made this deal, and that’s something that no other broker had up his or her sleeve.

I’m sure somewhere out there, there’s another mortgage broker, with another relationship, with another underwriter, that could have got the deal done

But this was truly 1/100 from the start, and thanks to the people around me, we got it done.

We almost lost the deal at the last minute, however, when the on-the-ground “mortgage specialist,” who worked retail at my buyers’ branch of this Big-5 bank, refused to close his own pre-approval on the buyers.  He told my clients, “There’s a rate hold on file, and it can’t be removed for four months.  I’m really sorry.”

This would have meant that the underwriter my broker was working with couldn’t have approved the loan on her end, and we’d be without financing.

My mortgage broker sniffed this out quickly.  He told my clients, “Put me on the phone with him, please,” and after a 30-second phone call, low-and-behold, the retail-rep said, “Oh, wait, I actually can closet this file, my mistake,” and that was that.

I’m all for getting business, but when somebody shows up at your door and says, “We got a broker to approve a deal that you never could have got approved, we’re going with him,” why try to deliberately get in their way?  I’ve heard a lot of bad stories about mortgages and lenders at the retail level lately, but that’s a story for another day.

So there you have it, folks!

My clients bought a $900,000+ house for $800,000.  In this crazy market!

Who’d have ever thought?

I can’t wait to be invited over for a summer pool party.

I really, really need to work on my Dad-bod…

The post Buying A Former Marijuana Grow-Op As Your Primary Residence (Pt2) appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

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