#so..... happy medium somewhere between perhaps??
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4.5k words on mystery christmas fic, no idea if it's coherent, haven't even read it back yet and it's 3am, and i doubt i will post it on the 25th, but. we are here. and we have 4.5k words of mystery christmas fic...
#it may or may not be... carcar...#wiz.wips#i also need to write the actual smut and maybe fix some of their bizzaro dynamics but#heyoooo#fwiw one year i posted a fic bang-on the 25th#and another i had to edit and it came out in like. jan#so..... happy medium somewhere between perhaps??#nice break while working on the longfic#OH MERRY CHRISTMAS BTW FROM MY TIMEZONE
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@youandthemountains asked in the tags if I’d be willing to share my artmaking process, so for anyone else interested: I frequently jump between mediums, so for better or worse, I’ve never had a set process. But I’m happy to walk through the steps I took to create my last piece and show the tools I used. Also, because I never want my creations mistaken for generative AI, I’ve gotten in the habit of documenting the work (perhaps excessively!) so I have plenty of WIP photos to share:
(More below the cut)
My current sketchbook is made of cold-pressed 100% cotton paper with a nice toothy vellum surface that’s great for wet and dry media. Usually, when working with ink, I start directly sketching with a pen or marker. But achieving reasonable character likeness was important here, and I didn’t want to mess it up, so I did a light pencil sketch first. I then inked it with a fountain pen and erased the pencil marks once dry. And because the pen was loaded with waterproof ink, it was safe to paint over with watercolor. As I was painting, I noticed the paper had a slight yellow tint which worked well with the warmer light sources but muddied the blues and purples. I wanted the color to be more vibrant, so I scanned the piece, digitally painted in some deeper values, and did a little color correction to bump up the cooler tones. I’m glad I did because the improved contrast made the bioluminescent parts pop.
I didn’t have a plan when I made this piece, and in hindsight, I wish I had done a little more line weight variation, but I’m still happy with how it came out. I think Spock’s pose is appropriately awkward. And the fact that he and McCoy seem to be sticking to their typically squashed 4:3 aspect ratio positioning despite the wide-open forest feels right.
These are the supplies I used, most of which work as a travel kit for plein-air painting and sketching (I ditch the longer paintbrushes and use the travel brush with a built-in water well [disassembled in the watercolor kit]):
Not all of my projects are as simple as the last one. For instance, the Sub Rosa painting I did last year was a big production that combined concept work, painting, graphic design, lighting design, and even some cosplay! A certain level of realism was needed to pull off a convincing romance novel cover, so good reference photos were crucial. But I wasn’t interested in re-painting a still shot from TNG footage. I wanted a completely original composition and pose with lighting that was far more dramatic than the scene it was parodying. So, I set up studio lights, dressed as Dr. Crusher, and took several hundred photos whipping my wig around with a high-powered fan blowing (I'm not posting those pics 😅). I then sifted through them for light and shadow details that eventually informed the painting you see. Unfortunately, I hit a major snag when I realized I couldn’t find a single photo of Gates McFadden in similar lighting. And if the painting didn’t instantly read as her, the whole thing would be a bust. I didn't think it'd be that much of a challenge, but I failed so many times. When I got the lighting right, the likeness was lost. When I got the likeness right, the lighting looked disconnected from the rest of the painting. I wrestled with this for months. NGL a few angry tears were shed at one point, and many evening walks were spent sulking over whatever the hell anaphasic energy light was supposed to look like reflected on skin (if you look closely at the episode footage, there’s no actual green light on Beverly while Ronin’s in his non-corporeal state). Things finally clicked somewhere around the 10th (?) version I painted, and while the lighting’s still a little wonky, I’m playing it off as supernatural artistic license.
Thank you @youandthemountains for asking about my work and for all of your kind words! I always read the tags people leave; they're a big motivation to keep making more fanart!
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🔥 Batman comics in general
Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion.
Oooh! I do think a lot of my saltier Batman comics opinions aren't exactly unpopular in nature (too much grimdark and never in the right direction, the misogyny, Killing Joke was a mistake, BruceBabs was a mistake, stop misusing Rogues), so I'll try to bring up some less-discussed ones! (Or at least ones I see discussed less, lol.)
Batfam is conceptually good, but nobody is handling it well. As I've previously expressed, Batfam content constantly oscillates between "Bruce is an abusive kidnapper of traumatized children he trains into child soldiers despite having the means to have them live in luxury, does not provide with love or positive reinforcement, and regularly pits against each other" and some of the most facile, cringey, early 2010s Tumblr conception of found-family to be seen, when I think it's more dramatically effective to find a happy medium between the two. A loving superhero found family with its share of dysfunction, hurts, and mistakes and appropriate nuance being brought to these conflicts is apparently too much to ask for (as is writers remembering Robin(s) and Batgirl literally exist as kid appeal characters).
Likewise, canon Harlivy is seldom handled well. As I said on Twitter the other day, "corporate Pride ate Harlivy". Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy's relationship, both back when it was subtextual and later on as it became Harley's main ship in iterations where she's able to get out of her abusive relationship with the Joker was groundbreaking and important. It was absolutely crucial to middle school me. But somewhere along the way, people lost the plot that they are indeed villainesses (whose queerness was meant to make them more endearing/sympathetic/relatable, but not change this status), and it fell prey to the respectability politics traps that plague just too many sapphic ships once they go canon. In order to be 'good representation', their villainy extends to 'haha RANDOM' irreverent chaos, and their personality gets boiled down to the shallow archetypes of 'chaotic and perky' Harley and 'snarky and sexy' Ivy. Their relationship to one another is 100% fluff, because God knows any nuance, tension, flaws, or friction between two master criminal characters with canonically tragic histories can't possibly be allowed. Because of the misogynistic expectations of Women Being Soft And Good coupled with the homophobic respectability politics of being as toothless, soft, and desexualized as possible to appear nonthreatening, sapphic ships are held to such unfair standards wherein the slightest conflict will be termed abusive and bad representation, and as such, they're written cardboard-flat, and unfortunately, this has befallen Harlivy in most canons where they're together. Even if it's realistically exploring things like recovery for either lady, because that's messy, and complicated, and nonlinear, and who wants that when you can have a memeable 'be gay do crimes'? Oh, but don't worry. Sometimes they will be sexually active - for the titillation of straight men. In-universe. (Don't get me started on the Harley Quinn show...) And poor Selina gets roped into third-wheeling/cheerleading the most boring possible version of them too often...
A lot of the most popular/famous titles are not the better ones. (Not you, Long Halloween, you're a delight and everyone loves you.) Everything that's there to say about The Killing Joke and The Dark Knight Returns has been said better by people smarter and better-versed in comics than me, but Batman: Hush is just contrivance upon contrivance, everyone and their mother is tired of the shit-billion stories about Joker fridging yet another person, and perhaps my most unpopular opinion is that Batman: Year One is entirely overrated. I like the noir atmosphere, the truly corrupted Gotham it gives us, and the sweet triumvirate between Gordon, Harvey, and Bruce, but seeing adaptations like The Batman (2022) and even The Dark Knight (yes, I'm saying something nice about Nolanverse for once lolol) take these elements and do so much more with them really highlights the weaknesses in this story. There's some really good origin/character work for Bruce becoming Batman and the psychology behind it, but past that, not a whole lot happens beyond a very thin and confusing police corruption plot, and everyone is just too damn mean for the sake of the grimdark setting. Bruce injures an already exploited child in the red-light district and sexually harasses the Gordons to throw them off his trail for being Batman, and the latter is played for laughs. Jim cheats on his pregnant wife with a coworker half his age and both women are portrayed as stereotypically in these roles as humanly possible. Selina Kyle is...there, to be angry and sexualized and not much else. It just feels like a lot of buildup without much payoff.
Lastly, and jumping off the above, I'm taking away the Gordon family from writers until they've learned to play nicely with them. I don't know what it is about Jim Gordon that makes writers - men in particular - work through justifying their weird issues about women, but my God, the poor man has been character assassinated to hell and back. (Everyone has in comics, but it's always in the same way with Gordon that properly grosses me out.) If he's not cheating on his housewife with a much younger coworker he's presented as oh-so-noble for not outright workplace harassing, he's neglectful, abusive, or otherwise aggressive to his loved ones in ways that are almost always justified or excused narratively because he's 'dealing with a lot' or xyz past trauma. He's frequently made into a mouthpiece for misogyny, calling women "bitches" in the Arkham series and making other such delightful comments, fetishizing Harlivy (in the Harley Quinn show!), or putting down Barbara's capabilities. If he's written to be struggling with addiction, it's always played as a joke. And for Barbara's part, since The Killing Joke, she's always such a favoured writers' punching bag/doll to put in uncomfortable relationships, often having her talents, skills and intelligence undermined in favour of portraying her as a sex-crazed, overemotional disaster who's in it for the thrills until she is narratively punished in some gendered way. I don't get it! I'm all for what makes characters tick or challenging them or giving them flaws or new horrific situations to work through, but why is it always the same tired, offensive hows and wherefores for the Gordon family? Let them rest!
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Hello, I'm here for the Hacker hair hcs, please. Do you think he's always worn a wig? Do you hc his natural hair color is diff? Blonde like when he took the Ring of Radopolis?
Hiya! Any Hacker hcs are welcome and I’m dyin’ to talk ab his hair. So here they are + some doodles :3
I think he used to have hair when he was younger, but when he lost his power he lost his locks with it! Kind of like accelerated aging. That’s a whole other story so I’ll stick with his hair for now.
Young Hacker loved the smooth, effortless, dashing slicked back style of the 50s.
Of course, as is everything else in the universe, his hair seems to be against him - coarse, doesn’t hold volume well, and is straight with the exception of a tiny bit of wave near the ends. So he got it cut into a well blended, layered/mullet style so he could carefully gel, tease, and blow dry it into that coveted 50s style. (With a dash of cyberspace trends too ofc ✨👌)
When he lost his power, it was a few days before his body started suffering real, shocking consequences and his hair fell out in his hands in chunks. Quite traumatic for him and he despises every moment that he’s forced to wear a wig instead, especially after all the time and effort he put into his hair.
His wig he keeps in a more severe, slicked back look, perhaps more fitting for his villainous aura. In order to keep every strand out of his face and looking good, he uses his own brand of wig gel to both give it shine and keep the style in hold.
Hacker has a difficult time embracing his hair by itself, mostly because it was basically the opposite of what he wanted - straight, coarse, flat, and medium thickness. If he didn’t know how to take the best care of it (he didn’t) it could get oily easily and stringy. Very boring, to him. He does everything he can to change it, using products galore or various methods to get it looking the way he wants in the morning. (Messy hair 👇)
To him, throwing product after product and over brushing and overall damaging the hair is perfectly normal and he would find it very difficult to believe that somebody like Slider can wake up, shake their head, and continue on their day.
His hair def looks perfect when he’s fixed it up, but who could tell differently with basically glue to keep it in place and slime to give it shine? Very much fake and sculpted into that beauty standard.
At night time he’ll drag a comb through it, scraping out all the shit collected in between the hairs, and underneath is a frizzy, damaged wig. He just thinks that’s how it goes to get the hair you want and it’s infused into his daily routine.
Truthfully, Hacker’s a sad case of ignorance and arrogance about hair products and embracing one’s hair texture. If he learned somewhere to take care of his hair it’d probably be shiny, more wavy (coconut oil yo), thick, and coarse. You know, rock the right styles or stick with the slicked back look - either would work. And after getting his wig, if he ever got his power back and therefore his hair, I don’t think this would be too far off from his search history. And if he did figure this out, he’d probably be much happier with it. Although I’m pretty sure he’d be happy with any hair after his baldness’s XD
Which brings me to his wish - to have a head of hair of his own. His dream style.
Thick, voluptuous, soft, wavy, lightweight, voluminous, blonde…
And of course you might’ve wondered before, ‘well, why not get a wig with all that?’
It’s his own hair of course! Effortless! He doesn’t have to do anything to fight with it or change it, simply maintain! And it’s *his*. Not a bought wig which bruises his ego.
For his natural hair color - I think it’s black due to his black eyebrows, and examples of black body hair animated in the show. Blonde is possibly a color he lusted after for a long time, or maybe just a whim of the day.
It’d be interesting if blonde was his natural hair color though - fun design!
Aaaand a random mustachioed Hacker
Thanks sm for the ask!! I hope it was good for ya
Sometime I’ll do a finished pic of Hacker wearing longer hair or something, bc I like hair :D
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Valle Lozano - Perfume
Hey guys! Long time no update! Sorry bout that, I hadn't expected to take so much time off, but I had finished a semester of school, the holidays came around, and honestly I needed a writing break because i had been writing virtually every day for a year! But it feels good to be back with another segment of Lozano. It's a bit of a long one at around 2k words. Hope yall enjoy and happy new year!
Yolanda Barrios had lived her whole life docily. She was born the only daughter to Alfred and Hildagarde Barrios, another family of key founders of Valle Lozano. She had grown up having never really witnessed a loving marriage. Her mother and father spoke to each other more like colleagues than like husband and wife. It was a marriage of convenience, to elevate social status and increase the family wealth. She knew that that was what was expected of her. And she fulfilled that obligation dutifully. She married Martin Octavio the year she turned eighteen, and it seemed to her that she was simply fulfilling the role she was born to do.
There was no real romance between her and her betrothed. They had known each other their entire lives, knew the same people, ran in the same circle, and as they got older it was apparent that they would unite in matrimony, as per the wishes of both families. The fathers wanted to unite their positions in town, and what better way to do it than through their children?
The engagement was a brief one, just long enough to get the word around and for the fathers to shake hands and agree to the terms of the marriage. It felt to Yolanda as if her life was nothing but another business deal. Her father would gain a bit of land, the Octavio’s would gain a hefty dowry, and the newlyweds would live in a splendid manor. All were satisfied.
Yolanda, however, was not. She did not want a grand home. She despised large mansions with cold and empty rooms. To her surprise, her new husband felt the same. Land, he told her, was more important than space. So they built a tiny comfortable home on a large property and she learned to garden. This kept her occupied for a time, but she was still not satisfied. She wondered what it would be like to be in love. She thought, in the early days, that she might learn to love her husband. She recognized that he was a handsome man; he had a medium build, straight dark hair, and a commanding personality, and she felt that perhaps he could love her. She knew that she was known to be a town beauty, with a plump but slender figure, light eyes, and soft lips. At the beginning of their marriage, she made small attempts to court her husband. She would timidly bring him a vase of the flowers she gardened into his office whenever he was in it and place it on his desk, hoping they would bring her the joy that they brought her. She would spray perfume in her hair to try and rouse him, but it was all in vain. She would find the vases she would put in his office somewhere else around the house, usually the kitchen or parlor, and he never so much as affirmed if he liked or disliked the scent she wore. She wondered if he even noticed it.
She gave up when one afternoon, bored and aggravated at his lack of reciprocation, she snuck into his office while he was out on business. She wanted to see if she could find some way of turning his head, some way of finding what caught his eye. She considered perhaps he liked a certain kind of woman, and she was determined that she would become it.
Her determination evaporated when she found the key to his desk drawer and found the letters tucked inside. Everything made sense when she perused the contents. He was in love with another woman. Gemma Solaris was the daughter of a shopkeeper, a shop which the Octavio’s had money invested in and visited frequently. Their letters went back years, even from before their marriage or engagement. As she flipped through the letters, she could not help but notice a distinct smell. Perfume. Much different from the kind Yolanda herself wore.
The smell was daring and bold, of alluring spices and florals. It was a major contrast to the light, fresh scent she preferred. Yolanda imagined Gemma’s perfume was a reflection of her personality, in which case they were complete opposites, and she would never be able to win over her husband. If she was right, Gemma was fierce, striking, and confident. Yolanda was none of that. She was timid, soft, and docile. She would never be the type of woman Gemma was, and she made up her mind then and there that she could not and would not compete with such a woman. She had made a fool of herself for Martin long enough. She would not risk pushing him forever into the arms of his mistress by her feeble attempts. So, with a decided motion, she put the letters back in their place and pretended to forget all about them. From that moment on she and Martin lived a tranquil, complacent life. They were on civil terms, and as long as he fulfilled his role of husband she ignored the letters that arrived that always brought the smell of cinnamon and jasmine lingering throughout the house.
When their daughter was born, she felt a relief wash over her. She finally had something to pour her energy into. She would raise their child, and devote herself to bringing it up, and in that way, she could heal the lonely fractures of her heart that had formed when she learned of her husband’s infidelity but had never dared to examine closely beforehand. Now, with a new baby, it was like being given a precious gift. A living, breathing, creature, almost doll-like, that she could spoil, pamper, love, that would be the companion her soul longed for.
For years, everything went according to plan. Ines and her mother were as close as Yolanda could have expected. Ines lived a solitary life, and Yolanda was gratified that she seemed to want no closer friend than her mother. They did nearly everything together; they would rise and have all their meals together, read, and take walks. Yolanda passed down her love of gardening and flowers to her daughter, and they seemed to agree on all their opinions and tastes. Yolanda was secure in her position in her daughter's life and felt that no one could ever disrupt their bond. That was until Ines fell in love.
The utter shock and the crushing blow of betrayal were impalpable to Yolanda once her daughter's torrid relationship was discovered. She had never once suspected that Ines harbored feelings for anyone, but to know that she had this illicit affair with someone so far beneath her behind her own back was something she could not bear. To Yolanda, it was an even greater deceit than finding her husband’s mistress. Ines was her daughter, she had committed her life to her, and in return, Ines had hidden and omitted her deepest truths. It was something Yolanda could not forgive.
The relationship enraged both of her parents and when Martin resolved to send their daughter away that very night, Yolanda did not protest. Ines pleaded with her to let her stay but Yolanda only gave her an icy stare. Ines understood. Her mother would not help her. She only glared at her mother, but without a word, quietly and bravely gathered her things and left the home forever.
It was only years later that Yolanda regretted her passivity. She had looked in the mirror one morning and stared for a while at her face. It was familiar, the way it had looked the night before. She was accustomed to the changes that had transpired over the years. She had a few more wrinkles along her eyes, the skin was not as firm, and her hair had some white in the long strands. But she did not mind any of it. She was still an attractive woman in excellent health. However, as she continued looking at her reflection, she no longer saw her face, but her daughter's. Ines’ young, beautiful, glowing face, just as fresh as she looked on the day she left home, jumped out and startled her. She had to glance over both shoulders to verify if she was alone. But she was. She turned back to the mirror, and upon seeing it was only herself in the mirror, began to sob.
She had never before given up her ire against her daughter through these years, not even when she and her husband received letters from her trying to reconcile. As far as they were concerned, she deserved to be shunned. It was when the letters suddenly stopped that they believed something was amiss. But even that vague feeling of misfortune was not enough for either of them to relent. They considered it to be her pride, her unmerited pride. They felt it was her duty as their daughter to beg for their forgiveness. She was the one who had deceived them. Had hid from them. However, when Yolanda saw her daughter’s face in the looking glass, she felt in the bottom of her soul that it was a bad omen.
She convinced Martin to locate their daughter but to no avail. They tried contacting the school where they had left her, but it had been years since she had resided there. They had no information on where she went to or where she could be. What transpired after was months of intense investigation. Martin, overcome with guilt over his missing daughter, put nearly every cent into trying to locate her. It was all for naught. After a few months of searching they discovered that their only child had died. She had died the morning Yolanda imagined to have seen her looking back at her in the mirror.
To say that the Octavios were devastated would not give justice to their ruin. Racked with recrimination for each other, their once cordial, civil relationship wilted away. Martin blamed his wife for not raising his daughter properly, if she had Ines would have never fallen in love with a common farmer’s son. In turn, Yolanda blamed his callousness. What right had he to said her only companion away? Neither of them would yield to the other, and locked in that tiny house, they felt that they were each other’s punishment for their sins.
This went on for the rest of their lives. Martin passed first and when he did Yolanda refused to vacate the house. After the funeral she sat alone in their room, wondering how much longer she would have to suffer in her solitude. A few months later, the night before she died, she went to his office, lurking inside the old mahogany desk she did not bring herself to get rid of. Curious, she found the key to the drawer and perused the contents. She found the cruel, mocking, spiteful letters jeering at her. The letters were made all the more humiliating and callous when, as she read the letters, discovered that they were as recent as a few days prior to Martin’s death. Yolanda read them, and the familiar scent of jasmine and cinnamon stung her eyes. She wondered why her husband had even married her. What had he wanted of her? What had she wanted of him?
She thought of Ines then. At least she had been brave. She had chosen love. It was more than her mother and father could say. She thrust the letters back in the drawer, hating Martin as she never had before. She hated herself too, because she realized her fatal mistake. Her biggest mistake was staying in this wretched house all this time. She realized she should have left the moment she smelled the jasmine and cinnamon emitting off the cream paper. She laid in bed that night knowing she would not live to see the morning. She also knew that her punishment, for being so cowardly, so unwise, and so weak was to live forever in that house. It was all she knew. It had been her world, her sanctuary, and for her crimes it would be her prision even after death.
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A sound of something being dragged is heard until it stops in front of his residence’s entrance and then, his doorbell suddenly rings.
“Sir, we’ve got something delivered to you!”
Once he recalls that the owner of that voice is none other than the delivery man who usually works in his neighborhood, the glasses boy can’t help but cautiously approach the doors for a quick check through the peephole. He must be certain first that what’s on the other side of the doors isn’t something that would bring harm to him and his family.
Not finding anything suspicious but a sight of some kind of vehicle(?) in front of his residence, Elliot makes up his mind to go check it by himself.
Looking closely at the vehicle, he finds out that it’s a brand-new bicycle with a fairly spaceful basket below. Checking up its basket which seems to be large enough to fit the medium-sized dog in, there his blue eyes meet other two gifts wrapped in cloth and one envelope sticking out.
“To Elliot Shimizu of ENIGMA
Firstly, Happy Birthday to you and greetings to the Setagaya Division.
This letter was written from a certain division a bit far away from Tokyo —Somewhere where you may take interest in since there are a herd of wild deer allowed to roam around in the town. This time we’ve got some presents for you.
The box with a fragile symbol is from me; It's a double-walled mug. With its gap between two layers, it can prevent heat from burning your fingers and prevent condensation at its outer surface from making your mug wet. It has a cute design too, so that’s a plus!
The next gift is from my friend, Asahi. This time around he chose to make the nerikiri called ‘Ajisai (Hydrengea)’ for you! It is named after Japan’s signature flower that blooms in the rainy season (and also the same flower that flourishes around our old man’s place). Oh, don’t worry about the ingredients. This wagashi is made from rice flour, shiro-an (white bean paste), agar, sugar and some food colorings, so that even vegan can enjoy them!
And how don’t we talk about the last present. It’s an E-bike with the basket beneath the saddle. The bike’s size isn’t too unwieldy so I think it’s good for maintenance and many more activities; like taking your pets for a short journey, or maybe it can even attend your errand at the supermarket. Honestly, I think our old man definitely have some soft spot for hard-workers.
P.S. I also heard from my classmate’s dad the vet around here that there is a very young man started assisted the veterinary work in Tokyo, perhaps that’s you by any chance?
Hope y’all blessed in health and have a nice year
Yuuya Kanata, Nara Division”
———Somewhere in the town where the deer roam free
“Saigo-san, do you happen to see Ojou-chan anywhere? I think I’ve lost sight of her just now.”
“How would I know about that? I’m not your fucking cat.”
“…Lately I’ve often found her snuggling around my computer when I’m not looking. Maybe she just prefers a warm place.”
“You two really get along huh? First time we met, you looked like a total mess bringing that furball into my house.”
“That time I only got some scratches…”
“‘Some scratches’ you say. That time your entire arms were all covered in plasters.”
“That’s her instinct to defend herself.”
“And she did attack me once I just wanted to inspect something!”
“That was because you made her feel unsafe!”
“Meooww!”
The fact is ...for some reason (but do cats really have any reason?), the kitten they adopted seems to attack anyone who tries to touch her except her favorite human.
As Elliot finished reading the letter, he looked up at the e-bike. To say he was a little intimidated by the machine would be an understatement. To be honest, he had always detested motorized vehicles after finding out that some of them caused stress and anxiety to dogs due to unnecessary noise they make. It also didn't help that Elliot didn't know the first thing about riding a bike, let alone a motorized one. He much preferred to walk, as it was good for the environment and a person's well-being. Plus, didn't you need a license to ride a motorized vehicle, anyway? Elliot never saw reason to get one, especially since he was so young. ...But just leaving the bike there after it had been given to him would be rude and hurtful to the person who gave it to him.
"Maybe... I can have Mina-san or Yorii-san teach me how to ride it..." He thought, before heading back into his house to observe the other two gifts he had received. He was particularly interested in the mug. To say he loved the design on it would be an understatement. He smiled as he made sure to use that cup the next he got. Picking up one of sweet treats from his final gift, Elliot took the leap and bit into one. His eyes grew round as his mouth absorbed the flavors of the white bean paste.
Looking at the other three uneaten ones, he debated between leaving some for his siblings. He knew Yorii loved anything that was sweet. He wasn't sure about Mina-san, but he knew Yorii would just eat hers if she didn't. Nodding, he took one more treat from the plate and left the rest sitting on the kitchen table. He smiled as he headed back to his study room, very happy at how this day was going.
#hypmic#hypmic oc#hypnosis mic#hypnosis mic oc#hypnosis microphone#elliot shimizu#nara division#miraitabi#yuuya kanata#asahi tomoharu#saigo fuyugami#happy birthday elliot 2023
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How would you describe ROs' speaking voices? Do they have accents? How do you imagine the accent of the villagers sound?
This is a fun question, and I will preface this by saying that if one already has clear accents in their head reading these characters, one is, of course, very welcome to keep it if this doesn't feel right/one has gotten too used to the accent one 'hears' while reading.
Also, since this story doesn't take place in a certain country I will use 'akin to,' 'close to,' and so on, instead of 'they have this accent.'
The Physician has a smooth voice, and she speaks calmly. It's on the deeper side, and quite pleasant. Soothing, which is good since she 'treats' vulnerable people. She has a tendency to speak rather quietly, but not quiet enough for people to have to ask her to repeat herself. I imagine her accent being something close to British English - a rather polished sort. Polished, but definitely not fancy or aristocratic.
Aubrey's voice is of medium pitch. When he's feeling excited he talks loudly - not overbearingly so, but he is quite loud from time to time. When he's feeling sly, or something of the sort, it gets quiet and smooth; which it also does if he's acting seductive or flirty. At the feast, his voice was very breathy, considering the desperate and jittery state he was in. Aubrey has a very strong accent that can be quite hard for the city folks to even understand from time to time, and it's something akin to Scottish - I don't know which Scottish dialect it would be closest to, though, but his is a rural sort.
...which leads us to the accent of the village. I would say it's basically the same as Aubrey's, but with different shades of how thick the accent is; some people (Symeon, for example,) have stronger accents than Aubrey still, while some (like Ser Vada) have a rather mild accent.
The Pearlmoor accent might very well have something Scottish-sounding in it, too, since it's not that far away from the main character's village, but a very different dialect.
Vesa has a quite girlish, clear voice with a high, but not shrill, pitch. She talks rather quickly, especially when she's happy/excited. Her voice sounds a bit as if an Irishwoman, who easily picks up accents subconsciously, has lived in London for several years, so it's a mixture of both.
Narciso has a sweet, smooth, and very boyish voice. Even though he usually doesn't talk very loudly, one can still hear that his voice is strong and 'large.' He has a curious accent that is a mixture of many; both from many cities, and a few countries (something somewhat French somewhere, for example.) In the back of it all, discreetly, his constant accent, is a hint of something that sounds akin to an Italian accent. This is because his stardom was inspired by this entire castrato-business and the popularity and love for them in Italy a few hundred years ago.
Bess' accent is close to Aubrey's, but a tad milder. Her voice is sweet, clear, and quite strong, and of medium pitch. She sometimes lowers it just a little if she wants to act seductive towards a beautiful woman, to sound extra smooth.
Francesco has a slightly drawling voice that is somewhere right between medium pitched and on the deeper side. His accent is funny, because it's not genuine; it's completely self-taught to sound more refined and elegant. Since it's being forced, and he isn't used to be around people with refined and elegant accents, he doesn't quite succeed. It sounds more fancy in his head than it does in practice. Perhaps it sounds elegant enough to some people, but he wouldn't be able to fool too many.
Roswhen's voice is of medium pitch, and it's slightly husky. They have an accent that is quite hard to discern; it has a few things in common with the accent of the main character's village, but it's a bit less provincial, and mixed with other accents.
Elan has a very soft and rather deep voice that isn't strong at all, and he tends to mumble a bit when he speaks, sometimes trailing off slightly at the end of sentences. He speaks in an accent that is similar to the one of the main character's village, since they're locally close, and it's very thick and decidedly rural.
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@cheatdeaths. <3
She'd taught him about Midgardian courtship over the course of their years together; the little things like flowers and chocolates and giant teddy bears. Loki seemed to enjoy it, though he had his own idea of romance as well.
It involved everything from frogs in the pantry to rides on the back of giant beasts, lovemaking in strange places, starry nights and wild adventures. There was a happy medium there, a sharing of each other, somewhere between the pranks and the gifts.
Today was the sort of day that had electricity in it, that spark of romance caught in Earthly traditions that Loki found fascinating. It was there when he arrived home from what he claimed was his last trip to Asgard for the foreseeable future-- no matter how Odin took it, that was a later discussion.
The first sign of that spark was the surplus of creatures in the bathroom; butterflies this time, somewhat familiar to a magic trick he'd pulled so many years ago. Next was the cocktails-- bright blue, much like those on a night at a bar on Caligula where they'd staged a revolution overnight.
It was a starry night on Knowhere, visible from the balcony Loki had camped them out in. Still no mention of Asgard, none of his family or the discussion they'd had in the forest searching for mushrooms. It wasn't important right now, not between the languid kisses and soft caresses as they watched the lights go up beneath them on the city they'd helped rebuild.
He slipped an arm around her, cheek pressed to the side of her head. But it was a hand outstretched, cupped carefully as to not crush the gift within, that Loki's attention fixed on. "I like this place," he hummed. "I like having a home with you. And I wanted to... celebrate that, perhaps. With my Dottie."
And his hand unfurled into hers. In it, a bright green tree frog, one of her favorites that he'd surprise her with, colored with the bright accents of the threat of poison.
And around its neck, a pink bow.
In the bow, a golden ring.
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Just feeling like unpacking and sorting out some thoughts on this wonderfully rainy morning (begone, roadside dust!!)
Now, I've always been the type to post new art the moment it's done. Posting stuff only on Patreon has still proven easier than I expected. Perhaps since i am still posting stuff -somewhere- it doesn't feel as weird, even though I do miss the interaction from posting on socials. But that'll be back once I have a buffer big enough to keep Patreon relevant. It's also getting easier on letting posting on social wait as time goes by, lol. Actually thought that what if I make the publish gap with the comic even bigger, like several months between Patreon/other sites. But aaaah, I really do want to get it out. It might create more of a gap with time anyway. And the best way to get new people interested in my Patreon is to have interesting stuff out there in the wild. And I'll be honest, it feels validating af to see even a few people willing to spend money to access my Patreon.
It's still conflicting sometimes, because I would really want to keep my stuff available to everyone without paywalls. Art in general is meant to be shared and should be accessible to everyone, this is something I feel on a larger scale. Things like commissioned, unique pieces are luxurious though. They are after all often personal as well. Artists don't live on grants and stipends, hell, even those are usually available for artists who have already made a name for themselves on a larger scale/are well connected. Majority I know struggle with part time jobs, unemployment, studying or are disabled, barely scraping by what they can get in terms of welfare etc. I'm no different. I'm on welfare due to health reasons + in debt, so basically I don't have any "extra" money at the end of each month left for nice things™. And if I do, it usually goes to paying a larger portion of debt away. Sometimes I spend and always regret it later, lol. But if you -never- get to treat yourself even a little, life starts to feel quite depressing. I know so many people are in the same kind of position, where it's just not possible to pay for more than 1-2 subscription services monthly, or none. So having my art behind a Patreon paywall of any kind feels bad, knowing I would likely not be able to afford it myself, lol. Will it ever be easy to combine the thought of art + money without having dreadful crapitalism thoughts creep in? Probably not.
I still want to do my best to pick up some commissions as well, I need to create some sort of hidden stash of money now that I have the cat. Because when (inevitably at some point) a trip to the vet happens, that's going to be at least a hundo no matter what. And when the last trip to the vet arrives, that's gonna be closer to 300-400 with all the cheapest options. (hopefully not anytime soon, but something i have to take into account) I am currently working on a painting comm and might have another one coming up as well, which is giving me much joy. Watercolours are a lot of work, but they're less taxing in the sense that there's only so much detail you can do compared to digital, and tradi allows the happy little accidents with the medium. So it's easier to feel like I did my best wihtout having the thought "ah... i should've kept fixing it"(without asking for more money bc I gotta do better ad infinitum) So I'm really happy peeps have shown interest in tradi comms, even though I'm not very well versed in techniques with those. Learning tho!
My head's been in a relatively good place for a good while now, all things considered. But I have to pull the brakes on myself every now and then because I know it only takes one hard hit in the old mental health for all of it going to shit in the blink of an eye. So I'm trying to tread carefully, prep and plan while keeping the bar set low enough.
Mom has moved to hospice care, which also means that getting the phonecall about her passing can also be any day now. I feel like I've made my peace with it, but even if it doesn't initially hit hard, I'm pretty sure it will bring some mental struggle later. And there will be the whole episode of handling her stuff afterwards. Thankfully there won't be any wealth to distribute, so likely all the mandatory/legal expenses will be handled by welfare. How dreadful that even in that, money is the first thing to have to worry about, huh.
At least the sun has returned from the winter jail, bright days lighten the mind.
#behind a cut just because i think it might get long#shut up yoi#mostly just art thoughts#some mom updates at the end
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So...just watched both crossover finales for SVU and OC.
I have mixed emotions. On one hand, it was nice to get the old groove of Benson and Stabler working together again. On the other hand, I want to look at the shows' writing teams & Graziano and go "Wtf?"
Let me see if I've got this straight... Rollins exited the show and Giddish is no longer a series regular, she left SVU to take a job as a professor, and we had a huge emotional farewell for her, her story was tied up nicely with her and Carisi getting married, etc...only for her not to deny Olivia's assessment of "You miss it, don't you?" And her confirming it by saying she loves her students but it's not what she thought it would be basically. We see that she's pregnant, something Carisi had told Benson a couple of episodes ago, and we also see Carisi becoming increasingly worried about impending fatherhood. I seriously doubt Kelli is coming back to the show but they have Muncey leave and STILL have this conversation happen between Benson and Rollins when it wasn't needed? It nullifies her emotional farewell to the show and all of the happiness fans had for her endgame (her marriage, her kids, her new career) and dilutes the reason for the conflict she initially had with Benson over her leaving.
And then Muncey leaving... Perhaps the actress Molly Burnett had another project, I'm not really sure what happened there. But we have yet ANOTHER spot to be filled on SVU and now also OC as well? I'm all for rotating new faces and stories but Muncey wasn't even here for a year. Should I expect Bruno to go somewhere in the beginning of the next season? Hard to maintain any emotional investment into these characters if they're just going to have short stints like this. TV is not the movies. TV characters stories' are meant to develop over time, that's the medium and type of story telling it has.
Speaking of which, WTF was that with Jamie? Again, maybe the actor Brent Antonello had another project on board, but what a brutal ending!!! And then to have the sociopath saved on top of it??? Also, why build up the relationship between him and Jet all season only to have it end in a phone call ILY that was one-sided due to him not returning the sentiment and that's the last thing he "says" to her ever?
And no goodbye convo between Benson and Muncey? Or Jamie and Stabler? Or even Velasco and Muncey really? He helps her carry her stuff to her car? And just a hug from Fin? That's it? Jamie, who was a practical mirror for Stabler? And while Benson and Jamie both getting hurt might be a parallel, again Jamie was a mirror for Stabler so how does Jamie not saying the ILY to Jet parallel? This just didn't make any sense to me.
And literally last episode, Benson and Stabler say that the almost kiss wasn't the right moment between them, but now they're just "partners"? He wants her to find her way to happiness? Okay, I can get behind that but then you have her watching after him like that? What? And Stabler already told Benson he loved her, so she knows this already, but when he says he was worried when he couldn't see and heard the shot...she tells him how terrible it must have been for him because it brings back memories about Kathy? I'm not saying she's wrong but make it make sense, people. D-E-V-E-L-O-P-M-E-N-T
Which we know they've thrown into the mix already because he tells Benson he's going on a job and she says "Thank you for telling me this time." So wtf was all the rest of this?
Idk if this was Graziano or what, but this episode single-handedly dismantled the Jamie and Jet relationship, the Velasco and Muncey relationship, and yep, the Bensler relationship. Not to mention they sidelined the Bell and Fin dynamic that we should have gotten to see more of.
And I'm going to say it, when is that Chief going to take a hike? Don't get me wrong, I like the actor, but no way in hell has his character gotten any development since he started deferring to Benson and working on himself. It's almost as if his behavior in this SVU finale undid all of that development and turned him into the asshole boss Benson battled with when he replaced Chief Garland (not that I understood why he and Kat were exited from the show back then either, especially when both actors said it was not their choice to leave the show).
I know OC has had a very high turnover for showrunners since Ilene and that has unfortunately sometimes been shown in the writing. But these two finales felt way off, from everything both shows have been building this past season (and even a little before that).
So I say to Graziano - wtf is going on?
#so frustrating#it's like svu oc and 911 dropped acid or something#or got selective amnesia#law and order svu#svuposts#law and order organized crime#bensler mention#jamie x jet mention#muncey x velasco mention#bell and fin mention#this was from when the finales aired#i still love both shows#and now in hindsight i wonder if things got dropped or rushed because they knew the strikes were coming#either way it still blew my mind#svu and oc feelings rant#l&o svu#l&o oc
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Age - Minor [:
Height - Somewhere between 5'7"-5'9"
Grade - High School
Confidence - 8.72/10 on a good day, 4.21/10 on a bad day
Happiness - I dunno honestly, changes a lot
Gender - I'm a girlie :D
Sexuality - Definitely asexual
Romantic- No idea lol, maybe aromantic or grayromantic
Fav food - General Tso's chicken!! Especially when my brother makes it
Fav show - Depends on the week, but rn it's A Crown of Candy and Lego Monkie Kid
Fav movie - Okay so I got several tier lists based on different aspects of movies-
Fav song - Strawberry Blonde by Mitski, I dunno why honestly
Fav artist - All, perhaps?
Relationship status - I AM all the single ladies
Fav color - PURPLE.
Fav season - Fall or spring, the medium temperatures
Followers - 42 but I haven't cleaned for bots recently :/
@mrfost-27 @aurora-boreas-borealis @ididntknowwhattocallthis @marz-planet @sketchy-potato @stormcloudsarepretty @howyoudoingimshade
End of year stats!
Age: won’t say but minor
Height: 5’5
Grade: won’t say
Confidence: 7/10
Happiness: 5/10
Gender: gender fluid
Sexuality: asexual
Romantic: aroflux
Fav food: probably ramen?
Fav show: b99
Fav movie: not any
Fav song: too many to pick!!!
Fav artist: wallows or dayglow
Relationship status: single
Fav colour: green
Fav season: winter
Followers: 358 (as of Dec 29 at 2 am)
#Can you tell I like using hyperspecific decimals?#I just think that it makes more sense yknow?#tag game#tagging#tagging game
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bestselling heated jacket and more
bestselling heated jacket and more
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If you had these gloves, you wouldn’t mind shoveling the walk, digging out the car (it’s great functional exercise!) and building snowmen if the opportunity arose. Like magic, the amazing heated winners make winter fun. The well-designed pair confines the rechargeable battery pack to the cuff. The lining is absorbent, so your (warm) hands won’t get sweaty. "Very nice set of gloves. Exactly as advertised - warm, waterproof, windproof. In fact, I often find myself needing to take the gloves off while on the chairlift to keep my hands from sweating. They are easy to put on and take off," a five-star reviewer said.
Winter ends up being all about the feet, doesn’t it? No matter how many layers of socks you wear, the cold seems to make it through, so your little piggies are crying all the way home. Not anymore. Charge up these heated socks, and they’ll last for up to 6.5 hours on low, or two hours on high. Heated socks seem like they should be a winter norm—like hot chocolate and movie marathons—and this pair gets great feedback online. One five-star reviewer boiled it down, with this succinct rave: “Very thick warm socks. Heat very fast, love the different heat levels. Easy to use. Great quality. Worth the money! Get my feet warm!!”
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f j o r d
How physically attracted they are to your muse uhhhhh is this even a question? if we are putting this on a scale jester lavorre would break it. 11 out of ten if not more.
How romantically attracted they are to your muse honestly even more than physically ( not that he does not find jester to be the most beautiful person he has ever seen but he adores everything about jester, but there is nothing that he loves more than jester’s heart and her mind and spirit. ). so extremely very completely.
How often they would like to have sex with yours fjord is a Medium libedo guy so anytime that jester wants to :)
Where they would most likely have sex with yours fjord is a wee bit of a Easy/ Vanilla boy and likes the basic bed, but on the occasion would raise maybe the tub ( shower in modern au’s ) and is up to anywhere.
Whether they think yours would be “good” in bed Yes. He Is Sure She Would Be.
What titles / nicknames my muse would like to call yours during sex honestly it is mostly her name, but she’ll do jes, jessie.
Up to 3 kinks they would like to explore with yours ( with consent of course ) ropes ( him or her , either way ), magic play, body worship!
What sort of sex they’d prefer to have with yours ( slow & sensual, quickie, etc. ) slow and sensual all the way. he wants to take his time and kiss and love every bit of jester and make sure she knows how wonderful she is.
What type of relationship my muse would like to form with yours. ( typical couple, friends with benefits, etc. ) lovers. honestly he wants to be there to support and love jester... so if that is just that, if that is as a husband, whatever she wants, he is happy, as long as she is.
b e a u
How physically attracted they are to your muse sorry how this is going to be the same answer. broken scale. beautiful. constantly in awe of the strong bloo gal.
How romantically attracted they are to your muse Yes. Very. Completely and utterly. Broken Scale. Looses Braincells trying to figure out how to talk to jester and tell her
How often they would like to have sex with yours. At least once a day. Would not complain for more, but like Fjord, whenever Jessie wants to.
Where they would most likely have sex with yours while yes, their shared room might be a common place, beau imagines things a little more riskier- in between shelves in the library, on a desk, somewhere hidden away, a corner in semi-public, where they can be them but has some risk.
Whether they think yours would be “good” in bed She has seen the books. Beau is Certain that she will be EXCELLENT in bed.
What titles / nicknames my muse would like to call yours during sex jes, jessie, darling, babe..
Up to 3 kinks they would like to explore with yours ( with consent of course ) magic play, bondage, honestly would Love for jester to just tell her anything and everything to do
What sort of sex they’d prefer to have with yours ( slow & sensual, quickie, etc. ) beau is a lot more used to quickies. with jester i think she wants to find something in between that and something more slow. for sure she wants something passionate to get the chance to just worship jester completely and utterly.
What type of relationship my muse would like to form with yours. ( typical couple, friends with benefits, etc. Girlfriends? Perhaps? Wives? She can hope and dream,,,
😏 ( @diviinedevilry ) 😏
#anyhow fjord and beau are big in the top table simp for jester it's true#this is old as fuck but it was sitting in my drafts so HERE#( JESTER ~~~ diviinedevilry )#( beau ~ headcanons )#( fjord ~ headcanons )
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strong hold on me
modern fantasy au limbo x risa wc: 1978
note: takes place between truth revealed and like heaven.
===
It was 5 in the morning when she woke up. She hadn’t had a very good sleep since she found out about her past life and Limbo. She walked out of her room and noticed some of the sisters running downstairs.
“What’s happening?” She questioned one walking past her. “Oh, Sister Laura called for a meeting before service starts. Come on, you know she hates tardiness.” The sister beckoned her to follow and Risa walked with her.
The meeting area was in the refectory and Sister Laura was at the front with Risa’s father, the head priest.
“Good morning, everyone.” Sister Laura started with a smile. “Before we begin today’s service, Father Mendez and I thought we should announce this year’s missionary. It will be held in Sakrada this week. If you would like to attend this, please let me or Father Mendez know.” She bowed her head and then spoke again about today’s service. Risa tuned her out thinking if she wants to go to do the missionary. She’s never been able to, due to her father’s strict rules, however perhaps if she asks again, he might let her this time. She looked at her father, speaking this time about the service. She would have to speak to him later.
Sometime later, the meeting was adjourned and everyone was spreading out to do their duties. For Risa, she walked up to her father before he went somewhere else. She could almost never have a conversation with him.
“Father!” She didn’t mean to yell but it happened. He turned around to face his daughter. “Ah, Risa. Good morning. What is it that you want to speak with me about?” He asked with a concerned smile. It made her hesitant but spoke anyway. “Um, if it’s okay with you, may you allow me to go to the missionary in Sakrada?” She asked her question and braced herself for his answer. “I know in the past you haven’t let me go to them but I’d like for you to allow me to go. I’ll be on my best behaviour and I won’t let you down!” She took a deep breath after speaking.
Father Mendez stared at his daughter for a few seconds before smiling. “Sure, of course. Maybe it’s… time you go. I’ve been a little harsh on you. You’re already an adult and I shouldn’t let you sheltered so much.”
Risa beamed with joy and smiled. “Thank you father, I won’t let you down!”
After that, Risa went on to do her duties, however, missing that smile turned into a frown placed on her father. “I do wish I hadn’t. There’s still danger lurking around.” He muttered before he walked to his office.
SAKRADA
Three days later, it was time for the missionary and some members of the church had landed in Sakrada, including Risa.
It was her first time going somewhere else. She’d stayed in New Sieg since she was born. Everything was new to her. Since she was the priest’s daughter, she had extra security on her, at the request of her father, much to her dismay.
They would reach their hotel before heading out to a nearby church that was helping them out. During the missionary, Risa was in charge of food. The people there complimented her on her beauty and thanked her for her help. As she was pouring food for someone, a man came out of the church and headed to the tent where she was at. Maybe it was love at first sight, but he was immediately entranced by her.
“Hello. Thank you for your help and everything you’ve done.” The man spoke and Risa looked up to see him, which made her a little red. She felt her heart skip a beat. She hadn’t felt this way since…
She got out of her haze and cleared her throat. “Uh, you’re welcome! I’m very happy to help!” The nun smiled. “If there’s anything you want me to do, I’ll be around to help.”
Risa can’t help but look at him again. He almost looks like Limbo, except he had medium-length blond hair and warm orange eyes with a kinder aura to him. She can only hope he was human too. “My name is Ruben, a priest in training. A pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”
“Oh, I’m Risa! Pleased to meet you.” She can’t help but smile at him. Something about him was enthralling to her. They shook hands and she was shocked to feel warmth in his hands, which shouldn’t surprise her as he was definitely human.
They heard someone shout to Ruben and that got out of her trance. “Oh, looks like I’m needed somewhere else. Ah, such is the life of a priest trainee.” He sighed sarcastically before looking at Risa again, with a wink this time. “Well, I’ll see you around, beauty.” With that, he left, leaving Risa by herself.
Oh. What is this feeling right now? Her legs felt like jelly but luckily caught herself with a pillar behind her. Her body felt a bit hot. She fanned herself before resuming her duties. She was glad there were no guests lining up for food. People seeing her like this is embarrassing.
Maybe it was time she moved on from Limbo. She didn’t need that baggage with her. If he was still in love with Beatrice, then she would let him be. However, there was a feeling in her gut to tell her otherwise. She ignored it.
The next day, there was a break in the schedule and the nuns had free time to do whatever they wanted. Risa walked out of the hotel lobby as she saw Ruben standing next to a pillar. “Good afternoon, Risa.” She smiled at him. “Good morning, Ruben.” Risa walked up to him. “What are you doing here?” She suddenly unconsciously linked her arm to his like they were a couple, but she’s known him for a day. Strange.
“I thought I’d show you around the town and hang out with you since there’s a break in the schedule. You’ve been on my mind since yesterday.” He confessed, with a hint of blush on his cheeks. “Apologise to you but I asked the head nun where you guys were staying and thought I’d ask you on a date if you don’t mind.”
In turn, she blushed at this, feeling loved. “Oh, I’d love a tour and hang out with you.” Don’t do it.
She whipped around and felt a shiver. What was that? She thought she heard a voice. Risa looked at Ruben who looked seemingly unaffected by it. He looked at the nun with confusion. “Risa? Are you okay?”
“Uh…” She nodded, not sure what to say. “A-Anyway, let’s go! Wouldn’t want to waste the day, right?” She urged him to walk with her.
===
Their date went surprisingly well. She was new to Sakrada but he showed off the best places in the town. She can’t help but fall for this town. “I’d love to come back here again.” She said. Their day went really well.
Risa was outside a restaurant waiting against a metal pole for Ruben to finish paying and using the bathroom. As she waited, she thought about the day and how it went extremely well. She smiled.
Do you miss me?
She gasped. The voice was here again! She whipped around to find the source of the voice but no one else was around. It was giving her the shivers. She wrapped herself in her arms. That was Limbo’s voice, there was no mistake about it. She got out of New Sieg to forget about everything that happened. To forget about what she remembered. To forget her past life. To forget about Limbo. It seems like she can’t.
She was about to cry when Ruben finally came out of the restaurant. “Sorry about that. Had trouble with my card but I promise everything is paid for.” He spoke as he went down the short flight of stairs, missing the tears that fell out of her eyes as she wiped them away.
“That’s alright, Ruben. I wasn’t waiting long.” She let herself laugh a little to show him she was fine. “Is there anywhere else to go?”
“There is…” He thought about it more, “however it is a 3-hour drive to get there. We might have to go there another time. You have church duties tomorrow and leave the day after.” He sighs. “It’s in the mountains.” He looked around the area. “It’s getting late, anyways. I should get you back to your hotel.” She nodded, sad they couldn’t go up the mountains but he was right. She didn’t like the idea of going up a mountain with no light out. “Sure, I am getting tired anyways. Thank you for today. I had lots of fun!” She smiled. Ruben smiled back and patted her head. “That’s great to hear.” He said.
“Come on, let’s go back to the hotel.” He held her hand and guided her back. Let go of his hand. The voice was back again but she ignored it again.
===
The pair made it back to the hotel and he stopped to face her. “Thank you again for today. I know we’ve only met yesterday but I think I’ve fallen for you.” He shyly said, a soft smile placed on his face. “I’m normally not like this but something about you… Just…” He reached a hand to caress her face.
He couldn’t finish the sentence but she knew what he was saying. “I feel the same wa-” Her words were cut off by her heart beating too much causing her to curl over and clutch her heart, yelling at the pain. You don’t mean that. You know you’re mine, right? You and I are meant to be. Don’t let someone else in.
“Risa?!” Ruben screamed with concern, checking to see if she was okay. She was coughing a lot, and still in lots of pain. She had fallen to her knees at this point. “M-Make it stop…” She quietly said. Limbo, please…! Then, get away from this man!
Not wanting to be in pain anymore, she finally listens to the voice. “U-um, Ruben. I’ll be okay so I’ll see you later…” She lets go of his grip and tries to walk inside the hotel. “O-Oh wait, at least let me escort you back to your room.” Don’t let him. “It’s okay, Ruben. I’ll be fine. Promise.”
With that, Risa ran inside the hotel and back to her room, still clutching her heart. Stupid Limbo! No matter the distance, he will always have a hold on her. He can’t let her go and she can’t let him go either. No matter what anyone says, they’re made for each other and no one can change that. She still loves him.
She made it back to her room and leaned against the door after entering and closing it, taking deep breaths, and calming herself down. The pain had subsided. “Limbo… I miss you… I want to see you…” She could feel tears running down her eyes. “I’m sorry for running away from you… I’m sorry for seeing someone else… I’m sorry for falling for someone else…”
She slumped down to the ground and buried her face in her knees, letting her tears flow out. “I love you…”
The next day was a blur and she did her duties diligently and purposely distanced herself from Ruben. While she had fun on their date, she can't allow herself to date another. She never told Ruben about Limbo but he got the hint and backed off.
After returning to New Sieg and after everyone went to sleep, she opened the doors to the church and dismantled the barrier to let a vampire in, hoping to talk to him. Once and for all.
===
more notes: i headcanon since they're soulmates, she's able to hear limbo's conscious speaking to her. he doesn't know where she was so it was his conscious speaking to her. think new moon when edward isn't around but bella is imagining edward is speaking to her when she seeks the adrenaline rush so he can save her or whatever. however here, risa is just trying to fall in love with another to forgot limbo but the thought of limbo is holding her back, as it should. anyway i'll be writing a limbo pov during this time when risa is not in new sieg. :D
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DOVEEEEEEEE oh gosh THANK YOU SO MUCH. This is???? The kindest most flattering thing ever AHHH I am beside myself!!
the way art and creation is part of an ongoing conversation no matter where it's happening and the way that fandom in particular is so founded on that community and the creation of that conversation in real time for the love of it--YOU!!!! YOU GET ITTTTT oh gosh exactly what you said right here!! This is exactly what I set out to capture and I'm SO happy to hear you say that.
This part especially is making me tear up >>> hosting it in the same format as that used for the long-term version of that collaborative process in a volume like the Odyssey (the conversation between the storytellers and translators and academics and historians surrounding something like a Homeric epic) I ADORE how you say "long-term" here, because YES!!! That's what these books are made for, really (although the love they get now continues to astound and humble me!)--they're for the future, and your pointing it out here is so vindicating. It also reminds me of how we even got here--how the many pieces which now make up the Odyssey were orally transmitted before they were ever written down, and what it means to take those pieces and bind them. What it truly means to bind a story--anchoring it to not only a physical location, but also to a specific point in time. Beyond annotations in the margins (MARGINALIA MY BELOVED) and just straight-up tearing it apart and Frankensteining it to something else, the story is set. It's...like a congealing, of sorts, set in something not quite as permanent as stone, but still very difficult to change.
And now with Wings--what it means to bind fanfiction of it. I've heard modern media fandom described as modern folklore in our capitalist society (wrote a bit about it here in my reply to Heather!), and idk I just think it's kinda neat how unique (or perhaps not unique at all--perhaps only unique recently, with commercial book publishing in its current form) the fic writer-fandom relationship is. We're all just sitting around a virtual fire listening to each other tell stories, and like you said!!! It's ongoing, it's collaborative, it's yes and-ing each other to make new narratives.
Layli Long Soldier once came to my university to speak, and she said something I will never forget, about how orally transmitted histories and stories are just as reliably passed down and preserved as the written word. I don't know how true that is (and there's undoubtedly Very Heated Discussions going on about it in a room somewhere), but it still really got me thinking! About what we remember and what we tell others--human memory is fickle, but are we not containers of stories also, just as much as any codex or scroll or line of code on a screen? And beyond that, we have direct access to the means and medium of telling that story (I guess...our brains? Our mouths? Our hand motions? But then that is all influenced by language which is in turn influenced by culture and individual experience and AHHH--), and we can alter it at will in a way we just can't with something physical. When we tell a story, we're also physically anchoring the intangible to the tangible; we breathe life into it, literally. What never was, is not, and never shall be--and yet we somehow make it so!
I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this--every book I bind, I think about what myself and other fanbinders doing--taking fics from the ether of the Internet and giving them a physical home in meatspace. (Reading and watching The Sandman has certainly lent a particular sadboi goth flavoring to the thought process XD) I'm three years into this fanbinding thing, and I don't have any plans of stopping. But I think even if I stop one day, I'll always be thinking, whenever I read a story, about possible methods to increase the chances a binding of it might live on, how to best represent this or that element of the story in a physical space, and with books like Wings--how to best represent a community at a certain point in time. Like, explicitly that community, with a focus on its members and their conversations, in addition to what one might be able to glean about that community from the story itself. Providing context--both for the story, and for the people surrounding the story (which are, perhaps, even the same story), if you will.
ANYWAY. I won't have the answers today or possibly ever LOLL, but thank you so much for listening to my rambles and for this incredibly generous response. On a less armchair note: OMGGGG twinning Robert Fagles translation!!! I love hearing the stories of books and this is now one of my favorites--the lard ball has me CACKLING. And it such an honor to even be mentioned in the same sentence as a specialty edition of the LOTR, thank you so much, I am crying a little T_T
Thank you as well for pointing out all the little details you noticed--you have the keenest eye and are so generous and insightful in your analyses of not just my work, but the work of others in this incredible fandom!! I'm also so mf glad we get to chat about this kind of stuff--it's so uplifting, interesting as hell, and above all just plain pure fun :3
Thank you so, so much, friend!! It means the world <333
Last Binderary book is DONE!!!! This is the incredible Maybe sprout wings, by @moorishflower.
This post is going to be a doozy, so gonna just skip straight to the cut!
INTERIOR
INTRODUCTION
I really wanted to model this bind after my own copy of the Odyssey, (which is all highlighted and bookmarked and annotated to hell from my Great Text courses in undergrad ehe, so this bind was such a fun trip down memory lane!). But beyond just the cover/general aesthetic, I also wanted to give the book a similar feel to these kinds of editions of classics--there's usually an introduction, translation notes, and other supplementary materials, right? Like, a physical manifestation of the work of many, many people, all having conversations with one another across time and space.
So that's what I did! I wrote a short introduction (I will also probably post it to my AO3/my blog as well, in the name of preservation etc. etc.) and began reaching out to folks in the fandom who I knew had created art and meta for the fic. The result? 18k words of analysis, comments, and meta, and nearly twenty pages of art!
And this is what I love most about this bind, I think! This book is the work of several people--truly a collaborative work by the fandom--all of whom I will now be shamelessly calling out below :D
CHAPTER HEADER ART
First and foremost, this book would not be what it is without the gorgeous header art by @fancy-rock-dove! Thank you so much Dove for letting include your work, and for being so supportive and kind these past few weeks about this bind <3 You in particular have contributed so much to this book (which I will be getting more into in the next section ehe), and I'm so psyched I get to hold your art and words, too!
NOTES ON THE TEXT
This section was divided into four parts: Asks and Answers, Meta, Selected Comments, and Chapter Heading Art: Process
For Asks and Answers, I trawled Heather's blog for meta she had written in response to questions and other meta about the fic. Asks came from @fancy-rock-dove, @quillingwords, @kulapti, and myself! (I THINK I got all of them--tumblr's search function is finnicky even on its best days, so so sorry if I missed something T_T) I first got hooked into reading this fic because of one of these asks, so I'm very fond of this section in particular :D
For Meta, I included two wonderful essays written by @pastrypuppy (also known as @kulapti) about Hob as an author figure and the Disrupted Fisher King narrative in MSW. Her analyses were so fascinating and I just had to include them in the book! (And thank you as well for your permission, friend!) (also hello fellow Renegade comrade 🫡)
For Selected Comments, I owe everything to (once again :3) @fancy-rock-dove, whose insights are the epitome of transformative fandom at work. I'd look for their comments after I read every chapter to see what their takes were on this or that element of the story, and every single time I would go "!!!!! I didn't even realize!!!" or "OOOOOOOH I hadn't thought of that!!" It was like being in a lecture hall and always whipping your head around when one of your classmates raised their hand, because you knew they were going to say something fascinating that you hadn't considered before.
Aside from one of my own comments, Dove's comments make up the entirety of this section (for which I owe you my life--your long-form responses to fics are a gift to this world) but GOSH was it also so much fun going through the comments section while typesetting and seeing all the keyboard smashing, yelling, and crying from the other commenters. Communal nature of storytelling and ongoing meaning-making of fanfiction, babey!
And finally for Chapter Heading Art: Process: once again Dove coming in clutch with some wonderful insights into the design of each of the chapter heading art pieces! This kind of stuff is honestly my favorite: meta about art for a fic which is, in turn, a transformation of an existing story (not even to mention that The Sandman is its own kind of fanfiction of existing mythologies and histories)--I just!! Think it's all really, really neat :'D (for more coherent/polished thoughts on this pls see my introduction asjdfkls)
ART
The art gallery!!! A million thanks to @fishfingersandscarves, @honeyseller, @jazzpsych, @doctor-rainbowfoxey, and (HI AGAIN DOVE) @fancy-rock-dove for granting me permission to include all of your beautiful pieces!
As usual for artworks in my binds, I printed each piece out on specialty photo paper to really make the colors pop, then sewed each page separately to the text block! Behold, everyone's beautiful beautiful pieces!
The art gallery also satisfies the certain "oooh shiny" part of my brain that always activates when I see pictures in a book, so am also very fond of this section :3
CONSTRUCTION
And now on to the nitty gritty stuff! I used the German Bradel binding technique again, my second time using it. Even though it's more complicated than the case bind, I really love how it gives you the full board space for the cover designs (~it's free real estate~). Keep it a secret but I kiiiiiiind of made a small goof in the last few steps (I did the turn-ins a step too early and so had to paste an extra sheet of cardstock to secure the spine to the boards, whoopsie), but it's a pretty small difference, aesthetically speaking, so it wasn't the end of the world XD
Edges are once again fake gilded, but this time I tried something new with the colors! I did two layers of acrylic paint--one watered down shade of red for the base, then one metallic gold on top of that. I really like the red/gold effect! I'll have to keep experimenting with this kind of layering:
ALSO. Y'ALL! I think I'm finally getting the hang of endbands!!! Many thanks to the folks at Renegade who hosted all the endband workshops last month--I'm still working through them, but even the few sessions I've seen have been TREMENDOUSLY helpful. I learned that tension is Very Important, as well as thread thickness, so I tried doubling my thread and keeping a Very Close Eye on how I was holding the threads while doing the beads. And behold! I still have a ways to go (and one day I would LOVE to do the fancier designs), but I'm v happy with the progress I've made so far!
And finally the covers!! ARCHIVAL MOD PODGE MY BELOVED. I printed on the same matte presentation paper that I used for the art, then did several coats of archival matte mod podge + a pass of gloss mod podge over the title strip to make it ~shiny~. Then once those had dried and I'd adhered them to the boards, I sprayed two layers of matte clear acrylic sealer (also mod podge!) to finish it off. I had some issues with the paper tearing when I handled it before it was fully dry, but luckily the blemishes were small enough that it was easy to do spot corrections with my black acrylic paint. And now I know to be more patient next time LOL
(some non-photoshoot shots that show the shine a little better!)
FINAL THOUGHTS
I had a lot of thoughts while I was binding this book--about Sandman fandom, about Dreamling fandom, about the Odyssey, about storytelling, about fanbinding, about Binderary, about Renegade, about my friends--but really what came to mind the most was gratitude!
Simply put, I'm so grateful to everyone I've met both in this fandom and throughout the years I've been active online--this is SO fun, y'all. It's so much fun to love stories together--to talk about them, to write them, and of course to bind them! I hope I've adequately conveyed that gratitude.
But of course, this book would not exist without the wonderful words of @moorishflower. Heather, thank you so, SO much for sharing your stories, thoughts, and time with us--it is always a happier, better day when I get an email notif from you and when I see you on my dash. I love your work so much, and I'm so happy I finally get to put it on my shelf! So thank you so much again, for everything <3
and OKAY THAT'S IT FROM ME FOLKS!!!!! Binderary 2023 is officially a wrap! I had SUCH a blast--will probably write up a reflection post on it uhhhh after I take a very long nap ajslkdfjslk _(:3」∠)_
all my love! <3
#DOVE MY BELOVED#I have been rolling around in this reply all day#just grinning at seemingly nothing ajskljdfs#anyway here are more ramblings about why I love fanbinding#once again poorly disguised as a few talking points from my thesis ^^;;#I love it here!!#author-fanbinder love#the sandman#dreamling#Maybe sprout wings#fancy-rock-dove#<333
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For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?
Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕
touches prompt list
9 - holding hands across the table
i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)
.
They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.
Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.
Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.
Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.
That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.
So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.
As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.
“Jon?”
“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”
Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”
“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”
“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”
Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”
“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”
We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.
He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.
Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.
Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.
All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend
So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.
Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.
Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)
“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.
And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.
The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.
“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”
Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.
His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.
Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.
“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.
“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”
Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”
Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.
Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.
The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.
But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.
Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.
The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.
Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.
Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”
Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”
Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”
Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.
Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.
But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.
He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.
“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.
“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”
Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”
Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.
Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.
Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”
Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.
“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”
He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.
Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.
Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.
He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.
“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”
Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”
Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”
Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.
Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.
Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”
Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.
(It feels very much like a date.)
(It isn’t a date.)
“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.
They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.
“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”
Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.
“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”
“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”
“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.
“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”
He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.
“Is this a-a date?”
It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.
Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”
“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.
“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.
“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”
Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”
Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”
“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.
Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”
It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.
Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”
He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”
Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”
“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.
Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”
And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”
Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.
#tma#the magnus archives#jonathan sims#martin blackwood#jonmartin#ask#anon#this got so incredibly long... i hope you like it!#my writing#my fic
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