#the funny thing? I teach STEM students

[bittermuire]

Divorced rhysta angst plsss 🥺🥺

DIVORCED RHYSTA YOU SAID????

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March 15th.

There are seven yellow roses on her desk.

Nesta runs her thumb over her left ring finger, where the band used to sit. She keeps it in a dish with all of the rest of her jewelry. It has little company. She wears little jewelry.

-

She was waiting in line at the pharmacy when they met for the first time. She’d noticed him blundering around, loitering a bit—it took him fifteen minutes to pluck up the courage to talk to her. But she’d been uncaffeinated and exhausted and he took the brunt of it.

She’d rear-ended him in the grad school parking lot when they met for the second time. She was mortified. He seemed relieved. He was funny. His name was Rhys. He taught in the physics department. She told him her name was Nesta, she taught in the literature department. What do you teach, he asked. She inspected the cars. She inspected him, hands in his pockets, sleeves of his button-down lazily rolled up. Medieval romances, she said.

-

She wanted tenure, so she was up til two most nights, flipping through worn copies of journals and reviews, scouring the internet.

They were serious by that time. They’d been seeing each other for about a year. She was researching, working on a book, working at coffee shops and the library, and he was sitting across from her, working with equations, working with numbers he kept like magic tricks in his mind.

Nesta’s book was on marriage in medieval romances. Ironically that was when Rhys was looking at engagement rings. They had a small courthouse wedding in January. They moved into a little house, a five minute drive from campus. 

-

She should have seen it coming, really.

She married Rhys, after all. Dr. Rhys Irwyn. He was teaching level 300 or 400 or 500 courses called things like Thermal and Statistical Physics and Quantum Mechanics I and Quantum Mechanics II and Stellar Evolution. Gorgeous things she couldn’t touch, couldn’t conceptualize. And he was tall and handsome. He wore glasses. He wore slacks, button-downs.

Anyway—they’d been married something like seven or eight years when she saw him in the car with the TA for one of his courses. Nesta knew who the girl was. She was a pretty, bright student. Her husband was holding that girl’s face, kissing her like he loved her.

-

“What’s so special about it?” He laughed. “It’s a day. Neither of our birthdays, need I remind you.”

She sighed. “It’s just nice, don’t you think? March fifteenth. It sounds right. It’s beautiful.”

“Fine. It’s our holiday, then. It’s a day made for you.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

“I love you.”

“Be quiet, I’m grading.”

-

She didn’t bring it up for a while. Months went by. She didn’t acknowledge it but she didn’t touch him, either. He bent his head to kiss her and she looked away.

On some windless autumn day she’d locked herself in a bathroom stall, squatting, hand clenched over her mouth. That evening she handed him the divorce papers and told him to sign. They had a fight. He lost quickly. He signed them by the end of the week.

-

There are seven yellow roses on her desk.

Nesta checks the calendar on her desk. On her bookshelf she has a small picture of her cat. A rosary, the last gift from her mother. Edith Wharton, Virginia Woolf, Alice Hoffman. Slim volumes of poetry about ghosts, and grieving, stacked atop each other.

She stands there a moment, then grabs the stems, stripped of thorns, and throws them out.

.

[1ore]

Hi, I've been following you since Ye Olde Esk Days and you've always been a huge inspiration for me as a fellow gender-questioning neurodivergent lesbian both in art and science.

I've been wanting to reach out because I'm considering enrolling in Enviroinmental Sciences (or something in that ballpark) in 1 or 2 years and wanted to ask how your experience studying it has been to you as a person with an artistic bakground? I am afraid my ADHD might get in the way of maths, and that I might not be "smart" enough to pursue a degree in STEM, despite the fact I've always been interested in scientific subjects and in the conservation efforts around the area (and the river) I grew up in. so, yeah, I don't really know what else to say xmx I hope this message wasn't too much, and thank you for taking the time to read it. Your art and its message has always meant a lot to me! (also, happy Pride month!)

ONE OF US! ONE OF US!

So, funny enough, math anxiety is part of what what led me to Environmental Science in the first place. My degree is a Bachelor of Arts in Environmental Science, not a Bachelor of Science, because IIIIIII didn’t want to take more semesters of calculus and organic chemistry than I had to 🤪 I struggled with math in highschool, and by the time I went back to school, it had been more than 5 years since I last took a math class. I was also more interested in the interdisciplinary parts of Environmental Science, so a BA let me put more credit hours towards classes in policy, law, social science, humanities, etc.

As far as I know, having a BA hasn’t held me back. I’ve been accepted into internships and other programs doing “real science” just fine. Maybe this won’t always be true, but I’ve figured out that I like teaching and engaging people in science more than I like being in academia, so that works out fine for me.

As for my experience with ADHD and math/science courses, I have euuuauuuehhh a lot of thoughts. This gets dense, sorry.

First, my ADHD came with a side of anxiety, which manifested as a compulsion to do well academically regardless of how much my mental health suffered. Doing busy work felt like hell on earth for reasons that were then mysterious to me, but disappointing my teachers felt Worse. So I became really good at, like, academic minmaxing, not so much learning or taking care of myself. It’s hard to articulate. I want to say I was muddling through these classes as a professional test-taker and not a student, and also not applying myself fully. But at the same time, I felt like I was well beyond my breaking point? This made more sense to me later when I got the diagnosis LOL. my capacity for doing the things I’m supposed to do, the way I’m supposed to do them, is lower than other peoples’. So either I do what I’m not supposed to do, or I do it “the wrong way.” <- meaningless.

I say all that because coursework is a poor metric of how “good” you are at science or math, or whether you'll enjoy doing them outside of the classroom. We know this LOL but I want to reiterate it. I learned how to get really good grades without learning how to reason my way through why xyz methodology is justified, or how to ask questions and be curious about what’s happening around me. It’s corny but it’s true. on one hand I still struggle with these, because I’m still working under the assumption that whatever’s going on in my head is the “wrong” way to do it. But ADHD does a lot of heavy lifting for us with lateral thinking and being able to make connections that other people can’t always see. If you want to do Science ™ (as in academic research,) this is an awesome tool to have in your toolkit.

There’s also a whole world of environmental work outside of academia that demands its own skillset, which coursework may or may not teach. Like, if you want to do hands-on restoration work or interpretive work or field technician stuff, this is less “can you spit out the balanced equation for photosynthesis on command” and more “can you operate a woodchipper” or “are you comfortable with public speaking and customer service.“ This is another part of what attracted me to envirosci--how wide-ranging the job market is. The backdrop of science is the same, but your day-to-day responsibilities can look wildly different.

Also, if it’s any encouragement, being an arts person has been a huge plus in my experience. My most recent employer told me outright that the artsy scicomm stuff in my resume is what made them think “oh, we need her.” Art and science are wives LOL a lot of the skills you hone as an artist are invaluable in science, especially if you’re doing any kind of communication work. (<- has seen some poorly-written papers and incomprehensible figures in her time)

Going along with that, back when I was yea high and wanted to do art professionally, I remember people telling me that you only go to art school for the professional connections. A lot of STEM careers are locked behind having a specialized degree, but I think this advice is still applicable here. Being a “good student” hasn’t helped me as much as abandoning my anxiety and sending cold emails, showing up at peoples’ guest lectures and office hours, participating fully and sincerely, etc. The stuff I did outside the classroom was more meaningful to me, in the end. (That said, I was lucky to have several classes that were more skills/training-oriented for things like GIS, field botany, conducting environmental assessments for NEPA, etc. You can swing projects for classes like these as opportunities to build skills or create portfolio pieces.)

OK. I thiiiink that’s everything I have for you? I hope that answers your question. If not, I can give it another shot. I'll also leave you with this answer from beloved mutual Heedra re: what Environmental Science as a major is like. I can't believe it's 6 years old because it's part of what put Environmental Science on my radar in the first place LOL

[kiruuuuu]

Sun's Out, Guns Out - Day 5!🌈

Hi all, this is your quarterly reminder that I'm not dead 😊 As always, @dualrainbow has organised a Pride event and I'm happy to participate! Give them a follow and check out the other entries 💖

Since I tend to resort to my favourites when I can't write what I want to write (motivation, thy name is fickleness), this one features Thatcher and Lesion trying to figure out a few things. Well, mostly Thatcher. Please enjoy!! (Rating G/T, fluff, ~3.3k words)

.

Mike Baker has always had a knack for teaching. Born from the addicting sensation of being smarter than everyone, he quickly realised there’s actual merit in passing on hard-earned knowledge founded on a mixture of theory and painful experience. It took him a while to suppress the resentment of witnessing others, armed with his wisdom, excel immediately where he had to struggle for much longer, but once he overcame that particular ego trip, he started receiving heartfelt compliments.

And, well, he likes those.

Suddenly, he played a part in many success stories, was cited as a major influence by skilled operators around the world, and shook hands with others whom he admired on equal footing. There are other advantages as well, like broadening his horizon through exchanges with young minds from vastly different cultures, many of which left him befuddled at first yet enriched in the long run. He’s often called old school, a term he wears with pride instead of embarrassment seeing as it stems from his conviction that advanced technology might be useful but ultimately a crutch. He’s opened many eyes to the old ways and no doubt saved countless lives by empowering others to acquire survival skills not reliant on newfangled tech.

This, too, he learnt the hard way. After the disaster in ‘92, he vowed never to allow something like it again.

Amidst the coaching, he endeavours to learn from his students just as they soak up his advice. Not always successful, he still tries to grasp their differing world views and outlooks, attempts to understand how they developed and why his own rarely match. Finding similarities is easy, there’s timeless topics such as cars, sports and physical fitness, and beyond that cyclical trends materialise and disappear over the course of a decade or two – whisky, gardening, woodworking, it all recurs.

But the longer Thatcher pushes his retirement, the more he perceives a rift forming between his generation and the younger ones. Not having any children himself (or any friends who do), he’s reliant on his work relationships to keep him up-to-date, and while there’s no shortage of sensible, eager young men in the SAS as a whole, Rainbow generally features established, well-adjusted operators who need little guidance.

So… maybe it’s the small sample size. In any case, Thatcher is increasingly perplexed when Mute mentions most of his friends don’t even own a car anymore. Or that they have no notion to buy a house and settle down – even Thatcher considers marriage optional, seeing as his own crashed and burned spectacularly, but not wanting to own property? And the absolutely disrespectful way Mute speaks of national treasures like the Queen and Thatcher’s namesake (which, alright, he’s had long discussions about this and maybe she wasn’t the progressive saint he once thought she was, but still – defacing her monument just isn’t funny).

At first he was filled with a giddy sort of glee when the taciturn, serious young Brit opened up to him, heeded his advice and even looked to him first when he was unsure about anything work-related, but the longer they spend conversing about their private lives, the more Thatcher wishes he’d never asked in the first place. He’s fairly sure he will never understand the point of ‘memes’, no matter how often Mute tries to explain.

.

And one day, a humid, muggy Friday in June, Mute approaches him with a problem for which Thatcher has no answer ready yet. So he does what he always does when he’s unable to process news or make his mind up: ask the one person for help to whom he’d entrust his life without a second thought.

.

~*~

.

“Mark thinks he’s gay”, says Thatcher, apropos nothing, as he turns the page from sports to local news. ‘Hotel California’is softly pouring out of the radio next to the toaster – the classic rock station isn’t his favourite but one meaningful glance over Simon & Garfunkel incentivised him to switch to it. He didn’t want to be accused of being a lonely old man again.

Across the table, Lesion visibly smothers his initial reaction, whichever it would’ve been; there’s an unnatural half-blink and an almost imperceptible pause in guiding the ham-topped croissant to his mouth. And Thatcher thinks: here we go.

They haven’t fought in a while. Not for the entire year, actually, if he discounts their usual bickering (and he’s inclined to, it barely counts despite the awkward atmosphere it forces bystanders to endure, which is incidentally Thatcher’s favourite part). He regrets having to sacrifice their harmonious breakfast which, apart from the at-times questionable songs wafting over, is nearly perfect where he’s concerned. Lesion bought fresh muffins for Thatcher and croissants for himself, Thatcher provides good-quality cold cuts, they share a pot of tea and discuss whatever is new either in their lives or the world. It’s idyllic.

Sadly, he’ll have to ruin it – for the greater good.

Could he introduce the topic in a less inflammatory way? Sure. Would it have the same result, i.e. a quietly destructive Lesion who chooses his words so carefully it’s hard to imagine he’s simultaneously holding himself back from throttling Thatcher? Absolutely not. And therefore this is the only option remaining.

Once Lesion has bought himself some time to process Thatcher’s remark by carefully chewing for an inordinately long time, he avoids his gaze and asks, very calm: “Did he drink too much and say a few things he now regrets?”

Deflection. With a joke, at least, Thatcher taught him that – when they first met, Lesion would raise his brows and change the topic when confronted with anything he did not want to comment on. Either he’s attempting to save the mood or his brain is working overtime to figure out how to respond. Good. So he doesn’t know what to think about this either.

“Nah. We both know the lad barely drinks.”

Lesion begins pushing the crumbs on his plate into a neat pile. “He does when James is around.”

And this is why Thatcher chooses him for any difficult topic. Lesion has mastered the art of being unobtrusive and inoffensive to the point where everyone around him either forgets his presence or believes him to be an accomplice of sorts, thus dropping all inhibitions. His skills in information gathering and observation are unparalleled and Thatcher enjoys making use of them, even if it’s for petty purposes.

Well. Especially for petty purposes.

He’s right, of course, he always is: Thatcher retroactively analyses Mute’s behaviour around his colleague and concludes that yes, Mute does indeed let Smoke be a bad influence on him.

“Tell me what happened.”

Somehow, the initial friction has disappeared and though Thatcher would prefer a sharper exchange of words, he plays along for now. “Julien dragged him to a Pride event last week and some bloke there talked Mark into believing he fancies James. He’s not fully sure, though, so he poured his little heart out to me.”

He spots the tell-tale crease between Lesion’s brow. He’s getting pissed – even though Thatcher isn’t entirely certain why. But that’s what he’s here to find out. “I have additional questions”, Lesion states after a moment, “but I think it’s best if you tell me your thought process first.”

“On what?”

“You seem to disagree with him. I’d like to hear why.”

“With whom?”

Lesion refuses to take the bait and get angry over stupid details. His patience is another virtue Thatcher admires greatly. “With Mark’s assessment of himself.”

“That he thinks he’s gay?”

“Yes.” He takes a sip of his tea. “That.”

Alright then. If this was anyone else, Thatcher would refrain from elaborating, wave it off and attribute it to personal differences rather than risk offending or coming across as ignorant. The two of them, however, have known each other for such a long time that no such anxieties remain: they’ve both made idiots of themselves in front of the other, have supported each other through various crises, have become such an important and fundamental part of each others’ lives that he discards any vanities in favour of personal growth.

Most of the time.

Which doesn’t contradict his urge to exasperate his best friend. It’s almost… charming? Endearing? He’s not sure of the correct term, but it does leave a deep, satisfying feeling in the low of his stomach to watch Lesion ruthlessly apply logic to try and change his mind, working himself up to unmerciful gentleness with which he both ensures victory and that Thatcher’s pride isn’t hurt. These days, he rarely allows himself any indulgences, yet Lesion’s cutting rhetoric is too addicting.

He’s not proven wrong often, but with this man, he almost enjoys it.

“We’ve talked about it before”, he starts, Lesion keeping up eye contact now as he finishes the other half of his croissant, “being gay isn’t a choice.”

An encouraging nod. So far, so good.

“Either you’re born gay or you’re not.”

The nodding fades. Surely, he can’t object this early.

“So either you know that you’re gay, or you don’t know, which means you’re not. And yeah, there’s the bisexuals and whatever, but they know who they are as well. Mark on the other hand said he never really had any interest in anyone until now – but if he was gay, that wouldn’t have happened.” He probably should stop talking. Lesion is looking at him, mid-chew, the same way he did when Thatcher ranted about poor people always buying poor quality products even though purchasing slightly more expensive, higher-quality ones would last much longer.

Which, alright. He conceded the point eventually.

Another sip of tea after the croissant has disappeared. Lesion adds more crumbs to his pile. “Is it too late then?”, he asks, curious. “For him to realise he fancies men.”

“Huh? No.” Ridiculous. As if there was some kind of cut-off point where lads had to live as heteros because they didn’t claim their gayness fast enough. “No, what I mean is… he’s just not gay. He’s found a kindred spirit in James, somehow, and I predict he’s going to turn into an annoying little gremlin under his supervision, but he’s confusing a serious, close friendship with, I don’t know, attraction? Romance?” The more he scrutinises it in his head, the more sense it makes. “Yeah. He never fancied anyone before. How would he know what it feels like? I have the impression he just never had a friendship like that before.”

Actually, this is obvious – he’s almost embarrassed he couldn’t come up with the same explanation when Mark sought him out. No wonder the poor lad is a little lost, a shithead like Smoke will do that to an innocent soul.

Lesion is starting to shift now, sharpen around the edges, weighs his words more deliberately before he allows them to escape his lips. It’s reminiscent of how he is on the job, competent, no-nonsense. He might crack jokes and wear a smile but Thatcher’s gaze penetrates the thin veneer of jovial gestures to reveal remorseless efficiency. And though he respects that part of Lesion deeply, he also savours how pliable, how… domestic they are around each other. Lesion has saved his life more than once, and he’s helped remodel Thatcher’s bathroom. He asked Thatcher to test drive a used car he considered buying, and he’s killed with a smile and a shrug.

If he’s honest, Thatcher prefers his softer side. There’s something peaceful in sitting in his garden and trying to spot birds, even if they’ve had to wash blood off their bodies more times than they care to count.

“How did he come to the conclusion that he likes James?” Gathering more necessary intel. Thatcher suppresses a grin.

“I can’t recall his exact words, it was surprisingly flowery. Maybe he dreamt about kissing him, felt like he was having butterflies in his stomach whenever James texted him, something along those lines. Typical shite, you know. But I mean, that’s normal.”

Lesion’s eyes snap up.

Oh? He’s picked up on something though Thatcher wouldn’t know what exactly. They’re still dancing around the issue, Lesion hasn’t formulated his point yet so it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. It’s no fight yet.

“Normal stuff”, Lesion repeats and it sounds very close to a question. He must know what Thatcher means.

“Aye. Everyone has these kinds of thoughts, even if there’s some kind of stigma on it since blokes barely talk about it. It’s curiosity, nothing more, the brain latches on to something and you can’t get it out of your head for a while. Like buying a new car, innit? A mate gets himself a brand new ride and suddenly, you want one too. It’s almost impossible to push that thought away.”

“… a new car.” It seems Lesion has resorted to parroting bits and pieces of Thatcher’s speech. Again, with anybody else, he’d be upset that he’s opening up about a topic rarely discussed between men and met with hesitant mockery, but this is Lesion. His best friend would rather jump out the window than hurt him deliberately.

“Not the best metaphor maybe, but you get the gist. He’ll just have to pull himself together and realise it’s perfectly normal to have these kinds of, I don’t know, intrusive thoughts, and move on.”

Lesion’s face evokes the image of an exhausted mum debating internally whether she should let her child eat the crayons just so she can have a bit of peace and quiet. He’s still not contributing to their conversation which is frankly worrisome – not that Thatcher is apprehensive about what might be going on in his head, but he knows the longer he talks the worse it gets. The two of them have a code word for ‘you should probably shut up now’ and there’s a reason Lesion is the only one who uses it regularly.

“Do you not agree? Just because you think like this doesn’t mean you’re queer. Hell, most of the blokes on this earth would’ve ended up married to another bloke if they followed that line of thinking. The two of us might as well have married.”

This shakes Lesion out of his stupor. “Might as well”, he repeats, sounding oddly entertained. It seems he’s about to add something but decides against it, shaking his head a little before he takes a deep breath and gets up to pour himself another cuppa. Buying more time. This is getting serious. “Want the rest?”

Thatcher hands him his Arsenal mug, mulling over the phrase which seems to have sparked amusement in his best friend. There’s worse fates in the world than being tied to this man, he supposes – they get along better than any married couple he knows. Most days, their schedules are intertwined, they give and take in equal measure and have found compromises for all their differences in taste. “Might as well”, Thatcher mutters without meaning to and accepts the tea-filled mug with an added ‘ta’.

Instead of sitting back down, Lesion leans against the counter, fingers wrapped around the Winnie the Pooh mug he used to pick as a joke (and now defends from other guests), steady gaze resting on Thatcher without the hint of reproach. There’s a warmth in it he’s accustomed to seeing when it’s late and they drank a little too much. Quiet anxiousness rises in Thatcher; he can deal with exasperation but doesn’t do well with vulnerable sincerity.

“You’ve not talked about this with anybody else, I assume?”, Lesion asks.

“Of course not. If they’re all too embarrassed to say it out loud, I’m not gonna be the first one.”

An eternity passes while Lesion stands there, eyes drifting aimlessly around the cosy kitchen, and contemplates how to reply. Thatcher’s uneasiness increases with every passing second yet he knows better than to interrupt the other man’s thoughts. Despite his growing desperation to interrupt his own.

He has a feeling he won’t like what he’ll hear next.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘normal’”, Lesion starts hesitantly. “I do believe it’s not unusual to be curious in one’s younger years, but… dreaming about kissing your mates when you’re in your fifties is, um.”

Thatcher’s cheeks begin to heat up. He hopes he hasn’t committed a grave mistake. “Oh come off it – don’t tell me you don’t think about those things.”

“Ah…” The corners of Lesion’s mouth lift into a sheepish smile. “I do.”

“See!”

“But, Mike. I’m gay.”

Uh.

Thatcher’s brain screeches to a halt. “What”, he says and can’t keep the hint of anger out of his voice. Strangely, he feels betrayed rather than surprised, and it’s a tad odd to realise he’s genuinely upset over the fact Lesion never told him. He cares not one bit about his sexuality, Lesion can do whatever he wants, but Thatcher needs to be in on it. Still, it helps to distract him from the fact that Lesion’s earlier words open up an entirely different can of worms.

Which is that apparently Thatcher’s mind has significant overlap with that of a gay man, at least where other men are concerned, and he is not prepared to face this particular revelation just yet.

Maybe I should’ve married him, he thinks and suppresses the sudden, absurd urge to laugh.

“Do you want to talk about this?”, Lesion offers, still smiling, and it’s eerie how well he knows him – when conflicted, Thatcher tends to withdraw unless assisted, yet is too prideful to ask.

He appreciates the suggestion but appearances force him to weakly object: “Don’t you have errands to run today?”

Lesion shrugs. “They can wait. I’d rather make sure you don’t end up brooding the whole weekend.”

A fair assessment. Thatcher nods and is flooded with relief over having someone in his life so willing to talk about everything and nothing, except… Suddenly, there’s something else besides gratitude as well.

.

~*~

.

“… so, in conclusion, it doesn’t matter what you identify as. Just do what you feel is right, use your common sense – and I know you have a lot of that. If you feel an attraction, there’s nothing wrong with pursuing it without worrying about labels for the moment. Alright, lad?”

Mute stares at him in much the same way Thatcher’s family did on their last reunion when he asked for extra vegetables. He adds a mental note to teach Mute how to control his expressions better and keep his composure even when confronted with the unimaginable.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“No, I just -” The lad blinks a few times before starting to nod. “I mean, yeah. Thanks. That’s actually really helpful. I was worried about some of it, but what you said just… some things clicked.”

Boy does Thatcher know how that feels. “Don’t mention it. You got your head on straight, lad, keep it that way.” He realises too late and hastens to correct himself: “I don’t mean – well, you know what I mean.”

His awkward floundering earns him a grin he much prefers over the troubled look which has recently dominated the young man’s features. “Yeah. No worries.”

“Good man.” Thatcher pats his back and gets up, relieved their talk went smoothly and confident he’ll be able to manoeuvre similar conversations in the future. Which is a relief, because based on Mute’s memes, the entire younger generation is some kind of queer or other and he’s had his suspicions about Dokkaebi for a while.

“Just one question though.”

He turns to Mute, expecting anything from mundane to profound and certain he will be able to advise. After all, it’s his job to guide and teach wherever he can.

The lad points to Thatcher’s neck. “… is that a hickey?”

Alright.

Well.

Time to make up an excuse and get the fuck out of here.

[kuwdora]

💞💌✨

💞what's the most important part of a story for you? the plot, the characters, the worldbuilding, the technical stuff (grammar etc), the figurative language

Ohhh I got this ask several times, so I can answer it in multiple parts! Err, I might ramble a little...

As a writer I come at everything from character. Plot stems from the character, and the world building also (mostly) spins out from the character.

This is why I can write 15k or 25k and not actually have a beginning, middle, or end. I get so caught up in the process of understanding how the character is inhabiting the world and figuring out what they want. What they need. It takes me so long to narrow things down and cut things out because I’m so far inside a character’s head.

Sometimes approach a story from a “what if x happens to Character A?” (I have a like two trope-y yennskier things I want to tackle this year that start with this question). But 7 or 8 times out of 10 I’m starting with what a character is feeling and doing and rolling around in the why. All my feelings start and end there. ❤️

✨What's a fic you've posted you wish you could breathe life into again and have people talking about it? (or simply a fic you wish got more credit)

Oh, I could probably just randomly pick any of my witcher stories at this point but maybe I’ll single out Learning Curve which on the surface is just porny cuddles and softness, but I spent a lot of time working through some TWN Yen thoughts about how she is coping from season 1 and 2 events. Her upbringing and relationship with Aretuza and Tissaia and how that impacts the way she fucks up with Ciri and what she wants to try to do and be better.

This Yen also has a magical disability which throws an emotional/psychological/logistical wrench into her plans about how to teach Ciri, too. Sure, Yen got her powers back from Voleth Meir, but what if there was still a physical/magical consequence for using up so much of her chaos in the first place? The wear and tear on her body can’t just go away, even if she can get her magic back.

I want to write more about Yen and magical disability and explore teacher/student dynamic with Ciri and when/if it can cross into a mother/daughter dynamic that I felt more acutely in the books and games.

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

Ah!! Yes, okay. My puppetskier story Coin Operated Boy will feature Shani for a few scenes. It’s going to be sweet and endearing and funny. But!! Let me share with you the first meeting between Shani and Jaskier. This is not in the puppetskier story because I’m writing and publishing this in a very non-linear order but I want to share anyway cause I am EXCITED.

Some context: I’m casting a young Jessica Sula as Shani, and this Shani is going to be maybe a little genderqueer. And when Jaskier first meets Shani, he’s a little hungover and has been going through some things so he’s not at his best.

I’m enjoying writing Shani and Jaskier’s dynamic, mostly from a point of view where Shani actually doesn’t know who Jaskier is as a performer or professor because she’s been too busy doing her own thing. Jaskier hasn’t always been around for her to meet first or second-hand. The intergenerational friendship is a big deal to me to explore and tease, which is largely a contrast and parallel for when Jaskier was first setting out on his adventures with a monster slayer.

Bedside Manner Shani & Jaskier warning for implied alcohol abuse ~1800w

A gentle boot kicked Jaskier awake. Gulls. Clop of hooves. Distant yelling and chatter. He didn’t remember falling asleep down near the harbor.

Stabbing pain gouged Jaskier behind his eyes. He refused to open them to see what kicked him. He tried rolling over, his chin knocking into the corner of something, and instead he folded his arm and turned the other way. Horseshit wafted in the air, mingling with the scents of fish and piss. Maybe he should get up after all.

The boot kicked him again, but not with the heavy intent of harm.

“Hey.”

Jaskier was cold and stiff and he pulled his sleeves down. Pulled himself away from the repeated kick. Gentle, but still annoying.

“What,” he muttered.

“Wake up.”

The voice was bossy, but warm. Jaskier’s stomach clenched in pain and he scrunched his face. Last night hadn’t gone as planned, judging from the aches in his body. He remembered making it to a cot at some point to sleep off the drinking game, but he was outside now. His mouth was sandpaper dry. Coppery-taste on the inside of his lip and cheek and the faint taste of semen in his mouth.

Why did morning exist and why was someone bothering him?

“No,” Jaskier said and pulled the collar of his coat up to protect him from the sea breeze. He kept his eyes shut and feet shuffled beside him. The creak of wood beside his ear was like an anvil being dropped on his head. “Fuck.”

Jaskier rubbed his face which did little good to improve his situation. He opened his eyes, had a fuck-all time clearing the gunk from his vision, and regretted the daylight immediately. He blocked out the sun with his hand and hazarded a glance upwards.

A child peered at him from the cart that Jaskier was leaning against. He squinted at the street urchin, bronze skin with large brown eyes and curly, cropped hair that seemed to be an unnatural shade of red. Cherubic. Precocious. Someone looking for opportunity.

“I don’t have anything worth stealing,” Jaskier said and thought about getting up and decided against it when the needles inside his head told him not to move.

“Got that right. Saw three fellas feeling you up before I came over. Lucky you still have your boots,” the boy said.

“My boots are shit,” Jaskier said.

“Which is why you still have ‘em, I guess,” the boy agreed.

Jaskier sighed and his head lolled back, closing his eyes, and trying to find the will get to his feet.

He felt an odd pressure on the top of his head and tried to look up but something rolled down the side of his face and into his lap. It was a piece of fruit.

“Bwuh?”

“Hungry?” the boy asked.

“Eh,” Jaskier said and wiped off the fruit with his sleeve. He looked up at the child. “Not so keen on taking a…pear? from a strange child on the street first thing in the morning.”

“It’s afternoon,” the boy said.

Jaskier looked around again and supposed that was true enough.

“You pass out here often?” the boy asked and Jaskier picked at the stem of the pear and shrugged.

“Here, there. I am a man of the city,” he said and turned the bruised pear around in his hand.

“Did you vomit before or after you passed out? Think that’s your piss or someone else’s?” the boy asked and looked over his shoulder at the cobblestones Jaskier had slept upon.

“What?” Jaskier asked and frowned, looking down at his trousers and the ground and his head jerked back up. He hadn’t been sick—or remembered being sick, but that was beside the point. The scratch of a pencil was loud in his ears, inciting a new round of pain. He knew the tell-tale scribbling when he heard it.

Jaskier kneaded his eye and leaned forward, bracing a hand on the wheel of the cart and dragged himself to his feet. He got himself a proper look at the boy who was less of a boy and more of a gangly adolescent wearing a well-fitted green tunic. Clean, well-fed. Maybe not a street urchin, but still looked like a child.

A wave of vertigo passed over Jaskier and he braced himself against the cart, watching the boy write something in his notebook. “What’re you writing?”

“Patient notes,” the boy said.

“What? Huh,” Jaskier said, his hands moving before his brain caught up, and he swiped the notebook from the kid’s lap. Name, age, weight, symptoms were left blank but the child had written down a brief physical description along with a few notes under medical history. He read: Patient has a likely history of alcohol abuse. Damage to his liver suspected. Inquire about family history??? The words swam in Jaskier’s vision. He really should go lie down after drinking some water.

“I’m a medical student,” the boy said. Jaskier squinted at him. He looked too young to be at the university.

“You look too young to be at the university,” he said.

The boy grabbed the notebook back and twirled the pencil around in his hand. “I’m almost fifteen. What are you, 10 stone?” he asked, looking Jaskier up and down.

“Right,” Jaskier said. “Good luck with that,” and turned around and began making his way back to the town. The more he moved, the more wafting smell of fried fish was going to make Jaskier hurl.

“I’m not done yet, hold on,” the boy said and Jaskier gave the urchin a sidelong glance and he held out his notebook again. “Do you have a headache?”

“Splitting,” Jaskier said.

“Nausea?” the boy asked.

“Sloshy,” Jaskier said.

“Sensitivity to light?”

“I am quite hungover, thank you so much for your concern,” Jaskier said and turned a corner and slipped the pear into the palm of a old woman sitting on a stoop.

“Ohhh, I do have something for that,” the boy said. Jaskier almost didn’t bother stopping but the hopeful note in the boy’s voice seeped through the nausea. The promise of relief was too much to ignore. He turned around and the boy had leaned against the side of the building and was digging through his shoulder bag. “9? 10 stone? 9 stone just to be safe,” the boy said.

Jaskier wandered back. “I don’t have any coin for any tinctures you have there.”

“I don’t need coin. I only need to finish my report after you take this,” the boy said. He muttered something to himself and held out a large glass bottle at Jaskier. “Drink that water first. All of it.”

“You’re kind of bossy for a kid,” Jaskier said and uncapped the bottle, giving it a wary sniff.

The boy shrugged and uncapped a light green vial and poured a little on his finger and gave it a lick, nodding at himself and then handed Jaskier the vial. “It’s mostly ginger,” the boy said.

“So why should I trust you? Especially if I’m not paying you for this little remedy here.”

“I get extra credit for helping the stupid and poor,” the boy said. Jaskier frowned. The fucking nerve of the kid. Jaskier has now upgraded him from child to nuisance kid.

“Some bedside manners you have there,” Jaskier said.

“We haven’t covered that unit yet,” the nuisance kid said.

“Ah, well then,” Jaskier said. “To your education,” he said and raised the vial in a toast and tipped it back. It tasted…green.

He frowned and dropped the vial in the boy’s open shoulder bag. He tongued the roof of his mouth. “You make this yourself?” he asked. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Shani, and yes I made it. What good would it be if I had someone else do my homework for me? That’s how you’re supposed to learn, by doing it,” Shani said.

“If only all students were as sensible as you. Good job,” Jaskier said, and plucked the notebook from the bag and went flipped through the pages. Patients A through D were people Shani must be picking up from the streets, judging from the notes.

Jaskier helped himself to the pencil but Shani grabbed it and the notebook.“It’s not very nice to dig through somebody’s stuff.”

“Fair enough. What else do you need from me?” Jaskier said. His stomach rumbled loud enough that Shani’s eyes widened slightly. “Let’s keep moving away from the fried smells, eh?” he suggested and began walking, motion Shani to come along.

“Alright. What’s your name?” Shani said, flipping to a page in his notebook and following after Jaskier.

“Julian Alfred Panktraz,” he said. “P-A-N-K-R-A-T-Z,” he added helpfully.

“Age?”

“Timeless.”

Shani made a noise and Jaskier glanced over, watching him write down refuses to disclose age.

“Any other symptoms I should know about pertaining to your current health?” the nuisance kid asked.

“I’ve got an itch on my left toe that won’t go away—probably because of my boots. I seem to have lost most of my coin in a drinking game and I’m not quite sure whose company I enjoyed last night, but the memory problems are probably because of the drinking. I have trouble sleeping because I can’t seem to work out the third verse of my current ballad, but that’s more symptomatic of inherit heartbreak and loss of a decades-long friendship. Or maybe the heartache is from the terror seeping into Oxenfurt because of the war that’s happened—or the war that’s likely to come. No one seems to care how Oxenfurt has changed. The people aren’t like they were before. I don’t know why everybody else can’t see it. I mean, I know why…pretending something isn’t happening is easier than acknowledging the truth. I don’t know how to tell the story of what’s happening because… Fear isn’t easy to… to deal with when you’re alone,” he said, stymied by the next wave of nausea.

Shani paused his scribbling, clearly not knowing what to make of that.

Jaskier rubbed his face—his lips felt funny—and and shrugged. “You asked.”

“Oookay,” he said.

Shani closed his notebook and nodded at Jaskier. “I think I have everything I need. How do you feel?”

Jaskier patted himself down. Still nauseous, but not actively feeling like he was going to vomit. “Better. Top marks for you,” he said and Shani grinned.

Let's Get Real Fic Writer Asks

[moveslikebucky]

WIP Wednesday

Hello friends <3 It's WIP Wednesday and I have something that has been a long time coming.

I am FINALLY working on a sequel to It's Not The Years, It's The Mileage (my fusion between Good Omens and Raiders of the Lost Ark).

This one will be based on The Last Crusade, and feature Aziraphale and Crowley in many shenanigans that stem from Gabriel showing up for Aziraphale's bicentennial performance review.

Will Aziraphale be able to influence Doctor Elsa Schneider on behalf of Heaven and find the Holy Grail? Are Gabriel's motives really to be trusted? How is Crowley finding a work/life balance between his time with the SIS and lounging about in Aziraphale's office?

All these and more will be answered in Pilgrims in an Unholy Land (coming soon to an AO3 near you*!)

*Popcorn and floor-splitting Diet Coke not included (if you know you know)

And now! A little teaser trailer for you all:

Oxford University, 1938 “The thing that all of you must remember, if you take nothing else away from my class,” Aziraphale said, peering out at the students of his lecture hall over the thin gold rims of his glasses, “take away this one simple lesson.” Turning to the board, he scrawled out four simple letters. F-A-C-T, appearing on the board in a puff of chalk dust. “Fact. Archaeology is not the pursuit of truths, but of fact.” He adjusted his bowtie as he turned back to face his classroom. “But, if you did want to know more about truth, I’m sure Professor Ward’s philosophy class down the hall would suffice.” He smiled as a murmur of laughter passed through his students. Professor Ward was a fair shake, but his class was solidly the philosophy of religion. He hadn’t the heart to tell the man that his philosophies were quite a bit off base. After all, Aziraphale would know. But he’d also never offered himself as a source. “Now then, that will conclude class for today. Now we don’t have time to dawdle!” He shouted over the commotion of students rushing to leave. “I’ll expect everyone to be well read on our textbook, chapters 5 and 6, Egyptology and specifically a focus on Seti the first! We’ll be discussing the findings around him first thing in class. I’ll be in my office for further questions, only for the next hour and a half or so!”  Aziraphale shook his head as the students crowded past his desk, chuckling under his breath. He was getting used to it, the whole professor thing. Teaching was something, oddly enough, he had turned out to be pretty good at. He found it funny how time worked, like it had a sense of humor. Charged with keeping humanity away from knowledge in the Beginning, and now willingly giving it to the next generation. It was a nice symmetry, in his mind anyway. He gathered up his papers, neatly stacking them before slipping them into his briefcase. It would be nice to have a quiet evening, maybe have a glass or two of wine. As he made his way to his office, he thought about putting on a nice soothing record or two. As much as he enjoyed the chaos of collegiate life, it was nice to escape it as well. There was a spring in his step as he turned the handle of his office door. At least, until he made it to the other side. “Professor Fell, I needed to ask–” “–Sir, if you don’t mind, that letter of recom–” “–and there still isn’t a grade posted, it’s been two weeks–” A horde of students mobbed him at once, shouting questions one right after the other. He could hear his secretary behind them, saying something about scheduling and unexpected visitors. He always did forget to do his paperwork. Or answer his messages. Or his letters. “All in due time, all in due time!” He tried to be both loud and calm, feeling much like he was failing at both. He waved to his secretary, shouting instructions to her. “If you would please, take down names and issues, give me that list and I will see to it that I speak to each one of you in turn.” As he spoke he inched his way through the throng of people, closer to his inner office door and to what he hoped was freedom. Maybe he could sneak out the window. “Now, if you will excuse me – “ “–sir, the man in your office, he –” His secretary tried to shout over everyone else. “ – If you’ll excuse me.” He turned the doorknob, hurrying in and locking it behind him. He leaned against the frosted glass and took a deep breath. “Hello, Aziraphale!” Aziraphale did a double-take and the source of the overly cheery voice. Someone he hadn’t seen in over a century. Not since he had tried to drag him back to heaven with a commendation and a pat on the back. “Gabriel? What are you doing here?”

[journeydb]

May 26 2022 Longmont

One of the rewards of teaching is to watch your students succeed and excel in pursuit of their passions, even if that means simply passing a class or being able to speak to people in a language different from their primary language.  When I began teaching ESL to Renata and Natalia during the pandemic I didn’t know that they and their family would become such good friends, but I’m glad they have.  It was an honor to be invited to Natalia’s graduation from kindergarten today.

I’m glad that Natalia and Renata are being taught a STEM curriculum because it’s just as important for girls as it is for boys to have the tools they need for the jobs of the future, a big percentage of which will involve technology and/or science.  I’m also glad the girls love art and music because I think the humanities are VERY important in rounding out any curriculum and if they are left out because so much emphasis is placed on math and science, that is a mistake.

Natalia LOVES to dress in pretty dresses and almost always has a bow in her hair.  She is cute, funny, sweet, and SMART!  I like her spunk and excitement about life.  She’ll do well in elementary school and I’ll keep tutoring her as long as I can and taking excursions with her and her family so we can speak English together until she is fluent.

Laura, Natalia and Renata’s mother, is a bright, caring, lovely person and our friendship has grown quickly.  She knows that for the girls to improve their English is imperative to get ahead in school and life in the United States and she’s really happy that I’m working with them.  She is also improving her English just by being around us when we’re having conversations.  Little Gael, who looks SO much like his father, Luis, is also beginning to say a few words in English, even though Spanish is, of course, his primary language.

Natalia was SO excited to receive her diploma!  She loves her school and now she’ll be able to spend even more time with Renata because they’ll be in the same part of the building.  I’m looking forward to having lots of field trips with them this summer so we can work on not only their English but also their swimming, because that is one of the most important things ANYONE can learn.  It will literally SAVE your life!

[minaa-munch]

If Flake-sensei lived in the Modern World. What would his occupation be?

Something that gives him the license to employ his...creative spin on things [nicknames. All the nicknames] and be a little turd about it. 

Engineer. Definitely - either mechanical or aeronautical/aerospace. It would fit, considering his affinity to decode/deconstruct things and create new ones [along with turning everything into a freaking variable]. Also, his eye for detail and tendency for dabbling into...shadier regions associated with the trade if he has to. You know he will. 

Also this: 

Minato: -- and I call it super mechanical twitcher alpha

Kakashi: ._.

Kushina: ._.

Minato: u-u

Kakashi: ...Okay, but why a twitcher?

Kushina: D: kakashiyounincompoopwhy’dyouask

Minato: Because-- -launches into an explanation that can and will take three hours- 

You can imagine the aftermath ne. 

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

You Can Get High On The First Kiss

Summary: Spencer Reid's perfectly perfect first date

Word Count: 3407

CW: Kissing, implied sex

Pairing: Spencer x Female Reader (I can't help myself so this is another librarian!reader)

Note: This is for @reidsbookclub 's 1 year anniversary. Grecy is so amazing. I'm very lucky to call you a friend <3. And on another note, I realized that this has 2 perspectives. That was an accident so let’s just ignore that and know that it’s reader pov and then Spencer pov. Also if you know what song the title is referencing you win a gold starv

The fifth time she threw yet another shirt on the floor was the moment she acknowledged that her dislike of every sweater or blouse in her closet stemmed from her nervousness. All she could think about as she searched for the perfect outfit, was how cute her date was. Every Tuesday and Thursday, the Analytical Mathematics course he was a teaching assistant for reserved the computer labs. It was part of her responsibility as the librarian to have the professor’s printouts ready and other research materials for the students. 

Professor Norton, a man who, in all senses of the word, had at least one foot in the grave, let Spencer pretty much run the course on his own. Y/N, who admits she’s pretty biased, would wager a hefty amount of money on Spencer being the best TA the university had to offer. Despite his shy exterior, Y/N found him quite funny in an understated, demure sort of way. And the fact that he has ridiculously sharp cheekbones and sweet brown eyes just made it easier to fall for him. 

As she selects a deep mauve cardigan and a simple gray blouse, Y/N remembers how sweetly Spencer approached her. It was a Wednesday, not a day she normally saw him in the library. He stood by the circulation desk, waiting patiently as she helped a couple of freshmen find the history section of the library for the term papers. He smiled, but it was a twisted smile that made him look uncomfortable. 

“Having a good day?” he asked, a clear attempt to make conversation. Eager to see where this led, she gave into his question. 

“Well, I helped Professor Patel in the English department set up a new syllabus and a history professor needed to order new textbooks for the spring semester. Now I’m about to send out emails for finds. Just a normal day, that totally got better all of the sudden. Not sure how, though,” Y/N said, attempting, despite her own nerves, to flirt. 

Spencer blushed. It was either a good thing or a terrible thing. Either he enjoyed the flirting and was just too nervous to reciprocate. Or he hated it and his physical response showed just how much he hated it. 

“Mine got better too,” 

Maybe he did like it. Maybe? 

Y/N smiled, continuing to collect the books from the return bin. Spencer watched,  looking like he was here to say something more than to see how her day was going. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Spencer said, fidgeting with his oversized button up. It was a dusty tan with plastic buttons. He paired it with a gray cardigan that was also two or three sizes too big for him.

“There’s this cafe that I go to. It’s near my apartment. I was wondering if you’d like to go. Go with me that is. I mean you don’t have to go with me. There’s no rule about that. You can go by yourself, obviously. You don’t need me to tell you that, of course. But I like you–no! Well, not no. But I’d like to take you. With me. To the cafe, I mean,” 

Breathless, Spencer must have bitten his lips during his long winded ramble because they were colored a reddish pink. It was utterly distracting. And, Y/N thought, would be a problem if he continued to have that blush coupled with his swollen lips. 

“Uhh,” Y/N stammered, her heart thumping in her chest as the moments flew by. “As a date?” 

“If that’s okay,” 

She remembered having to contain herself. It was difficult, when she had been crushing on the TA that visited her in the library for an entire semester now. Y/N needed to maintain some semblance of control in the face of what she’d consider her wildest dreams. 

“A date with you sounds like a dream,” she said, cringing because she totally went overboard with that. 

The very thought of it still gave her butterflies. Spencer was just too cute, with his funny if you think about it jokes, amazing book recommendations, and ability to always compliment her homemade desserts. If dreams could come true, it would be him, in a heartbeat. 

But Y/N doesn’t want to get ahead of herself. Standing in front of the full length mirror with Chester, her brown tabby lounging on her bed, she told herself to keep her head. Spencer’s dreamy and cute and charming. And after years and years of loving people from afar without the thrill of reciprocation, she found herself getting more and more okay without romantic prospects. Yet, she yearned for someone. She deeply desired another person to spend Friday nights cuddling on the couch reading books to each other. All she wanted was another person to come home to and to be the person someone comes home to. 

And maybe, just maybe that someone could be Spencer. 

*** 

Spencer Reid was, to put it mildly, terrified. From the moment he went into the library that fateful Wednesday to even now, his palms were sweaty with anxiety. He paced back and forth the small hallway that led up to the front door. Y/N emailed him last night, telling him thanks for the book recommendation and that she’d be at his place at 7 pm for their date. The little coffee shop was only two blocks, a perfect walking distance for a mild night in October. 

He continued to pace, thinking horrifyingly embarrassing possibilities of what could happen on this date. His entire life, Spencer found himself thinking about this night. He didn’t always dream that it would be with Y/N, even if he had been dreaming of it with her for the last couple of weeks. No, Spencer, for as long as he could remember, dreamt of his first date. Maybe it was all the romantic poems he heard in his mother’s lectures when he was young or maybe it was the secret stash of bodice rippers that made him yearn for a person to share his life with. Whatever it was, Spencer dreamt of this day. He dreamt of the day that someone would whisk him off his feet. Spencer, admittedly, understood that his dreams, birthed through 14th century poetry and 1970s softcore erotica, were a little fantastical. But then again, he liked a little fantastical one in a while. 

He changed his sweater, torn between the brown one with olive green stripes and his dark when one with mustard yellow stripes. Deciding on the red one before he changed his mind, Spencer pulled it over his head. He looked in the mirror, neither displeased or pleased with how he looked. Spencer found it easier to be ambivalent to his appearance. This way, he wasn’t set up for disappointment when people who caught his eye didn’t show the same attraction in return. 

He let Junie, his ancient gray cat, use his discarded sweater as a bed, despite her having a cat tree and three cat beds (and his bed) to sleep on. Of course, Junie wanted to sleep on the sweater that smelt like Spencer, she was a sweet cat. He crouched down, sitting criss-cross as he scratched her ears. 

“Wish me good luck, Junie-Bug,” Spencer whispered to his cat. She purred and Spencer decided to take that as an answer in his favor. 

The bell rang, alerting Spencer that his fate, whether he liked it or not, was her. Summoning his courage, Spencer answered the door. 

“I know I’m probably early, so I’m sorry. I already waited in my car down the street for like fifteen minutes. Oh crap! You aren’t supposed to know that. God, I’m ruining this, aren’t I?” 

Spencer, never truly understood when people say they are stunned into silence. But standing there with Y/N in his doorframe, he completely understood the meaning. Y/N, to put it simply, looked beautiful. 

“You look…”

“A mess, I know,” she laughed, a twinkling chuckle that forced a shy grin on Spencer’s face that instantly flooded into confusion, “I had no clue what to wear to a coffee shop date? So I wore this, but I’m still not sure if it was the right choice,” 

The right choice? Spencer thought silently to himself. It didn’t matter what she wore, he didn’t care about that stuff. It didn’t matter in the slightest because she was already the most beautiful person in the world to him. 

“That stuff,” Spencer started, unsure how to word this. Girls in movies and soap operas he watches are often insecure about their looks. It would be strange for Y/N to be insecure with her looks, considering how stunning she looked to Spencer, “Doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care what you wear, you could wear a chicken feed sack dress for all I care. You’re perfect how you are,” he said, wondering if he came off too strong. He supposed that it was okay if he did come off strong, because at least he was being truthful. 

“You’re pretty perfect yourself, Spencer Reid.” 

Spencer felt his cheeks heat at her compliment. It wasn’t everyday that Spencer found himself getting compliments from pretty girls. And it certainly wasn’t everyday that pretty girls were calling him perfect. He attempted to play it cool, even if he knew he was just making a fool of himself. 

“I thought we could walk.” Spencer suggested, grabbing his keys from the rack. “It’s a nice night and it’s not too far away.” 

“Sounds perfect,” Y/N said. She stuck her hand out, signaling for Spencer to take it. He did, even if it nearly caused his heart to burst out of his chest. 

There was that little word again. Perfect. He was perfect. She was perfect. This night was perfect. 

– 

“Coffee beans are basically seeds. They are pits in this cherry-like berry. You know you can actually eat the berries? They’re a little tart, but anyway the only reason we call them beans is because the end result resembles legumes.” Spencer said, continuing to swirl his small stick in his extra large coffee with cinnamon. 

“I did not know that, hmm. That’s interesting, Spencer. I wonder if you could fermement the coffee berries? It would be interesting to say the least,” Y/N conversed. She gripped her iced latte, holding it so tightly it was like she was worried it would escape. 

“Sorry,” Spencer apologized, “I’m not really a good dater. I just. I am so well aware that it’s glaringly obvious this is my first date,” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, totally killed the mood.” Spencer lemented. Dramatically, he put his forehead in his hand. Sitting there, in the silence, Spencer felt a warm hand creep up on his wrist. He looked up, his eyes meeting Y/N’s in the dimly lit coffee shop. 

“Not at all.” Y/N said. She shook her head, a slight smile popping out of the corner of her mouth. “You’re too charming and handsome for your own good. Plus,” she gestures to her latte and the cases and cases of books that surround them, “Coffee and books are quite literally the way to my heart. And, who cares if this is your first date? That’s actually better for me because it means I get you all to myself.” 

Spencer, sputtering and flustered, made himself busy with his free hand. He sipped his coffee, perfectly sweet with a hint of spice from the cinnamon. As he sipped, Spencer’s attention was drawn to their joined hands. It seemed so….perfect. Their hands perfectly linked together with their fingers weaved in between. 

“Coffee and books are the way to my heart too,” Spencer commented, offering a timid smile. It was easier than he thought, but his heart still thumped frantically in his chest, “Would you like to check some out? I figured you’d have a couple recommendations being a librarian and all,” 

“Well,” Y/N started, standing up but still holding Spencer’s hand, “I’m a research librarian, but I do read like 200 books a year so I’m sure I can muster up a recommendation or two,” 

“I read 500,” Spencer said. His eyes were sheepish, but his lips curved up in a playful smile. 

“Really? That’s so impressive?” 

Spencer shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. He wasn’t quite used to people being impressed at his hefty reading load. Most people were either sympathetic or concerned because to most people reading 500 books a year must mean you’re rather lonely. But, Spencer supposed, Y/N wasn’t most people. 

“I-I can recommend some,” Spencer says. He let Y/N take his and lead him to the stacks of books, with the hope of this turning more and more perfect than it already was. 

– 

Spencer, sitting on the couch with Y/N’s body pressed into his, was acutely aware of how fast his heart was beating. He, again, was also acutely aware that it’s the first time someone so stunning has entered his personal space like this. His heart, figuratively his on his sleeve, but Spencer swore that it’s bound to leap out of his chest. Y/N’s head rested on his shoulder and her eyes were fixed on glowing television ahead. Spencer, despite having picked the television program, couldn't give even the most rudimentary of summaries. In fact, Spencer was pretty sure he couldn’t name the main character, even if this is his favorite show. 

“Does your impression of me deteriorate if I tell you that I’ve never watched an episode of Dr. Who?” she asked. Y/N’s voice vibrated against Spencer’s upper arm. He wanted to fold himself into her, to let his thumping heart steady with the smooth sound of her voice. Spencer, unable to find words, somehow found the courage to move his arm behind Y/N’s back, effectively pulling her in closer. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Y/N said, a smirk, unseen, but evident in the playfulness of her voice. 

“Well if you told me you like Star Wars better than Star Trek,” Spencer joked. He silently counted how many beats his heart had made during their exchange. Y/N’s hand, which laid carefully against her lap, moved it to link her fingers in with Spencer’s. It was like a massive dose of adrenaline that flooded his entire system, bringing him, somehow, solace and energy in the single wave. 

“Hmm, well what if I’ve never seen either. Not really a sci-fi person,” 

“Then we’ll just have to go on another date,” Spencer said, surprising himself with his guts, “You know Star Trek is actually not scientifically inaccurate. More improbable, but given the decade in which it was originally conceived in, it’s pretty astounding,” 

“Another date it is then,” Y/N smiled, scooting in closer to Spencer. Suddenly, he’s grateful for the bone-chilling winter. He wore layers of button-down shirts and cardigans, a protective which acts as a protective barrier between their bodies. Spencer could hardly imagine how fast his heart would be beating if there were less clothes (or even no clothes) between them. 

“At a risk of sounding pathetic, Spencer,” Y/N started, the shake in his voice making Spencer realize that he just might be falling in love with her, “I really like you. I really do. You’re the kindest, most gentle man I’ve ever met. You’re just..” 

Y/N stopped, clearly at a loss for words when it comes to him. Spencer’s heart, already on the verge of stopping, realistically may not be able to take more compliments. 

“I envy everyone who has had the privilege to be loved by you" Spencer whispered, terrified to have someone this close, let alone someone as magnetic and perfectly perfect for him. 

But, she just about incinerated his highest expectations when she leaned in close, her head eclipsing the low, yellow light. Her lips were soft and warm. He wanted to melt into the kiss, let himself find peace in the way her hand rests against his elbow, gently coaxing him out of his shell. Spencer felt that familiar ache in his heart build, it’s a combination of adrenaline and serotonin and all those wonderfully potent drugs brains make when they’re happy.

“Perfect” Y/N said. Her lips still brushed against his lips. It was like she didn’t want to break the kiss yet and the very thought of that sends shockwaves down Spencer’s spine. He smiled, deciding that he too doesn’t want the kiss to end. Spencer brought his hands to the back of her head, pulling her in closer than she’s ever been. 

Their knees touched. 

He caressed her face with a single finger, afraid that if he touches her too rough, too fast, too much she’ll disappear into whatever magical place she came from. 

She bit his lip gently. Perhaps she’s the opposite. Maybe she needed to feel him whimper underneath her for her to realize it’s real. Her breath is hot against his skin, drawing him in. She smelled like coffee and vanilla. It was heavenly. It was magical. It was perfect. 

Spencer, brazen, threaded his fingers together behind her head. He drew her in close, desperately chasing the one thing he’s been craving for ages. He had it now. He had it now and he wasn’t going to let it go now. 

“God, you don’t kiss like it’s your first date.” Y/N cursed into Spencer’s lips. Emboldened by her teasing, Spencer pulled her in close, guiding her to sit on his lap. Thrilled, Spencer’s mind was ready to short circuit. He never felt this electric before. It was like he was wonderstruck. His blush burned into his skin and his hands shook as he ran them up and down Y/N’s back. Her lips felt like puddy against his, warm and soft. She groaned into his mouth, just as eager as Spencer was to have someone close to her body. 

In a flash, Spencer felt something soft against his leg. It wasn’t Y/N, who’s attention was squarely on kissing Spencer. It was Junie. 

“Junie!” Spencer shouted. He immediately regretted it. Even Spencer, with one date and one half of a makeout session under his belt, knew that calling another “woman’s” name out while with someone was the worst thing he could do. “Oh, shit. No, not that. It’s not that. It’s Junie. The cat. My cat,” Spencer explained, attempting to save himself. 

Y/N looked to her left and was greeted by the bright green eyes of an all gray cat. Spencer, mouth hanging open and half terrified, realized that Y/N wasn’t weirded out or hurt by the incident. Somehow, she found it rather hilarious. Laughing, Y/N was still perched in Spencer’s lap. She placed her hands against his shoulders, clearly finding humor in his cat interrupting their date. 

“And who might this be?” Y/N asked. She held her hand out, letting Junie sniff her. The gray cat, although old and particular in the people she likes, took an immediate liking to Y/N. 

“June. But she’s ridiculously stubborn and will only answer to Junie-Bug.” Spencer said. He picked June up, handing her to Y/N, who climbed off his lap, “She’s like my best friend.” Spencer admitted. 

“Spencer,” Y/N said. She said his name like an exclamation and immediately, Spencer knew it was a sound he could hear for a very long time, “That is the sweetest thing in the world. I have a cat too. His name is Chester. He’s my best friend too,” 

“I’d love to meet Chester, and maybe Junie-Bug can get a friend too,” Spencer said. He placed June on the couch next to them. She curled up on the couch, already comfortable near Y/N. 

“Well, I’m hoping you’re more than a friend to me,” Y/N teased. She nudged Spencer’s shoulder and kissed his cheek. 

Spencer, finally finding himself his footing, grabbed Y/N’s hand and gently kissed Junie on the forehead. 

“Sorry, Buggy. I think I’m going to have to lock the door for a little bit,” he faux apologized, smiling and winking brazenly at Y/N, who happily let Spencer lead her to his bedroom. 

“Only if she can come in later,” Y/N said. “She’s just too cute to not snuggle,” 

@reidslovely @reidsbookclub @spencerreidat3am @fightingdragonswithreid @hotchandspencearedilfs f@sadgirlml @spencerslibrary @foxy-eva @paperbackprettyboy @reidselle @alexxavicry y @justlivinginadaydream @reidsmilf @mrs-dr-reid @spencerreidsmommy @reidslibrarybook @sleepyspencer @goldentournesol

[lepusrufus]

I'm so easily persuaded to ramble so here you have it: The speech on how Vi is actually very smart.

Ok I wanna preface this by saying that I know this way of thinking probably also stems from the way a lot of people see more masculine women. But it just doesn’t feel like it’s my place to comment on that so I’m keeping this strictly a character analysis of Vi. 

Anyway, let’s get started. 

Right off the bat, I think one thing that does Vi a bit of a disservice when it comes to the way fans see her is the way she’s surrounded by a lot of characters that are what would traditionally be seen as intelligent. Most obvious example, Jinx. She’s very smart and her biggest strength is how inventive she is with the tools at her disposal (heck ,even Viktor comments on it while disabling her bomb). Ekko is pretty much in the same boat as Jinx, only with vastly differing results. Another big example, Caitlyn. She’s basically the Sherlock Holmes of League and has a very investigative mind despite the naivety that her upbringing comes with. Which makes perfect sense for her character. 

But even characters that Vi isn’t often associated with, but we all know that the show is full of parallels and foils so even if the characters themselves don’t even know each other, there’s always connection. You have JAyce and Viktor, who are your typical straight As academy students and inventors. Mel, who’s a political and economical genius. Heimerdinger… well him. You get my point. 

Vi is very different from these characters. 

Her intelligence lies in more… practical (?) skills that she just had to get good at in order to survive. (Side point, we almost never see Vi in a situation where she’s not acting in order to survive or protect the people around her so that’s also something to keep in mind.) She knows her way around people very well and is a natural leader (see the way she knew where to look for information the moment she stepped out of prison, aka to Jericho and Babette, or the way she went to Jayce after the council meeting bc she knew he was the way to get something done about Silco). She has hella street smarts, which I don’t think needs elaborating. 

What she lacks, which seems to be what people are looking at the most for some reason, is the academic education. Which makes perfect sense? However I hope I don’t have to wax poetic about how school isn’t the end all be all of someone’s intelligence. But while I’m at it, I will say that I highly doubt she’s downright illiterate. She and her siblings may not have had the chance to go to school, but I don’t believe Vander didn’t at least teach them basic stuff. 

The second Big Point that I wanna make is that I don’t think she’s nearly as impulsive as everyone seems to think. She acts impulsive in certain situations, but I feel like that’s usually in situations that force her hand in a way. Which is realistic. We all have those moments where we would act in ways that are unusual to who we really are. But either way, moving on to some examples. 

Firstly, to get this out of the way: Vi parkouring off a cliff with a stab wound when she can barely stand by herself. Yup. Dumb decision. I’ll admit, the jokes about it are hella funny. BUT. For all Vi knew she was very close to just bleeding out and dying. And she wanted to lay down and do that in the last place that held some familiarity to her, since the only other place that fit in that category was The Last Drop which… yeah (another proof to this is how she didn’t even try to get help since there’s no way her old home was closer to where she fought Sevika than, say, the brothel. So Vi really was just ready to die there). 

Secondly, her fighting Sevika. Sevika is straight up a big outlier in the way Vi acts because Vi has a strong sense of loyalty and therefore a deep hatred for those she deems traitors. To Vi, Sevika is practically that friend from middle school that turned on you to hang out with the popular kids and then became a bully. You may be a pacifist now but no matter what you’d still drop anything and throw hands if you saw them. But dial it up to like a thousand. 

On the flip side however, you can see Vi being quite strategy oriented. Which, again, natural leader so go figure. 

She planned the robbery to Jayce’s lab and, were it not for the explosion, it might have worked out too. During the act 1 finale you can see her being more than capable of taking lead in and adapting to stressful situations. At the brothel, she gives Caitlyn a fake lead to make sure she’s out of the way but at the same time safe while she went after Sevika. Down in the fissures when Silco went after them, she keeps him monologuing while figuring out what Caitlyn is doing behind her and then turning her back to fighting Silco in order to get away. Again, her going to Jayce because she recognized him as the perfect means to an end (aka taking down Silco by chipping away at the thing that gives him power, Shimmer). 

This is getting a little long and rambly and I kinda suck at rgumenting my points so I’ll wrap it up here but yeah. Vi is incredibly clever and people don’t give her half the credit she deserves for it.

[refiwrites]

Mrs. Cullen

Pairing: Edward Cullen x Fem! Human! Reader

Summary: @twilightlover2007​: One of the Cullen boys, I'm open to whomever visiting their human gf and she's a teacher so the kids are ALL over her when he comes to visit. His reaction to it would make my heart swell! ❤

Word count: 0.9k 

Warning/s: none, just fluff and love all over 

A/N: I absolutely loved this and I hope you do too!

GIF is not mine! Credits to the owner! (can I just say I am in LOVE with this gif?!)

“Okay, now who would like to tell me at least three parts of a plant?” You asked brightly with a smile, leaning on the teacher’s table looking at all the young faces of your students.

Not too long ago you’ve always had the dream of teaching kids to show them the world worked, how you adored them especially the way their eyes lit up when you began talking. Now you’re here, teaching in one of the many classrooms in a primary school in Forks.

“Hmm? No one?” You asked as students began raising their hand up.

“Yes, Elijah?” Stretching your hand out and ushering the boy to stand up to answer.

He shots up, “Uhm the stem, flower...”

You hid a small laugh and nodded, “Correct, go on..”

“And leaf!”

“Correct! That’s amazing Elijah!” You congratulated the kid. You proceeded to ask more questions as the students seemed to want to have a turn of their own in answering, it made your heart melt and a thought of you with kids suddenly flashed in your mind. You simply glanced at the time, and you realized it was nearing dismissal.

“Good job everyone! And that ends our class for today, don’t forget the things you’ll be bringing on Thursday, okay?” You reminded again which you got responses that consisted of ‘Yes miss’ ‘Will do!’ and so on. You reached over and opened the door for them and went back to your place.

Standing up straight, you watched as the students packed their bags ready to head home. But before they do, all of them quickly rushed over to you to give you a hug, well, it looked more like they were hugging your knees, but it doesn’t fail to make you feel happy, you can’t even remember the first time they did that but it filled you greatly with warmth and surprise. They were muttering quick goodbye’s and see you tomorrows.

Though all of them seemed to stop all at once as a knock on the door was heard. You furrowed your eyebrows and you decided to take a glance up by the door as your hands rested upon a student’s shoulders.

The feelings you had now seemed to be amplified by a ton.

Your face lit up as a smile graced your features “Edward...”

“Good afternoon,” His American accent thick as his eyes glance around the kids surrounding you before travelling back to yours “You seem busy.”

You shake your head at him and noticed how his face contorted into different emotions as his mind was overrun by the thoughts of the children around both of you, but one emotion settled across his features: happiness. You turned your head sideways to avoid his loving gaze in order to compose yourself in front of the kids and you were successful, surprisingly.

You devised a plan to go over to him, yet your students didn’t budge. “Miss, who’s that?” One of the kids asked, all the students looking back and forth over you and Edward. You tried to think of an explanation.

“Well… he’s m-“ Before you get to speak, your student blurted one question aloud.

“Why does he look funny?”

You had to stop yourself from bursting out of laughter while Edward looked slightly offended but he shook his head.

“Class,” You started, Edward walked inside the classroom and looked around. The bright lights alone rivaled the paleness of his face. “Please welcome Edward, my significant other.” You announce with the spike of your heartbeat. It was a silly thing; you were just introducing him to a bunch of kids, but it held some kind of a deeper meaning within you.

“That’s a nice name.”

“He’s so pale!”  

“Hello Mr. Edward.”

“Your eyes are cool mister!”

You looked at him as the kids turned their attention to Edward. “Hey guys.” He managed to let out, seemingly overwhelmed by the voices he’s hearing within.

“Time’s running kids, you guys should be out by now, your parents are probably waiting for you all outside.” You reminded with a gentle voice and each of them gave you a hug as they left. As the room was left between Edward and you, he slowly placed his hands on yours and tugged you close. You happily obliged, placing your hands against his lean chest as he stared down at you.

“They love you.” He spoke lowly with a smile once again forming on his face. You tilted your head. “You should’ve heard what they were thinking, it’s amazing honestly.” “And what would that be?” You questioned.

“They’re thinking of how Mrs. (L/N) is such a great teacher; some even aspire to be like you one day.” Edward answers with a hopeful tint lacing his voice. You looked to the side in thought of your students teaching one day, it made your heart swell with pride. Edward looks at you, placing his index finger and thumb under your chin and making you look back up at him.

“You’re going to be an amazing mother someday.” He suddenly blurts out which you froze at. You’ve never really given it much thought but you and Edward getting married and having a family of your own? Doesn’t seem to be that bad, for one it was almost like a dream come true to you if that day ever comes to reality. For now, you were taking your time enjoying what life had to offer.

“Oh, stop it.” You said, wrapping your arms around him tightly as he did the same. Pulling away after a few minutes he still had that smile stuck to his face.

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Cullen.”

[revenge-of-the-shit]

Writing Chinese characters set within Western worlds

If you don’t want to read it on tumblr, go check this out on medium or go follow me on instagram at @annessarose_writes!

Alright. You know what. I’ve seen plenty of stereotypes in fiction (and in social media) that are so incredibly pervasive I’ve seen many Chinese people within the western world internalize it themselves. So here’s a rough guide on writing Chinese characters in an English-speaking Western setting, written by me, a Chinese Canadian woman.

If you’re here to say something racist fuck off. Otherwise, welcome! This is not a comprehensive guide by any means. This is merely a brief overview based on my own experiences. My experience (as someone in North America) will differ from someone living in, say, Europe or South America. I’m not representative of every Chinese person because everyone’s experience is unique. So here were are.

1. Our names

Chinese names are usually written as follows: [family name] [name]. Let’s take a Canadian historical figure as an example: 黃寬先. In Chinese, it’s pronounced “Wong Foon Sien.” On Canadian documents — which are written [First name] [Last name], he’d be called “Foon Sien Wong.” He went by “Foon Sien” for most of his life. That’s his full “first name.” Nobody would call him Foon because that’s just half of his name (unless given permission). It’d be like meeting a stranger called Alex and calling them “Al” right off the bat. Sure, they could go by Al, but you don’t know that.

For those of us living in the Western world, some of us have both a Chinese name and an English name. In these cases, our Chinese name becomes our middle name in English (e.g. a character could be called John Heen-Gwong Lee).

For some people who immigrated to the Western world but were born in China, their legal name would be their Chinese name. Some choose to keep that name. Some choose an English name as their “preferred” name but keep their Chinese name on legal documents. It varies.

2. Parents & Stereotypes

There’s two stereotypes which are so pervasive I see it being used over and over in jokes even within Chinese (and, to a larger extent, asian) communities:

The [abusive] tiger mom and the meek/absent dad

Both parents are unreasonably strict/abusive and they suck

I have yet to see any fiction stories with Chinese parents where they’re depicted as kind/loving/supportive/understanding (if you have recommendations — please do send them my way). Not all Chinese parents are tiger parents. Chinese parents — like all parents — are human. Good god. YES, they’re human! YES, they have flaws! YES, they are influenced by the culture they grew up in!

That isn’t to say there aren’t parents like those tropes. There are. I know this because I grew up in a predominantly Chinese community where I had many a friend’s parent who was like this. Parents who compare their kids to the best kid in class. Parents who force kids into private lessons and competitions that the kid despises because the parents think it’s for the best. Parents who have literally called their kid a disappointment because they didn’t get 100%.

But please, also consider: there’s parents who support their child’s goals and who listen. Not all parents force their kid into the stereotypical trifecta of lawyer/doctor/engineer — I know of a good number who support their child in choosing the path they want. There’s parents who make mistakes and learn and try their best to support their child. So please, for the love of god, if you write a Chinese character, don’t reduce their parents to stereotypes.

3. Language & Learning

When I first read The Son of Neptune by Rick Riordan, I was so excited to see a Chinese Canadian character in Frank Zhang. Finally, there was someone like me. Finally, there was representation in well-known western media.

While I do appreciate that RR added in Frank Zhang, it’s pretty obvious that he didn’t really know how to write a Chinese Canadian character. One of the most glaring examples: in The Son of Neptune, Frank reveals he can’t really read Chinese. In like, the next book (I think — it’s been a while since I read it), Frank is suddenly able to read Chinese because he “learned” it in two week’s time.

Nope. Nuh-uh. Learning Chinese is a pain, let me tell you. There’s thousands of different characters and it is something you need to devote a lot of time to learning (especially if you’re progressed past the best childhood years for learning a language). So if you’re writing about a Chinese character living in the western world, here’s what you need to know:

A character who was born and raised in the western world does not necessarily know how to read/write in Chinese.

If they were raised by their own family, the character would very likely know how to speak their own dialect. They’d be able to understand the language used in movies/TV and they sound like a native speaker, but they may not know how to use language outside of certain contexts (the term for this is heritage speaker).

They probably went to Chinese school. They probably hated it. Chinese school is usually universally hated and does not teach you jack shit other than a hatred for the place and a vague memory of learning how to read the language without actually retaining knowledge of what you learned.

Most of my friends who know how to read/write in Chinese learned from tutors, parents, or were born in China.

There’s two main types of written Chinese: Traditional (used by Cantonese speakers) and Simplified (used by Mandarin speakers).

There are MANY other dialects (which I don’t know much about). The most common ones are Mandarin (usually spoken by people from the mainland), then Cantonese (usually spoken by people from Hong Kong).

4. Fitting into the community

Usually, the story is one of two things: they’re the only Asian kid in the entire school, or they grew up in a predominantly East Asian community. Things to consider for both of these when you’re writing:

Growing up the only Asian kid

They’re “that Asian kid.” They’re different. They walk into a class and feel weird and out of place.

They bring food from home (usually ethnic cuisine) to school. Other classmates stare at it, make fun of it, demand what that strange food is.

“Where are you from?” “Here.” “No, like, where are you really from?”

“Your name is funny.”

People literally never getting the character’s name right.

And that horrible, horrible feeling: wishing that they were white so they could avoid all of this.

Growing up in a predominantly East Asian community

It’s not uncommon for Chinese cuisine to mix with other east Asian cuisines. For special occasions (or just for a casual night out), your character could very well go out to get some sushi, or go for some KBBQ, or get some Vietnamese noodles.

Screaming “AIYAA” at/with their friends unironically if they’re annoyed (I’ve done this a lot with Cantonese friends. Less so with Mandarin friends).

Slipping into Chinese for like, two words, during a mostly-English conversation to talk about food or some other topic that can’t be adequately conveyed in English.

Reading books by white authors and learning about white history and growing up thinking white names, white books, and white history is the norm and standard even though the community is surrounded by East Asian people.

When the character leaves this community, there’s a brief culture shock when they realize how sheltered they’ve been.

Things in common for both of these:

The character has grown up on ethnic cuisine. Yes, Chinese people do eat rice with many of our meals. Yes, boba (bubble) tea is extremely popular. No, rice isn’t the only thing we eat. No, not all Chinese people love boba (though as a Chinese person I admit this sounds sacrilegious to say…)

The character likely grew up watching film/TVthat originates from East Asia. It’s not uncommon to watch Studio Ghibli films. It’s not uncommon to watch Japanese or Korean shows with canto/mando dub (examples: Ultraman, Kamen Rider). If you want to see a classic Chinese film from Hong Kong that’s fucking hilarious, watch Kung Fu Hustle.

The character has felt or been told that they’re “too westernized to be Chinese, but too Chinese to fit into the western world.” They’re torn between the two.

5. General portrayal

It’s quite simple, really. We’re human. We’re regular people. We have regular hobbies like all people do. We’re good at some subjects and bad at others. We have likes and dislikes like all people do. So here’s a list of stereotypes you can avoid.

STEREOTYPES TO AVOID BECAUSE WE’RE REGULAR HUMANS AND WE DON’T FIT INTO A SINGLE COOKIE CUTTER SHAPE, DAMMIT.

The character is a maths whiz and perfect at all things STEM.

The character is a straight-A+ gifted/IB/AP student.

The character is the next coming of Mozart and is amazing at piano/violin.

The character’s free time is spent only studying.

The character is insanely good at martial arts.

The character is either meek and submissive or an explosive, dangerous force.

I’m not going to mention the other stereotypes. You know, those ones. The really obvious ones that make fun of and demonize (sometimes through multiple untruths) how we look and how we live our lives. You should know.

Of course, there are people who fit into one or more of these. That’s not the point. The point is: molding all Chinese characters to these stereotypes (which white media tends to do) is harmful and reductionist. We’re more than stereotypes.

—

6. Conclusion

We need more diversity in portrayal of Chinese characters. Reducing us into one-dimensional caricatures has done nothing but harm us — look at what’s happening now. This guide is by no means comprehensive, but I hope it has helped you by providing a quick overview.

If you want to accurately portray Chinese characters, do your research. Read Chinese fiction. Watch Chinese films/TV. Initiate a conversation with the community. Portray us accurately. Quit turning us into caricatures.

[soulofarat]

eating disorders need to be handled differently. Im going off, sorry in advance.

In high school, i was sat down with the rest of my health class, instructed by our gym teacher. This is where i had my “education” about eating disorders, though i was dealing with one secretly. 

He talked about them as if they were a crime. He told us how to know if someone has an ed (they’ll wear baggy dark clothing, they’ll avoid food), and to tell on them. He told us it’s for women only. We made jokes about it. We had to watch a terribly inaccurate movie portraying eating disorders.

This movie was full of tips on how to hide an ed that i remember 7 years later. He must not have interpreted it that way. 

I learned to be a better liar and i learned that people will hate me and pity me and find me revolting and call me ignorant and force feed me with a tube in a hospital if they ever found out. 

So i kept quiet. 

When i was 16 and my family found out i was purging, they sat me down intervention style and SCREAMED at me. My uncle, my aunt, and my grandmother all sat at a table and yelled at me about my biggest secret. They called me gross, immature, and compared me to my birth mother who struggled with the same thing.

They made me feel some of the most intense shame i’d ever felt. I felt stripped naked.

They took away my coping mechanisms (internet, tumblr account, certain TV shows, scale). They didn’t allow me to heal by choice or leave my coping mechanisms behind on my own because they thought my ed was a silly girl thing that I could quit whenever. But it wasn’t ever that simple.

Without my coping mechanisms, I turned to self harming.

To this day, the memory makes me shudder and reminds me to distrust them. They handled it horribly.

PEOPLE NEED TO STOP HANDLING THIS HORRIBLY. NOW.

The only thing that ended up helping was when i was forced to go to therapy. I was resistant at first. But my therapist was educated on the topic, took me seriously, and helped me handle my ed safely to slowly and comfortably to recover rather than shame me to shreds so i could stop being a nuisance. 

Recovering took YEARS. It was not a simple decision like everyone told me it should be. But even with my current relapse, I know how to be safe about this and how to avoid hurting myself.

Here’s what i wished they told me in high school.

Eating disorders are treatable. You are not too far gone to try to get better.

Someones weight is not an indicator of whether or not they have an eating disorder. Anyone, regardless of size or shape or weight, can be dealing with an ed.

NEVER lower your goal weight.

Eating disorders will manipulate you. They are not funny, they are not cute, they are not just for girls: they can affect anyone and they want to hurt you. Eating disorders are not your friend, even though it will sometimes feel like it. 

Bottom line: at the end of the day, there aren’t many endings to this aside from recovery or death.

Eating disorders can stem from other problems in a person’s life possibly regarding a lack of control, mental health issues, or other personal struggles that aren’t really centered around the way one looks. It is putting one “controllable” thing (your body) into your own hands and making it the center of your life so that the other uncontrollable problems don’t take up as much space in your head.

In other words, an eating disorder is typically a SYMPTOM of something else. Trying to “fix” someone by focusing on the eating disorder alone can just make the person turn to something else to cope (alcohol, drugs, impulsive buying, sex, anything addictive.) I turned to self harming.

Focusing on the ED alone is the equivalent of pulling weeds out, but leaving the roots.

You don’t have to drop your ED all at once! It can be slow. You may have relapses. But you can do it at a comfortable pace. As long as you recognize that you have to try eventually.

Having an eating disorder shouldn’t be such a shameful thing. No wonder people rarely try to get help on their own when it’s framed as a joke or when people can handle it so horribly. 

It needs to stop. 

We need knowledgeable people in schools teaching students these things so we can create more understanding eventual adults and overall, a less stigmatized culture. 

[melonsharks]

ok i cant stop going back and starign at your teacher au and i have to ask if u have any more info or hc for it bc i love it so much (also the way benrey stares at gordon in the first pic for it is so beautiful)

:) Hehe Im so glad somebody asked about this! I have a few more drawings for it in the works but I don't mind talking about it! Ill ramble under the cut, itll be long (sorry in advance!)

Black Mesa Kindergarten itself, for starters, is a sketchy ass place. Like. Its known for somehow producing really successful STEM students for one reason or another and like there are some weird going-ons.

Its an incomprehensible mess of a school with a disembodied automated voice that speaks over the PA, a principal who seems to disappear and reappear at will, the student counselor who has a giant dog, a janitor who might be an alien, a chemistry teacher for some reason who wont stop setting shit on fire, a pe class taught by an old guy with funny lookin' arms, and a totally normal guy whos just trying to get through the day so he can go home to his 8 year old son and eat pizza or something.

Gordon was a student there back in the day... He managed to get a good gig as a teacher :] He's generally very good with kids, at guiding them and like he shows plenty of patience (for the kids at least) BUT he curses SO much. Like WAY too much for someone who spends so much time around 5 year olds. SO, he has a system. There is a CURSE JAR in his classroom. Every time he curses he puts a quarter in there and every quarter funds an end of the semester pizza party for the kids. He ends up using really elaborate fake curses like "FUUUUUngal infections" a lot.

They have a class lizard. Its name is Peeper. The kids accidentally call it Peepee so much. Gordon keeps getting in trouble for it. He's trying so hard.

Tommy is the school counselor and he is so belovED by the school forreal. Sunkist is his lovely ESA / therapy dog and she wears a vest and everybody loves her and its wonderful. He likes helping the kids work through problems and he is good at providing comfort and getting the kids to talk in the first place... Sunkist really helps though, idk just having her around is Enough sometimes. Perfect Dog Thingzzz.

Coomer is the gym teacher and he is so STRONG and fun and cool !!! He is really weird, like SO weird, but he can benchpress the kids and they think its so cool, and his presence is comforting and he likes to be helpful and makes PE fun. He was around when GORDON was going to school there as a babie, so Gordon has the fondest memories of him and sees him as like. A father figure for sure.

Bubby is. Um. Ok, nobody knows why he is there or how he got hired. He's a science teacher, Gordon thinks? He teaches chemistry, not because he was HIRED to, just because he wants to. Lots of things explode. Lots of things catch fire. The kids have no complaints, its always concentrated on him, Gordon has to really keep an eye on him for the most part HEJDHSJ

And then there is Benrey... Benrey is a janitor. I didnt make them a security guard specifically so Forzen could be one, which idK is maybe silly, but Benrey probably USED to be a security guard w Forzen and now. Isn't. Its no big deal. They got this huuuge crush on Gordon (obviously) and will typically use any excuse to irritate him and be around him, even if it means interrupting his classes to empty out already empty trash buckets in the classroom...

They're not like amazing with kids (they r awkward as hell around them), but the kids think they are so weird and cool. And...mm. There is something deeply wrong with them. They can't quite put their fingers on it... Its probably no big deal.

For other less thought out things, Forzen is an aforementioned security guard, Darnold works in the cafeteria, and G-man is the principal. They have a rival school, Aperture Kindergarten. Joshua USED to go here, but he's 8 presently so he is just in a regular school now. He is missed everyday... The science team is his extended family too :] He loves and misses them all dearly.

[demonslayedher]

In Kimetsu Gakuen, is there any basis as to why each Hashira teaches their respective class? Like why Giyu is the PE teacher, while Rengoku is the history teacher, and Sanemi is the math teacher.

Rather than linking their respective subjects to skills or passions they show in the series, I think some of it may had been chosen based on what feels applicable, or in the reverse, a role needed to be filled and someone was chosen. Honestly I need to go to bed soon so instead of looking up every Kimetsu Gakuen role, let's see how far my brain cells dedicated to remembering KnY trivia takes me~~ (ﾉ´ω`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ (Throw things at me if I'm wrong. Soft things, please.)

Rengoku-san: A good! History! Teacher!! Takes!! PASSION!!!!!! And he's a very successful teacher because he's so passionate about!! History!!! Glorious!! Battles! Worth! Reenacting! In canon, when he info dumps at Tanjiro about the origins of different Breaths, this makes me think he does take a keen interest in the Demon Slayer's proud history. With how well the Rengoku-clan retains their ancestors' teachings and writings (Rengoku-san has studied the sword manuals, but does not seem to have read the diary Shinjuro was always mulling over), I think it may have been instilled in him from a young age.

Giyuu: He's not necessarily more physically fit or a better trainer than other Pillar characters, I think this is just playing on a subtle stereotype that gym teachers can be overly harsh and aren't always liked because of that. (Very wide generalization, I don't feel it's that strong of a stereotype.)

Sanemi: Besides there being no reason to think he wouldn't be good at math, I think this stems more from the school setting conflict it creates between him and Genya. Without the tension of Genya's life on the line and Sanemi belittling him to try to make him quit the Corp, you can get the same gut-wrenching tension from an impatient mathy parents or older sibling doing their best to help a kid with math anxiety. It often just makes everyone feel horrible.

Kanae as the biology teacher: The chemistry teacher role was taken by Iguro because he looks good in a lab coat. Kanae's parents were pharmacists so she's got the health-oriented science background. Plus, biology includes botany. Do not know where the use of magic talismans came from, but I am all for it. Shinobu as a student: I keep forgetting how young she is. Let her be a teacher. Let her try to be hiding her age all the time and letting people assume she's older.

Mitsuri: Again, for age reasons, she gets to be a college student. It's funny that in this AU she's Tengen's protege instead of Rengoku's. Tengen: Art? Not music? Okay, sure, fine, Kyogai took that role and I am totally fine with this because I love Kyogai. Tengen works well with something self-expressive. I find his hoodie look hilarious. Himejima: Home room teacher, and... uh... what he anything else??? Anyway, yes, put him in a position to be a primary caretaker for a big group of needy children. Tokito Twins: Shogi champs. Yes. Excellent. Geniuses. Let them be geniuses as something war-inspired. Rock Band Brother Sister Duo Gyutaro & Daki: The modern music scene is full of unsightly stuff they'd have encountered in their upbringing, which makes people in that world seem a little scary if you're looking in from the outside, but there's still a glamorous side to it that people admire Kamado family: carefully tending the natural ingredients, tending the fire, making sure to warm the community with a daily necessity. BREAD. Go ahead, Haganezuka, give him a bread-themed sword. And Nezuko's French Bread spin on the classic shoujo-heroine-who-slept-in-and-goes-to-school-with-bread-in-her-mouth trope? Yes, excellent, love it, you keep it up, girl.

Inosuke, raised by boars, old lady foster mother who pretends everything is fine. Inosuke needs these good calm old-people influences in his life. Really sad that Kotoha and Tanjuro are still dead in an otherwise happy AU. Glad that Hisa seems to enjoy having him around despite all the media attention. It's fun to see so much of Inosuke's wild expressions instead of having them be covered by the boar head.

Zenitsu: I think this role was written for him purely for the sake of writing jokes at his expense. I haven't been following the new/extra Kimetsu Gakuen content because I don't think most of the jokes about him being his worst are funny, but I do find his failures when he's actually trying to do his job quite hilarious. He's like the straight man in a circus. A circus of caffeinated monkeys.

Girls: Flower arranging. Are they all in flower arranging? At least Kanao is. I like the illustration of her arranging a fall display for the harvest moon, but that illustration came out long after she appeared in the Kimetsu Gakuen AU. This therefore does not answer Anon's original question whatsoever. I've taken Anon's initial question and slapped my fingers across the keyboard to run away with it. /I/ am the caffeinated monkey around here.

Ozaki-san plays spots, doesn't she? Good for her. A good healthy hobby for a good alive background character. Good for you, Ozaki. May you never ever ever need to touch a sword in this happy as ever AU. Murata, I'm sorry you're not popular. That must feel just as bad in a school setting as being only okay with a sword must feel in a life-or-death setting. Susa Maru-chan, focus your energy on spots. That is a constructive use of your bent up energy. I'll bet she'd be gotten an ADHD diagnosis when she was little. Yahaba and tofu, right? Ok. I like tofu. Point the way, Yahaba, I shall try your family's tofu. To-fu-to-fu-to-fu-to-fu--IS TOFU GONNA BE ON MY NERD TEST!!!??? OH MY GOODNESS, IT REALLY MIGHT, SUDDENLY I MUST KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YUDOFU AND YUBA, time to make like the walls of an art room and explode my way outta here

[aeldynnlore-definitivejournal]

Is it only fantasy? Is it only fiction?

The most outrageous claim in the world of literature is that the stories we authors write are nothing but fiction; that they’re only tales derived from figments of our imaginations. I actually lost merit in assignments I’d written for my degree in English Literature because I dared to look upon the characters I was reading about as real people. In one particular assignment I mentioned an occurrence that I believed revealed the ‘truth’ about a character. I then received criticism for using that word, truth. My tutor told me I shouldn’t be thinking of them as real people, because they’re not real; they’re fictional.

Really? I thought. In every literature course I have studied, one particular point has been reiterated, and that is that the thoughts and experiences of the author are projected into their writing. In literature courses students are expected to analyse the set novels or short stories in order to answer the assignment questions, and it has always been my understanding that fiction isn’t doing its job if readers aren't immersed in the world or universe they are reading about (bearing in mind everyone has their own tastes). We are always tasked with making sense of what the author is trying to say in their writing; what emotions are they trying to convey? What truths are they trying to represent? It doesn’t matter what genre we're talking about; there is always a need to connect with the world to express what otherwise cannot be expressed. Henry James even made the statement that fiction is an author’s “personal impression of life” (in reference to his critical essay on The Art of Fiction, which, ironically, was a text I actually studied in that degree).

Alright, so the biggest gripe about this is the belief that it’s only fiction because it apparently isn’t real. Existence is a funny thing to talk about because everyone has a different idea on what’s real and what isn’t. Maybe fiction is no more than words in a book, or maybe it’s something else entirely. How many literary memes are there on social media that express the notion that books are effectively portals to other worlds or places which give us the chance to experience life outside of one’s own ordinary existence? What is the point in fiction of any kind if we feel nothing for the characters and stories we’re engaging with? What is the point if we don’t actually think of them as real? What is the point in studying literature, analysing not just authorial techniques but character motivations and ambitions, if you’re just going to sit back and criticise it all by saying “it’s just words on a page; none of these people are real”? Whether they are actually standing right in front of us in the flesh or not doesn’t matter. Look up any title with a significant following and you’ll find fans constantly talking about what the characters are doing, what has happened to them, what might happen to them, and you’ll even find some people pairing characters up who they think have relationship potential (ie shipping). Say “it’s not real, it’s only fiction” makes you a killjoy who doesn't understand creativity, and it sounds even worse coming form a tutor teaching literature.

It’s hypocrisy to study and teach literature if one's true thoughts are that it's "just fiction". The author is real; their experiences, beliefs and emotions are real; their imagination is real; and both characters and the worlds they inhabit are brought to life from those things. All characters, whether human or fantastical in some way, have their own agendas and emotional conflicts that stem from our real experiences, perceptions or speculations on life and the universe at large. So irrespective of how you view fiction, the reality we know always plays a vital role in its construction and the effect it has on readers, who identify with the experiences of those they are reading about. Don't ever tell me it's just fiction.

[ascalonianpicnic]

so the twisted marionette is back and it seems like a good time for this~ @mystery-salad requested I do an essay on Scarlet and discrimination in STEM so~

Warning: discussions of sexism, racism, and ableism. If I got anything wrong (in terms of real world issues) or was disrespectful in any way about certain subjects please let me know

Hey, let's talk about Scarlet Briar. 

More specifically, I wanna talk about Ceara, and how she became Scarlet Briar. Because I'm a gay mathematician and former computer science major, and I think Scarlet is cool.

So let's start here. STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) is a heavily male dominated set of fields and career paths. A few decades back in the real world, there was this deep set societal belief, at least in western society, that cis women were just "worse" at STEM related things like math and chemistry. It's not as visible of an issue now, but, like I said, STEM fields are still really male dominated, and that's because STEM fields still have a massive issue with sexism. Women have full on left the field due to the sexism they faced in workplaces in just the last decade. Trans women in STEM share really interesting and important personal accounts about how before transitioning, they were treated with respect, offered high level jobs, and entrusted with loads of responsibility, and how post transition, despite having even more experience, are offered significantly lower level jobs, worse pay, and are all around treated like they know less. STEM has a sexism problem. 

So, why is this important to Scarlet? Well, her backstory and her life before Omadd's Machine actually tie in to this real world issue in a really fascinating way. It's about Respect. And Scarlet's story is about how she was denied respect over and over, because she was a sylvari, because she was a woman, and because she was neurodivergent. Let's talk about Ceara. 

Ceara was a sylvari secondborn, and an engineer from the start. She emerged from the Pale Tree when her race was still brand new to the world and largely unknown. She spent 8 years of her life studying all the Grove had to offer her about mechanics and nature and the universe. She was born curious and as such, was determined to learn everything and anything she could get her hands on. After her time in the Grove, Ceara left, off to find new teachers and extend her knowledge further. After the Grove cane Beigarth, a famed norn smith. He gladly took Ceara under his wing, seeing her genius and potential. For a year, she trained under him, his best student. Then, much to his dismay, she left, feeling she had learned all he could offer about what she wanted to know. She moved south, going to study under iron legion gladium and demolitionist Asagai. Asagai was an old charr, and it took some convincing on Ceara's end, but she eventually took the sylvari in and taught her about gunsmithing and artillery. And after two years, Ceara moved on again, this time heading for Rata Sum and its colleges. 

The asura of Rata Sum did Not like Ceara. She had to fight to be allowed to study at the colleges. She won in the end, being admitted into the college of Dynamics. Within a year, she finished the course work, and, feeling like she was finally getting somewhere, she applied again, this time getting admitted to Statics. Two years and two colleges down, at the top of her class both times, Scarlet still wanted more. The Arcane council was curious now if she could keep this streak up, so they let her enter Synergetics. This was what she had been looking for, and she got deep into her studies, taking her time. The Arcane council was unimpressed with her work at best. While not driven from the colleges, she found herself being walked off and looked down on more and more, so she sought other sources. These other sources, both of knowledge and support, came from the inquest, and it wasn't long before she fell in deep. It didn't last, however. When the krewe she was working with ran into trouble, she was abandoned as a scapegoat, and thrown out of the asuran colleges. She wandered on her own for a while, taking the time to study alchemy with the michotl hylek, but mostly keeping to herself. Until Omadd found her, pulled her back into his personal research, and, with her help, built Omadd's machine. Once it was finished, Ceara walked in, and Scarlet walked out. 

Sexism in STEM means that people perceived as female are often perceived as knowing or understanding less than they actually do. It's because of this that you'll find young cis male students in STEM classes trying to correct or speak over their female presenting professors. It's why you'll find men at science conferences telling the women presenting for certain topics that they don't seem to understand the topic they're covering or grasp the basics that well, and then recommending or referencing books and research papers written by these women. It means that women will often be overlooked for internships, research positions, and grants. And that is the sort of thing Scarlet faced as a young woman trying to learn everything she could. She had to work for the apprenticeships she could get, and with Beigarth, despite how highly he thought of her, she had to work harder to prove she was ready for more each step of the way. Finding anyone to teach her at all among the charr was a struggle, until an older woman took her in. And no one in Rata Sum took her seriously. 

There was more than just the fact that Scarlet was a woman at play with Rata Sum though. As stated, STEM has a bad sexism problem. But that's not all. STEM isn't just mostly men, but also mostly white men, and as such, the fields have a bit of a racism problem as well. Personally, I can only speak so much to this as I myself am white, have never faced racism, and never will face racism. I do know that the intelligence, skill, and effort of people of color goes largely unacknowledged. They will be denied the same opportunities and respect that their white peers receive, and their work and contributions will be ignored, exploited, and stolen. 

Racism in Tyria isn't the same as it is in the real world, though it is still present there, and prevalent. And it is something Scarlet has to face and struggle with repeatedly as a sylvari. The sylvari are young and new to Tyria. Because of this, the other prominent groups all tend to think of sylvari as innocent, ignorant, and overly naive. The asura are especially bad about this. They already think of themselves as the smartest of Tyria's inhabitants, above everyone else. And when they first encounter the sylvari, the asura refuse to believe this new group could even be sentient. So, when 11 year old Ceara shows up at the colleges, the Arcane Council and the asura in general doubt she could possibly understand asuran studies. She's a sylvari, after all, and just a girl on top of that. There's surely no way she could keep up. 

So when this young sylvari girl finishes at the top of her class in just a year, not once but twice, the Arcane council is intrigued. They don't respect her. They don't hold her work in high esteem. But they do want to know if this is some sort of fluke or if she can do it again. So she's admitted into the third and final college, and when she gets caught up in her studies, genuinely interested and invested in what she's learning and wanting to take her time to take it all in, the Council is disappointed. Never mind that Scarlet has already done what no other non-asura has. She took too long doing what she loved, learning, so the Council dismisses her, and dismisses her hard work. Her theories are looked down upon and ignored, and she is left with only support from Omadd, who can use her and her theories for his own gain, and the inquest. Omadd and the inquest make her feel valued and respected. The inquest let's her try anything she wants, it lets her really explore the fields of study she's most drawn to. The inquest makes sure to profit off her hard work and, when it comes down to it, the inquest leaves her to take the fall for everything. It's easy, after all, to pin the blame on someone already so looked down on by the society she's in. Scarlet is kicked out of the colleges and the city. She loses her access to information, her belongings, and even her own research and findings. All her hard work, taken from her because the inquest was more than glad to use a sylvari. 

And then of course, there's Omadd. He was glad to have Scarlet as a lab assistant, and endlessly fascinated by and supportive of her work. So once she's gone from Rata Sum, he leaves too, taking her research and starting on his own personal project. He gets stuck, he seeks Scarlet out, and he convinces her to help him again. Once Scarlet is back on board, the project goes smoothly and the two construct Omadd's Machine. Omadd's. Despite being built off Scarlet's theories and research, despite her being integral to the construction of this machine, it's Omadd's and it carries his name. Funny how that happens, isn't it? And once the machine is up and running, he thinks Scarlet should test it first. Who knows what could happen in there, better to leave it up to the assistant to try it out, and frame it as her getting the honor of the first try. As we all know, it goes poorly. Scarlet learns so much more, all the knowledge she had been seeking for over a decade, but in return, the seeds of Mordremoth are planted in her mind and slowly take over, destroying her. 

Now Scarlet, who has been used and devalued and disrespected and infantilized every step of the way, her whole life, is going to start tearing down the things that held her back for so long. She just needs a plan, and with the help of a certain sleeping dragon, one begins to form. 

There's something I glossed over earlier that is so important to note, and that's how Scarlet was treated in the Grove. Now, it's been stated explicitly by Scott McGough, a narrative designer for the fame, that Scarlet emerged with lacking empathy. Low empathy doesn't make Scarlet, or anyone, a bad person. It's sometimes a symptom of autism, as well as some personality disorders, and it does affect how Scarlet is treated. As an autistic person myself, Scarlet very much reads as autistic to me, between low empathy, a one track mind, and an intense special interest in the universe and its mechanics. She has a hard time connecting with others, is easily bored by subjects that don't relate back to her special interest, can focus intently on and get caught up in her work, and doesn't really get social graces or expectations. Regardless of any diagnosis she would have if she existed in our world, Scarlet is treated differently due to her low empathy, a trait she cannot help about herself. 

From the moment she emerges in the Grove, she is treated differently. She is talked down to. Her desire to take in her first sights and how it overwhelms her is dismissed as overconfidence and rudeness. Her own brother, barely older than her, talks like he knows so much more than her. Scarlet is an outsider among her own people. How does it feel to have low empathy among a race connected to each other deeply through empathy? Probably not great. Her studies in the Grove are limited, she is treated as rude and prideful for wanting to be independent and needing space. Rather than being accommodated, rather than being understood, Scarlet is infantilized, dismissed, and disregarded. She isn't neurotypical. She was born different. She's punished for it. 

When she emerges from Omadd's Machine, made from her own hard work and creativity, Scarlet Briar is a young woman who has frequently been overlooked and rarely understood. All these thoughts and ideas, all this passion, and the only people who have ever even seemed to understand her have used and betrayed her so thoroughly. Scarlet Briar has always had to look out for and take care of herself, as a woman, as a sylvari, as someone who is neurodivergent and is in a field that doesn't respect a single aspect of her identity. The world won't accommodate her and the world won't take her seriously. So why shouldn't she show the world what she can do? Why not force everyone to recognize her for who she is? Why not give in just a little to that voice that has been calling to her in her nightmares since she left the machine? After all, it promises power and recognition and a sense of belonging.