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wosowrites · 1 year ago

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Against All Odds (Jessie Fleming x Reader)

warnings: none

prompt: in which reader is a super buff boxer but gets all soft around Jessie, making Jessie’s teammates tease her.

a/n: for @woso-scotland

Growing up with 5 older brothers meant one thing. Chaos. The only time you all got along was when you were watching boxing on the TV. However, when you were 11, the middle child, Jacob, died. You had never heard the house so quiet, it haunted you to this day. He had only been 15.

But, 11 year old you wanted to make your family feel better, she wanted to give her family back the five boxers for children they had before the accident.

That’s why when you told your father you wanted to take up boxing, he didn’t say no. Your dad was your biggest fan. He came to every game, gave you tips until you were too good for them, and supported you through everything including your coming out. You were the only person in the family that had continued boxing, your brothers turning into architects, police officers and family men while you stayed nose deep in the world of boxing.

By the time you were 20, you were incredibly well known in the boxing world, and at the same time, a certain 20 year old was growing a name for herself too. Only in the football industry. However you would only meet Jessie Fleming years later at a gym…

You were ripped, to say the least. But not the kind of ripped that would go noticed to everyone. You wore hoodies and sweatpants and it made your build discreet, but the second you were in a sports bra and shorts it was undeniable you could take anybody in a fight.

Jessie met you at the supermarket in London. It was the middle of COVID and your boxing season has been cut short. You were wearing light blue Columbia sweatpants and a matching crewneck with a black mask. Your sneakers were white, but just barely as you only left your house for essentials.

You had always lived in LA which made the sudden move to London, England shocked to your family. But you knew you needed to get away from the world during this virus thing.

You turned the corner, holding a basket in your hand which was filled with vegetables, milk, fruit and some protein bars. As you did, you felt a cart come crashing into your legs and sending you flying backwards, landing on the ground.

"Oh my god! I’m so sorry," the young woman squealed, quickly leaving her spot behind the cart and rushing to your side. "It’s okay, i’m fine," you laughed, rubbing you knees and standing up. "I’m- Im so sorry I was just lost in my own mind and I didn’t see you," she apologized again. "What are you, Canadian? Enough apologies. I’m okay," you teased. "How did you know?" she asked, helping you place your own groceries back into your basket. "Know what?" you questioned, only realizing now how beautiful the girl in front of you was, or at least what you could see of her was. "That i’m canadian?" she said.

"Oh. I didnt. I was just kidding, but that makes sense now, and the accent," you laughed. "Okay American," she clapped back, rolling her eyes teasingly. "I feel like i’ve seen you somewhere," you said to her, narrowing your eyes. "Uh- no. Probably not. I’m your average girl," she said.

"So am I," you said.

The next week, you saw her again. This time, you had just come from the gym so you had on shorts and a tank top, showing off your features. Jessie was there too. "Hey!" she said to you as you met her in. the dairy alley. "Hi. How are you?" you asked her. "I’m good. And you’re jacked," she said, not so discreetly passing her eyes over your body. Usually, someone staring at you like that would make you self conscious, but the way Jessie did it made you feel good.

"Uh, yeah," you laughed. "Oh my god. When I left here last week I thought i recognized you too. That’s because you… box, right? On TV! A few of my teammates have a crush on you. They hate boxing but they love watching you," she laughed. "Oh really now? Well I don’t really care what they think but I care what you do. Because I recognize you too. Jessie Fleming, olympic athlete, two times world cup attender, and Chelsea player," you said, listing her honours.

"Stalker," she accused. "Yeah," you smiled. "Okay well how about I get to know you through another mechanism than google," you suggested. "You mean a date?" she asked, clearly blushing. "I do,"

But then the whole world went into lockdown again and your dates were more like king calls till midnight and face time dates.

Everything worked out though, because on this day of April 14th 2023, you were dating and more in love than ever.

Jessie’s Canadian teammates found out first. You had travelled to Ottawa with her for the celebration tour of winning the Olympics. Jessie had a video of you screaming your guts out by yourself in your apparement when they won the games. You were yelling, crying, and got a noise complaint the next day. But you didn’t care. All you wanted to do with your life was support your girlfriend, and that’s all she wanted to do with hers.

So, that’s how you found yourself front row in tiny little place TD stadium, sitting on a chair that was a little tight on your quads. Jessie scored a penalty, mimicking the one she did at the Olympics and you yelled for that too. You were probably the only American that loved the Canadian team more than anything.

After the game, the team walked around clapping to the fans and when Jessie got to you she stopped and hugged you over the barrier. "Come down, the security here is light," she said to you. So you climbed over the railing and hopped onto the turf. "Janine!" Jessie called, ushering over a blonde who had been talking to a man who looked like her brother. Janine jogged over and looked at you with wide eyes. You were pretty menacing to people who didn’t know you. "This is… y/n, my girlfriend," Jessie said. "You’re- your what?!! How long have you been together?" Janine asked. "Um, well we’ve been taking it slow a year but we made it official like six months ago," Jessie said. "Six. Months?!" Janine whisper yelled. "Hi, I’m y/n," you said, sticking your hand out.

Janine had clearly forgotten you were there as her her snapped towards you in confusion. "Oh, sorry. Hi, I’m Janine Beckie," she said. "Y/n Y/l/n," you smiled, shaking it. "Like the boxer?" she asked. "Uh, yeah," you laughed.

The introductions were then made in the Canada locker room which was even scarier as what felt like hundreds of pairs of eyes were on you.

"Okay. So I don’t do this… it’s not my thing but I thought after keeping our… relationship… secret for months you guys deserved to know. This is my girlfriend, y/n. And yeah she’s the boxer," Jessie said.

You blushed furiously and smiled at the girls who started asking questions all at once. "How did you meet?"

"She hit me." you said. "Okay woah! You need to add context there," Jessie laughed. "She hit me with her shopping cart," you added.

"Okay and what are your intentions. Because this is Baby Canada right here and she can’t play with a broke heart," Chappy said, summoning her motherly side. "My intentions are to never let her go a day without feeling loved and supported. My intentions are to… watch her play with a smile on my face and make sure she knows that she is the most wonderful person I have ever met. My intentions are to go broke because I buy all of her jerseys," you said, ranting a little bit.

"Okay softie," Stephanie said, winking over at Jessie and giving her a thumbs up. "Sorry to do this y/n but the post game talk is just for players. Gotta kick you out," Bev said, heading towards the door. "Oh right. Okay well it was nice meeting you all," you said. You turned to Jessie and gave her a quick kiss on the lips which she responded by placing her hand against your abs and kissing back before you left the room.

The second you closed the door chatter erupted in the room. "Okay Fleming I see your type now," Vanessa teased.

Teasing and more teasing echoed in the room, Even Bev chipped in.

But eventually calm settled over TD place and Bev started the post game talk.

The Chelsea girls found out about Jessie’s relationship at the start of the season… by accident.

You had called her after practice to let her know that your car had broken down on the side of this little street in the middle of suburb London and you were lost. She answered your call in the changing room.

"Hey Jess, can you come get me? My car broke down and the car repair people came and got it but they couldn’t give me a ride. I’m literally standing in this random street that looks like it’s in the middle of a forest," you groaned down the phone. "What? Are you okay?" she asked. "Yeah. Im fine, just… it’s gonna rain soon Jess. I was coming home from visiting a friend and-"

"Babe, I’ll be there as soon as possible. Send me your location," Jessie said and then hung up.

"Babe?" Magda asked, the whole room silent. "Yeah. I have a girlfriend by the way and her car broke down so I gotta go get her," Jessie said, quickly putting on a matching adidas hoodie and shorts and stuffing her belongings into her gym bag. "Jessie! You’re giving four people a ride home. It’s your carpool day. Which means…" Niahm started saying.

"You are not coming with me." Jessie said sternly.

"Road trip!" Niahm, Lauren, Sam, Zecira and Emily said at once. "Wait. We want to come too, meet the girl," Pernille said, pointing between her and Magda.

"Please no," Jessie groaned. "Wait, who doesn’t want to come," she asked.

No one raised their hand.

"Everyone get in a car and follow mine," the Canadian exhaled.

Turns out you were thirty full minutes away, but that didn’t discourage anyone within the four cars trailing behind Jessie’s honda.

There was music blasting in every vehicle and when rain started pouring, Jessie knew you would be in a bad mood.

"Someone grab my phone and text y/n telling her i’m almost there," Jessie said, fumbling with her device and tossing it to Emily in the backseat.

Jessie saw you the second she turned the curve in the road. You had your hood up, your arms crossed and you looked ready to kill. She knew that you were just pissed off and would never hurt a soul, but to the other girls, you seemed positively menacing.

Jessie jumped out of her car and ran towards you, hugging you tightly. "I’m so sorry, everyone wanted to come and-"

That’s when you saw the four other cars behind your girlfriends, but you didn’t care, you just kept hugging her and let the tears of frustration mix with the raindrops on your face. "It’s okay baby, they were bound to meet me one day," you said, brushing her now wet curls out of her face.

You had excepted everyone to stay in their cars due to the insane amount of rain, but before you knew it, the entire Chelsea Women’s roster was in front of you in the street. Magda and Pernille hugged you gently, giving each other a wide eyed look as they both felt your muscle mass. "Holy shit. You’re the boxer. I watch you on TV like all the time," Guro said, eyes wide.

"Well so do I- I watch you, I mean. Not myself. I watch all of you guys," you laughed.

"Your Guro’s celebrity crush is what she’s saying," Jessie teased. "Well not anymore!" The Norwegian laughed.

You spent dozens of minute talking in the rain, the cold downpour not seeming so bad when you had Jessie’s hand in yours.

Eventually, you got into the front seat and banished Sam to Magda and Pernilles car to make room for you.

You talked to the girls in the car and answered questions that the Canadian team had already asked. But you didn’t mind because those questions just meant you were lucky enough to have Jessie Fleming sitting beside you.

"She gets super focused when she drives," Emily said. "I know, I think it’s because she’s a bad driver," you teased. "I’m not! It’s just the whole reverse thing is confusing. The cars go the opposite way then they do in Canada," she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

You kept on looking at her, your eyes full of love. Jessie knew you were staring, but she just let the blush creep onto her cheeks and gave you a quick smile, returning the lovey dovey eyes.

Zecira snapped a picture from the backseat. The forest was clear through the windshield, and so were the droplets of rain. You could see Jessie’s blushing grin but not who it was directed too. She posted it to her story and closed her phone, enjoying the sound of the rain… and the one of Emily and Niahms arguing.

#woso fic #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso #jessie fleming #chelsea fcw #niahm charles #canwnt

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thunderfrommyheart · 9 months ago

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breaking down the misinformation in @afronerdism post about me.

Debunked by Stuart Semple himself.

I’ve taken the time to do this because nobody wants mis-information bouncing around the internet.

The key thing to know - in the artworld rich people have access to processes and companies that most artists don’t. That’s how they get to create giant beans which cost $20million. At the top the rich get richer, and at the bottom artists struggle to make their mark with what they’ve got.

Vantablack is an example of a group of rich, entitled people getting together to pat themselves on the back, whilst the rest of the world watched horrified at the tone-deafness of the whole thing.

it's also worth noting whilst OP is clearly educated and understands politics they are not in any way an expert in the artworld, art discourse. I however have been in the artworld for 25 years, have written for the guardian, art of england and vogue. I have presented art programs for the BBC and have a properly published book on art history - it's out in June called 'Make Art or Die Trying'. I have studied art and art history and spoken at Oxford University, The ICA, Denver Art Msueum, Dublin Art Museum and at Frieze. I have lectured at the Royal College of Art in London. I have curated over 20 contemporary art exhibitions internationally, I have directed two galleries. I am by definition an expert.

MY BREAKDOWN: OP is @afronerdism - I've gone below them point by point

A: What Vantablack is not: a pigment. A paint. Vantablack is not something that you were supposed to use to paint with.

SS: CORRECT - However nor is glass, chrome, powder coating, sandblasting, booze casting, tar, concrete or steel yet they are used by artists everyday.

Whether the material/process is a paint or pigment or not doesn’t matter.

A: Who creates and distributes Vantablack: an engineering company named Surrey NanoSystems.

SS: True. And many artists work with engineering companies every day, notable examples are Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst. Lots of artists collaborate with industry to get their work made, that is what fabrication is. You go to Surrey NanoSystems - not to buy paint but for them to coat your work in Vantablack.

A: Who does not do those things: an art house. A distribution company. Any kind of company that creates and distributes pigments on a massive, artistic scale.

SS: Which is totally true and fine. However they do coat things in Vantablack for a series of clients in many different industries including fashion designers, jewelers, brands, car companies, and watch companies. They will coat anything for anyone who has the money unless they are an artist. They only accept work from Anish Kapoor as he has an exclusive license with them for art.

A: Who was Vantablack made for: Vanta Black was made by aerospace engineers for aerospace engineers, looking for something to coat the insides of massive NASA telescopes.

SS: Initially, but quickly was used by a lot of other industries including architects, fashion designers, bands, brands, car companies and even a deodorant.

They are able to make it in quantities large enough to coat whole buildings as we saw when architect Asif Khan used it to coat a whole pavilion during the Pyeongchang Winter Olympic Games.

(If had told Surrey nanoSytems he was an artist - not an architect, this would never have happened)

A: Who it was not made for: artists.

SS: Except the one with the license. (Anish Kapoor)

———————————-——————————————

A: Hopefully already just by understanding what Vantablack is, what it was made for, and who it’s made by you and other people are beginning to see what the problem is with Stuart simples narrative around Vanta black.

SS: It’s Semple not simple.

SS: The narrative was not created by Semple as for a few months before he shared his pink the world media was criticizing Kapoor for his Monopoly with major articles in the Guardian, Daily Mail, and BBC news. Each featured reactions from a broad spectrum of artists who spoke about the unnecessary license and the elitism in the artworld.

A: But you may be wondering if Vanta black is a highly toxic unstable substance made out of carbon nano tubes by aerospace engineers for aerospace engineers, working in space, then how did we get here? well, Vanta, black 2.0, if you will was created in such a way that it could be sprayed onto substances in a certain way meaning that theoretically it could be used artistically.

SS: Yes VBX2 can be sprayed, and Surrey Nanosystems have training days where they teach in-house teams how to do that. The VBX2, however, arrived quite late in the story and Kapoor’s rights started with the first version.

A: Surround nanosystems held an exhibition where they displayed Vanta black and when artist saw this, they were inundated with calls from artist, wanting to use it in their work.

SS:

Surrey nano systems (not surround)

They actually debut it at an airshow in England, it was all over the world media, many artists saw it. They then went on a massive PR mission and the material was seen on CNN etc.

Kapoor became aware of it and approached them to see if he could use it in his work.

Together they struck up an exclusive deal which would mean if any artist asked them to coat a piece of work with the stuff they would be turned away.

That deal was something Surrey and Kapoor were initially proud of. They couldn’t see the inherent elitism in the exclusivity so they went on another PR pr to tell he world Kapoor was signed up to use it.

It was then the artists of the world really became aware of it, and sure enough, when any of them wrote to Surrey - even really huge ones with plenty of money, they were turned away. These artists including Christian Furr and Ron Arad, amongst others were all featured across the media. =

A: But as we’ve already established surrey nanosystems is not a distribution company. They’re an engineering company. And they made the decision that they could only work with one artist, because they simply did not have the physical ability to produce Vantablack at a scale that allowed them to work with more than one person.

SS: They did say that, but a lot later. They were always a fabrication / engineering place and there was never an idea that they would distribute the material. That’s not the problem any artists ever had with it, they all fully understood what the material was. The issue was that even if the artist had the money and could ship their work to Surrey, they would not coat the object with it, but they would serve other industries. This is seen as deeply prejudicial towards artists.

A: (To this day, vanta Black has to be distributed by a specialized robotic arm that creates it in painfully small amounts in an enclosed box that can then be given to someone in a lab. )

SS: This is untrue - the arm is used to spray the objects that Surrey have agreed to coat.

It does not make the material. The material is made by growing carbon nano tubes on a surface.

And the spray version contains nano particles. The robot arm is used for precision when coating.

You often see a robot arm spray cars for example. The arm is used like this.

A: Enter Anish Kapoor: Anish Kapoor, at this time was already a world, renowned artist, and the creator of many public facing pieces, such as cloud gate, a.k.a. the Chicago Bean. His entire life‘s work was dedicated to how light is refracted and interplays with the void, making him not only the perfect person to be chosen because of prestige but also because his life‘s work spoke to the engineers who created Vanta black.

SS: Whist as an artist he has dealt with reflection and the void at length, it’s a stretch to claim his entire life’s work is dedicated to it.

SS: It is true that as a figurehead for Vantablack he is a good choice, he’s very rich, extremely famous, he’s a Sir (i.e knighted by the queen and a turner prize winner). Plus he makes work that would look good in Vantablack.

SS: None of this means that he needed exclusivity to do it, the company could simply have collaborated with him and if any other artist asked to have something coated, they could have easily said they were too busy or didn’t have enough of the material.

SS: The issue is the way they couldn’t see the prejudice, elitism and lack of access in the exclusivity.

A: Now this should’ve been seen as an incredible accomplishment and honor for this Indian artist to be chosen as the soul licensor of Vantablack as this company was only able to choose one person and people were really excited about this for him and that’s where the story ends, right? Right? Right?

SS: It’s unclear why his race matters. He is one of the richest, most well known, most famous artists in the world. The fact he has exclusive access to a material/process like this is not a reason for people to be excited for him, people are free to be excited or not. This is purely your opinion not a fact.

A: Enter Stuart Semple: Stuart simple was a 25-year-old man in the UK living with his mother when she came into his room and told him about Vantablack.

SS: Stuart was born in 1980, which would make him 36 at the time.

SS: He was not living with his mother, in fact he was living in London with his own family.

SS: His mother did not come into his room however on a phone call she spoke to him about an article she had read in the guardian about how artists were upset by Kapoor having Vantablack.

SS: Stuart was (and is) a well-known contemporary artist, very embedded int hat world. He has had over 20 solo exhibitions dedicated to his work all over the world and his pieces are in major collections and museums. He’s not in the league of Kapoor but in the artworld is well known as an artist.

A: As an artist himself, Stewart simple wanted to try Vanta Black, and was told by the company that he could not.

SS: This is untrue - Stuart did not want to use the colour, nor did he approach the company.

A: It was then that he discovered the only person on earth licensed to use Vantablack was Anish Kapoor.

SS: This is untrue, he was aware of this when his mother told him what she had read in the newspaper.

A: Please keep in mind that Vantablack is not a paint, and it is so difficult to work with that Anish Kapoor has only ever produced one singular piece of art with Vantablack.

SS: This is untrue. Tens of thousands of items have now been coated in VantaBlack, from soda cans to watches. Initially, Kapoor used his rights to create a series of limited edition wrist watches that sold for $100,000 each, and then went on to create a whole series of large sculptures that were initially shown at a huge palazzo in Venice that Kapoor bought, during the Venice Biennale, and then at an exhibition at the Lisson in NYC where there works were for sale with an average price of $500,000USD.

A: So like a child who has just been told by their mom that they can’t use something, Stewart simple decided to throw a hissy fit.

SS: It’s Stuart Semple (not stewart simple) - and there is no evidence of any kind of Hissy Fit. However he did create a piece of internet performance art, where he put a jar of pinkest pink paint on the internet, humorously, and asked anyone who bought the paint to sign an agreement that they ‘weren’t Anish Kapoor and Associate of Kapoor and that to the best of their knowledge information and belief, the material would not make its way into the hands of Anish Kapoor’. Semple has always explained it was a tongue-in-cheek piece of performance art, and that he was never expecting anyone would actually buy any pink. The best source for this is an article in Wired in which the journalist concludes with the piece being a powerful piece of online performance art. Bearing in mind Semple is an artist who works with performance, that is extremely likely.

A: He created a pink pigment that he conditionally said everyone could use except Anish Kapoor and then launch this pigment with the hashtag #ShareTheBlack.

SS: He created the pink pigment in 2010 - and has made his own paints to use in his own work since he was a child. It was not made in response to Kapoor. However he did not make them public they were for his own use, and the Kapoor situation made him question his own exclusivity in keeping the materials he was making for himself. He decided to share his pink as a gesture and a piece of art in it's own right.

A: This caught the attention of the news media, and when asked about this situation, that was previously relatively unheard of, Stuart simple,

SS: Neither Stuart nor the Vantablack situation were unheard of. The media was already reporting on the controversy around vantablack long before Stuart put the pink up. Stuart was also well known which is why the media wanted to talk to him about it.

When GQ came to do a 5 page feature on him they were clear it was because he was an established and well-known artist in his own right.

He had already been hosting art shows for the BBC, had written for the guardian and Huffington post and had collaborated with major musicians.

A: went onto describe Anish Kapoor as this tyrannical elitist who “banned“ the use of Vantablack to keep other artists from using it.

SS: There’s no evidence that Semple said that, however, he was critical of the exclusive license and did feel the story opened up a well-needed discussion about access to art and the trend in which those with the money could afford to have works fabricated when others couldn’t. He is at heart an egalitarian and has made free art studios, his Designs for humanity charity, his creative therapies fund at Mind (a mental health charity) etc.. and a major free art gallery in his hometown that shows some of the biggest living artists. So Semple’s opinion is allowed, to him Kapoor epitomizes an elitism that is dominated by the super-rich, after all, Kapoor is getting close to being a billionaire.

A: But hopefully you can already see how that is Literally not true. Anish Kapoor does not make Vanta black. Anish Kapoor cannot sell Vanta black. Anish Kapoor cannot give you permission to use Vanta black. And Vanta black is not even a paint.

SS: He does not make it, but he does hold the exclusive right to use it in art.

SS: No other material or process has been exclusively licensed by one artist in the history of the world.

SS: Jeff Koons does not make his own giant steel sculptures, a factory does. Jeff can’t book your work into the factory, and steel is not a paint either. He doesn't have an exclusive agreement with the steel fabricators. If they aren't too busy with Jeff, and you've got the cash, they'll make something for you too. This is standard with art fabrication.

SS: I didn't physically make the giant steel and foam smiley sculpture of mine for the city of Denver, fabricators helped with that, and engineers. They work with several artists.

SS: This makes no sense given it is understood vantablack is a material and a process of application.

SS: However Kapoor could surrender his exclusive right and Surrey would then be able to take bookings from artists.

A: meanwhile Stuart has launched an entire very lucrative career around slandering and smearing Anish Kapoor

SS: Untrue, Semple had a very successful career and his day job is as a contemporary artist. Actually speaking up about elitism in the artworld is a risky move for someone who relies on that artworld to pay his bills.

A: when Anish Kapoor literally never did anything but be qualified enough to be the one person chosen by a company that is literally only able to work with one person at a time.

SS: He did do something, he signed an exclusive agreement and he felt he was entirely justified in doing so. He also went out in the media and with surrey nono systems and gloated about it.

SS: They can’t only work with one person at a time, we have seen whole buildings covered in vantback, jewellery, cars and soda cans and many sculptures by Kapoor. Surrey have collaborated with thousands of brands, designers, architects and companies.

A: The fact remains Stewart simple, very intentionally allows this narrative to continue because it makes him money.

SS: It is unclear how it makes him money as the pink was sold for $3 which was what it cost to make, and his website which researches and distributes cutting edge materials is a non profit that collaborates with artists. They even did a crowd funder to make Black 3.0 - a super black acrylic that any artist can use. It's also unclear how he is perpetuating this narrative, when he's clearly moved on to other projects many years ago and rarely mentions it. In Semple's world it's a very small thing.

A: He has made a ton of money off of slandering Anish Kapoor as if Anish Kapoor is the reason he can’t use Vanta black when the reason he can’t use Vanta black is because no one can use Vanta black, and the only person who might be able to use it is Anish Kapoor and that is not Anish Kapoor‘s fault.

SS: There’s no evidence at all that he’s slandered Kapoor. Kapoor being extremely wealthy, and the level of media that covered the story back in 2016 would never have allowed it. It would have been a legal nightmare. All the publications who write about the story GQ, BBC, The Guardian, Wired, have journalistic laws and it would not have happened.

SS: There’s no evidence that Semple has made a ton of money.

A: It is not lost on me that there are racial connotations to the story as well. There are actual companies and artists in the world who have trademarks around certain colors that they do not allow other people to use in public showcases.

SS: There are colour marks or if you like 'trademarked colours'. The public showcases point doesn't make sense in this context - colours are protected in classes i.e certain uses on Serbian products are prohibited. EG - Tiffany blue cannot be used on jewellery boxes.

A: But we really as a community allowed this white man to smear and slander an Indian artist,

SS: Again it’s unclear what the ethnicity of the artists has to do with the core issue.

SS: It’s a little bit of a leap given Semple has also liberated Klein Blue (made by a white French man), Barbie Pink (owned by Mattel a corporation), and created the Brightest White.

A: based entirely off of misinformation, and to this day people jump on the Internet, saying fuck Anish Kapoor because of it.

SS: Kapoor secured the rights to the blackest material ever made. Everyone else who can afford to, can use it, unless they identify as an artist.

SS: Many people feel like that is wrong.

A: Now, Anish Kapoor is not some struggling person. He is probably a multibajillionaire

SS: He’s worth about 800 million according to Forbes, he’s within the top 5 most wealthy living artists.

A: And doesn’t necessarily need our sympathy. But I think the story of Vantablack is a really good case study of how misinformation spreads, and how people never bother to question the framework of a story.

SS: In my opinion, your post is misinformation, that has been spread unquestioningly.

#stuartsemple #anish kapoor #stuart semple

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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This is Trellick Tower built in 1972 on the Cheltenham Estate in North Kensington, London, UK and designed by Hungarian-born architect and designer Ernő Goldfinger. A 3bd, 1.5ba unit on the 19th floors is for sale for £1,000,000 / $1,248,735.

The building is split into the main block of flats and the imposing service tower. To maximize living space, Goldfinger put the lifts, stairs and even communal laundrettes into the tower. The heating system and water tanks are housed there, too, in the plant room at the top, which allows water to run down to apartments using gravity, minimizing piping.

The tower stairs look so clean. Probably nobody uses them.

Yellow lift hallway.

The connecting hall from the lifts to the apts. looks dated.

Since the connecting halls from the tower are on every other floor, this unit's entrance is on the 18th fl. below.

Hall at the top of the stairs.

For the price, this is a small living room.

Opens to a narrow balcony.

The kitchen isn't oversized, but it's nice.

The primary bedroom is small.

This bedroom is being used as a den.

And, this one is a nursery. The window seat is nice, but I don't think that you could fit a bed in here.

The 1.5 baths are right next to each other.

The view.

I think that I would rather live in a longboat on the canal. I just don't think that this unit is worth the price.

#condo UK #condo London #houses #house tours #home tour #condo tour

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labuenosairesfrancaise · 6 months ago

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Prestwald Hall

Hi guys!!

I'm sharing Prestwald Hall . This is the 9th building for my English Manors Collection, and I will add many more!

House History: Prestwold Hall was, for many years, the seat of the Packe family. Before that time, it was the home of the Skipwith family. After the death of Major Robert Christopher Packe (born c.1783) - one time Aide-de-camp to King George III - who was killed during the Battle of Waterloo, the hall passed to his nephew George Hussey Packe who held the hall and estate until his death in 1874.

The Hall was remodelled by architect William Burn in 1842–1844, incorporating the fabric of a mid-18th-century H-plan house. It was Grade I listed in 1951.

One of the finest rooms inside the house is the Entrance Hall with its richly coloured marbled plaster work in the Italian style. The painted ceiling was inspired by Raphael’s Vatican grotesques and incorporates miniature landscapes, showing the house before and after its remodelling between 1842 and 1844. Below the ceiling, wreathing the room, are small medallion busts of the poets from Chaucer to Scott, positioned in the spandrels and are likely inspired by Alberti's external arcade at the Tempio Malatestiano in Rimini. An arcade opens on to a vaulted corridor leading to a top lit inner hall: these spaces also marbled. Off the corridor, the cantilevered stone staircase survives from the eighteenth century house, and was given its bracketed brass balusters by William Wilkins (1751-1815) in 1805.

The Dining Room, added by Wilkins in 1805, was incorporated into the remodelling undertaken by the Scottish architect William Burn in 1842. The room is overlooked by two dramatic full length portraits of Sir Edward Hussey Packe, KBE (1878 – 1946) and the Hon. Lady Mary Sydney Packe (née Colebrooke, 1890 – 1973) by the painter Glyn Philpot RA (1844 – 1947). The portrait of Lady Packe, painted in 1911, was described by the art historian Robin Gibson OBE as an ‘amazing feat of virtuosity’. Its elongated elegance and introspective characterisation is totally without the fashion-plate vulgarity of much Edwardian portraiture. Other portraits hang in this room of the Packe family including a painting of Sir Christopher Packe (1595 – 1682) who purchased the house in the 17th century painted by Cornelis Janssens van Ceulen (1593 –1661).

The library extends nearly the entire length of the house when the large doors that separate it from the drawing room are opened, connecting the two rooms. With clever use of constructional steel, William Burn was able to create these long adjoining rooms. The windows rise from floor level and open onto the garden which enhances the notion that Prestwold was designed in the style of an Italian classical villa. The doors and bookcases in library were made for George Hussey Packe (1846–1908) by Gillows of Lancaster and London in 1875.

A conservatory fills the recessed central bay at the front of the house, and projects out towards the garden. Behind the glass and elegant Doric pilasters, are well planted raised beds with a number of exotic plants and flowers

More history: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prestwold_Hall

Virtual tour: https://www.prestwold-hall.com/virtual-tour/

Night pics

Floorplans

This house fits a 50x40 lot and features the following:

great hall

long Library

formal dinning room

family room

playroom

formal gallery

a winter garden

14 rooms for family/guests + 3 service rooms

several bathrooms

This time I decorated most of the rooms in the main floor for picture purposes, but as allways, you can make it your own!

The second and third floor (bedrooms) are not decorated, but finished.

Hope you like it.

You will need the usual CC I use:

all Felixandre cc

all The Jim,

SYB

Anachrosims

Regal Sims

King Falcon railing

The Golden Sanctuary

Cliffou

Dndr recolors

Harrie cc

Tuds

Lili's palace cc

Please enjoy, comment if you like it and share pictures with me if you use my creations!

Early Access: August 15

Download: https://www.patreon.com/posts/prestwald-hall-104505183

#sims 4 architecture #sims 4 build #sims4 #sims 4 screenshots #sims4play #sims 4 historical #sims4building #sims4palace #sims 4 royalty #ts4 download #sims4frencharchitecture #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 simblr #ts4 legacy #ts4cc #the sims community #the sims 4 #sims 4

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scotianostra · 2 months ago

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September 6th 1715 saw John Erskine, the 6th Earl of Mar, unfurl the standard of James Francis Edward Stuart at Braemar.

John Erskine, who was variously entitled the 6th or 11th Earl of Mar, was one of the leading architects of the 'Act of Union' between Scotland and England in 1707. Alongside the Earl of Loudoun, Mar held the office of Secretary of State, but found himself dismissed in 1709. By 1711, he was already doubting the worth of the union. When Queen Anne died in 1714, Mar was snubbed by the new Hanoverian King, George I. As a result, Mar was quick to join the Jacobite cause.

The dignity of the ceremony itself was upset when the gilt ball on top of the standard fell to the ground, an event considered to be an ill omen by the watching Highlanders. Mar made a speech, regretting his own part in pushing through the Act of Union in 1707 and now admitting it to be a mistake.

Heading north from London, he raised the standard at Braemar for the 'Old Pretender', Prince James Francis Edward Stewart and was joined by many landowners from north-east Scotland. James was proclaimed king in his absence at the Mercat Cross in Aberdeen. However, Mar was no soldier and deployed his support poorly. A part of his force moved into England, but was forced to surrender at Preston, Lancashire, while Mar himself met the Duke of Argyll in battle at Sheriffmuir. Technically a stalemate, Mar was the moral loser of this battle because he was forced to withdraw from his position.

James himself now belatedly arrived and was crowned as James VIII at Scone. However, by February 1716, he was on his way back to France with Mar at his side. As a result, the 1715 Rebellion was over before it had hardly started and John Erskine, the Earl of Mar, or 'Bobbing John' as he came to be called, was much ridiculed for his part in its failure and for his ability to change sides.

#scotland #scottish #history #nobility #soldier #jacobite

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rappaccini · 5 months ago

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semi-disorganized thoughts on the politics of gwen stacy, as they relate to race and privilege.

alright i've had this thing in the drafts for a minute, and i just want it Out There.

in general when it comes to the major female characters in peter's life, there's room to play around with their interpretations and race.

cindy moon has to be korean and glory grant has to be black because it's written into their characters

mj and betty can be anything, and have been racebent with great success.

felicia hardy can be a lot of things, but some should probably be avoided because if you write it wrong it could turn out offensive.

liz allan has been racebent... but she honestly works better as a white woman given how her character represents the waspy background peter initially wants to enter (mcu liz allan's a weird one, given the vulture twist. since homecoming borrows so much from miles, and tiana toomes was likely inspired by her, mcu liz reads like more of a first draft of tiana than a liz depiction).

gwen... hasn't really been racebent anywhere (unless you count gabi/gabriel o'hara and gayatri singh). and that follows, because she falls more in line with liz allan; this is a character whose whiteness-- or at least, her access to institutional privilege and status as part of that subset of women within society that are considered desirable, protectable and worthy of putting on a pedestal-- is very important.

this is too disorganized to write into like. a proper essay. so have some bulletpoints.

her background:

little is known about gwen-616's family background, apart from that she has relatives on her father's side who live in london (but it's not clear if they're literally british or they're just expats), and her mom's from a german background.

(spiderverse spider-gwen is specifically irish-american)

she had a christian, most likely catholic, background.

gwen-617's father was a cop who met her musician mother at a peace protest, and gwen-65's father is specifically a former street gang member who, like 617, met gwen's artistic mother during a conflict with the police. he helped her police captain father resolve the situation. soon after they became a couple, and he became a cop. so spider-gwen's dad is specifically part of that phenomenon of poor men becoming cops to raise their economic status, and gwen in general is usually the product of a family where law enforcement is considered a tradition (and so is marrying law enforcement; her mother and grandmother both did it).

she isn't generationally wealthy or new-rich. her family is comfortably middle- to upper-middle-class and achieved that status before gwen was born. she grew up without having to worry about money-- with the exception of tuition.

when gwen's mother dies (in 616 it's an unspecified illness; in 65, who knows), there's no mention of medical debt. so the family could afford it, or whatever helen had, they were lucky that it didn't wipe out the family finances.

gwen and her father live in a nice but not luxurious apartment. (and spider-gwen lives in a dated two-story house in peter's middle-class forest hills suburb)

gwen went to standard high, a prestigious prep school where she was classmates with the children of the city's best architects, physicians, business owners and billionaires. since her household's single-income (even before helen stacy died, she was a housewife), and they don't have any generational wealth, she would've had to have been on a scholarship to afford that tuition.

at that school, she's a popular honors student who wins class president, is best friends with the richest boy at school, dates the star quarterback, and laps up all the fancy college scholarships. and when she arrives at college, she leads a group of kids in freezing peter out like a high school mean girl, because he isn't giving her enough attention. so even though gwen wasn't rich, she was comfortably at the top of the high school hierarchy, and maybe even a bit of a bully. to say the quiet part out loud, if gwen had been a woc, everybody would've been giving her shit for needing a scholarship to afford to attend and she would never have gotten that level of acceptance.

she's a scholarship student (again!) at empire state university, where she's a top student in a stem major.

however-- that empire state scholarship isn't framed as a make-it-or-break-it achievement. when gwen's chasing it in high school, she doesn't say she can't enroll if she doesn't get it. so most likely, she could still afford college; she'd have just had a shitload of loans.

(gwen-65 goes to peter's public high school. she gets a scholarship to empire state too, but that's strictly a bullshit handwave of ~your superhero connection got you this made-up scholarship for interdimensional exchange students so you can go here~ that means nothing. for all intents and purposes she's a dropout.)

gwen stacy isn't a wasp, but she's white, anglo-saxon (or irish) and christian, so she's close enough to it to rub elbows with them. she isn't rich, but she knows how to fit in with rich people, and rich people let her get away with it. and she's one strategic marriage or career move away from getting into that social circle.

... her name literally means "white" in welsh.

her appearance:

the one trait that stays consistent throughout all her depictions, moreso than her personality or family background-- and the one trait a lot of men people bother to remember about her-- is that she's a blonde. and blondeness tends to be associated largely with whiteness.

gwen's largely regarded as the 'nice, tame good girl' ... even though in canon, she's a night owl who has a vicious temper, goes out partying often, juggles multiple suitors and is sexually forward. people keep fucking forgetting all that, because something about the way gwen looks makes people keep defaulting to 'innocent.' -- it's that she's a blonde (specifically, a blonde being juxtaposed with a fiery redhead), and people are applying stereotypes about blonde girls being uptight and delicate to gwen.

gwen's a beauty queen. what kind of physical attractiveness do beauty pageants tend to reward?

even the gwens who aren't beauty queens are still regarded as extremely attractive. including spider-gwen, who puts no effort into her appearance, keeps finding herself the target of romantic and sexual attention. this girl is consistently at the top of whatever her society's beauty standard hierarchy is. (and we know that standard more often than not tends to center whiteness.)

spider-gwen's costume? white.

her politics:

gwen's father is vaguely on the left (if he weren't, sam bullit gloating about how captain stacy's daughter endorsing him is an ultraown to the libs wouldn't make sense), but she's... not.

rich boys and men in uniform -- soldiers, cops, football players, (unknowingly, superheroes) -- are the type of guy she prefers to pursue romantically (... likely taking cues from her mother and grandmother, who both married cops). flash thompson goes to fucking vietnam and she thinks it's such a turn-on that she slips him some tongue at the airport right in front of her boyfriend.

she's annoyed and unsympathetic when vietnam war protesters disrupt her education. i don't know if gwen's just that serious about her education or if she genuinely thinks the war's okay, but it's not looking good!

she earnestly participates in her local elections-- and though she ultimately votes and campaigns for the progressive, she does seriously consider publicly endorsing the racist republican with fascist leanings.

she dislikes vigilantes and trusts the police.

she uses "my dad's a cop" as an excuse to get out of being punished and a threat to people she dislikes.

gwen's most prominent relationship was with peter, but she was going out with harry and flash casually at the same time and had dated plenty of guys in high school; she's by no means a blushing virgin who's loyal to Only One Man. gwen has options, and she pursues them.

she and peter had an implicitly sexual relationship, and she and darius leclerc were at least hitting second or third base, so gwen's cool with premarital sex. she consumes porn and even likes messing around in public (fooling around with darius at the public library; even asking peter if he wants to go to an adult theater to watch dirty movies).

gwen references betty friedan and the women's lib movement, and she's a female stem major in the 1960s, so she's a feminist and probably had no intentions of being a housewife... but her feminism starts and ends with herself.

even gwen-1610, the counterculture rocker chick who hates cops, jocks and bullies, and has casual sex, has this personality largely as a response towards her mother leaving her family. it's not that she's political or liberated, it's that she's raging against her parents and acting out to get a reaction. she hasn't applied her sense of disenfranchisement to anyone beyond herself. she's that kind of white punk.

the default gwen stacy is a white feminist who believes in and supports institutional power because she's always benefited from it, occasionally balks against it but only when it affects her, and she's naive at best and indifferent at worst to the ways it could hurt marginalized people -- specifically black people.

the elephant in the room

(... walk with me: given that the stacys get up close and personal with "spider-man" when hobie brown is wearing the costume to help peter throw off suspicion that it's him, and the textually racist sam bullit, a former cop, considers him public enemy #1 in the same issue where his blatantly racist policies are raised... there's a non-zero chance that the police-- including gwen's dad-- during the early 70s, think spider-man is a black guy and that assumption of his race is a contributing factor to their distrust of him. and gwen... agrees.)

look gwen-616 isn't beating the allegations. she was on the fence about voting for a racist cop, she backs the blue, she hates protests, she hates a vigilante that she has good reason to believe is a black guy. the way she's simply... never around randy robertson unless she's with peter, and surrounds herself with only white friends, is also telling too. it's all adding up to gwen being racist.

and the more that modern writers try to slap a band-aid over og gwen's issues with black people, the more visible they get.

gwen-616's relationship with her high school sweetheart darius and earth-8's alternate spider-gwen marrying a miles morales paint a very clear picture that gwen, in her default state, is the kind of white girl who would date or marry a black guy... but only the kind of black guy who's disconnected from his community and assimilating into greater white society to access wealth and power (miles-8, who mysteriously left his family, friends and world forever to live on a world where he's rich and famous), or who has already done this (darius, big man on campus at the rich kid school and son of multimillionaires), and she will make no effort to understand his perspective and stick up for him and his community.

in the case of darius, gwen-616's investigation into a crime lord gets darius's dad into a situation that gets him killed, apologizes for failing him... and proceeds to stan for a racist republican two years later. retconning a romance with darius into her story means gwen learned nothing from that experience and her apology wasn't sincere.

gwen-8 in particular is the kind of white woman who'd marry a black man and have children with him... and make no effort to make sure their biracial kids are connected to the black community they're a part of. (miles's people are nowhere to be found on earth-8-- no presence, no mention, no photos on the wall, nothing. but gwen's half-black kids have photos with their white cop grandpa. that says a lot. and the fact that miles-8 doesn't even seem connected to his community suggests that quality made him even more appealing to gwen-8.)

even spiderverse spider-gwen represents this to her miles, whose interest in her is directly tied to his desire to ditch his dimension for the spider-society, and to leave brooklyn for princeton; atsv miles wants to pull a miles-8.

-> she unintentionally leads him into a situation where he comes under attack for reasons that are racially-coded by her peer group and she doesn't stick up for him. yes, she realizes she made a mistake and resolves to make it up to him, acknowledges that miles's community is important to him, that she has no right to remove him from them, and vows to help him protect them (which is more than gwen-616 ever does for darius or gwen-8 does for her miles)... but he still sees her as that easy way up the social ladder.

-> and gwen returns the favor. she prefers a heteronormative romance with the middle-class straight boy with a nice family who's bound for an ivy league and a bright future, who she barely knows, over the poor queer homeless punk boy who she has a stronger connection with. assimilation into a society (not even hers; any will do) ultimately matters more to her than the actual depth of the relationship. rio and jeff were right to doubt gwen's intentions, because they weren't sincere; deep down, gwen isn't here for miles, she's here for the stable family, accepting community and bright future he has and she thinks if she's his girlfriend, she can obtain those things by association.

-> which, in context: spiderverse spider-gwen's spent six-ish months as a homeless queer runaway who thinks she'll die a violent death at a young age. it follows that she'd badly want a stable situation, and be willing to throw herself at a boy to get it. her motive isn't climbing the social ladder, it's avoiding being shaken off of it. like with comics-spider-gwen, when spiderverse gwen feels adrift and in need of belonging, she goes looking for a romantic relationship with a straight boy who's palatable to society as a survival strategy. she's not desperately in love, she's desperately comphetting.

-> the narrative framing that romance as "look at how different and brave and boundary-breaking we're being!" even though it's fundamentally not, as this is still ultimately the male lead getting a romance plot with the female character who was only placed in the movies to be his future girlfriend, (especially in comparison to what she could have with hobie) positions spiderverse-gwen as... the kind of white girl who rebels against her conservative parents and the status quo she hates by getting a black boyfriend instead of addressing the actual societal problems that are harming her.

especially when you consider miguel is symbolically her foster father (his design and george stacy's are very similar, he has a dead daughter whose name starts with a g, he intervenes in gwen and george's confrontation right as george makes a move to disown her, he's introduced alongside jess, who gwen asks to 'adopt her' and who serves as her mother figure). gwen bringing miles to the society reads like a white girl bringing her black boyfriend home to piss off her conservative dad. and gwen goes looking for miles to further rebel against him.

-> to be fair, gwen's willing to show up for her black boyfriend and his community, which is more than what most of those girls do. and atsv makes a point of showing that gwen seeks a mentor in jess drew and friends in hobie and pav-- they're establishing that gwen is simply the kind of white girl who's drawn to people of color, black people especially, even when romance isn't on the table.

-> but she's still ultimately using miles as a band-aid over insecurities he cannot help her with, she still aims to assimilate into the system instead of finding a way to escape it, and she still won't be an ally until she thinks she can get a boyfriend out of it.

(... can we please unpack how spiderverse gwen has been spending every day with jessica drew and especially spider-punk for months... and yet a couple hours with miles, and the idea that maybe she can date him if she shapes up a little, are what radicalize her in the end? okay babe. i see.)

which makes (comics-)gwen-65's subtextual interest in hobie brown and glory grant, who are queer black punks, all the more interesting; the gwen stacy who's a fully-actualized hero is drawn to people of color as well, and to queer black love interests who won't conform, and not-so-coincidentally learns all on her own to look out for their interests without any expectation of a romantic reward for doing so. her love interests don't lead her to activism, her activism leads her towards her love interests.

-> and as comics-spider-gwen starts to regress in her progress, her romantic interests have switched to harry-and-em jay, and then just em jay. (or that she's probably about to be paired up with miles, the guy who ends up with her supposedly-future-self, gwen-8, who takes far more after gwen-616 in her treatment of black characters. in other words, being with miles will make gwen regress into a much crappier person... because she's using him to get that same comphet security as spiderverse gwen.). not a coincidence.

her status in the narrative (to others)

gwen's role in peter's love interest hierarchy is similar to liz allan's: both are part of love triangles peter faces where he has to choose between an aspirational girlfriend who can give him what he wants materially but doesn't bring out the best in him (gwen and liz) and a girlfriend who cannot give him a gain in status but is in tune with his emotions (mj and betty).

-> in high school, peter (who's strapped for cash and starts his origin story as far more selfish, sexist and profit-driven) is drawn to liz's beauty and wealth, but ends up being pulled towards betty, who is working-class.

-> in college, peter is drawn to gwen's beauty, her stable future as a scientist, and a relationship with her means being accepted by her police chief father (... and therefore, spider-man being accepted by the law enforcement of the city at large)-- or mj, the unpredictable girl who juggles a half dozen jobs to chase a creative passion, and comes from a middle-class background just like his.

-> a relationship with gwen, through her social position, represents entrance into upper-middle-class prosperity, stable white-collar employment, and acceptance into the class that the status quo (the legal system and the cops) will protect. who are the people who tend to occupy this position in society. who do the cops protect. white people.

her role in the spider-man canon as the tragic helpless victimized love interest who's deified after her death... but whose death is never meaningfully prevented from happening again. (how many murdered girls are turned into symbols after their death, as the actual causes of their murders remain unaddressed? what do those girls tend to look like?)

this status relies on her whiteness. if gwen stacy were not a pretty blonde white girl, her murder would've been forgotten quickly because it wouldn't have been considered shocking or tragic, or worthy of obsessing over for decades.

and she wouldn't have been peter's love interest-- or even in the story at all-- if she were not white, because she was created in 1965.

spider-gwen, whose existence is a response to and condemnation of gwen stacy's fridging and reduction to the status of dead girlfriend on a pedestal, would never have been created in the first place if gwen weren't white.

if gwen hadn't been white, miles would never have been shipped with her in the first place because 1) spider-gwen wouldn't have existed. and 2) even if she did somehow, brian michael bendis loves swirl ships. he'd have passed right over her if she weren't white.

and gwen's importance in the spider-man canon [which she only has because she's white] is the entire reason comics miles is interested in her. he's literally told by the universe that the world where he gets the greatest institutional power and acceptance is the world where he has a blonde, blue-eyed white wife with a famous name and some not-so-coincidentally blonde, blue-eyed ambiguous-looking kids.

spiderverse miles is first attracted to her because he feels alone after leaving his community for the first time, and she makes him feel like he belongs at the visions, where he [and the audience] assume she's top of the social hierarchy; the same thing happens again at the spider-society, and both are part of atsv's greater metaphor about how those places are representative of a white-centric society. if gwen were not a white girl, the metaphor would instantly change.

miles likes gwen for multiple reasons (mostly that she's pretty and has powers, and spiderverse miles at least admires her intelligence and competence and enjoys her company), but given that he barely spent any time with her, the biggest one that nobody talks about is that she's a white girl, and he thinks he can speedrun his way to the status and acceptance he wants through a relationship with her. that's remained consistent between the comics and animated movies. the connection is literally skin-deep.

and out of universe... look, there's a reason that gwen and miles keep getting shipbait covers even when they had one regrettable makeout session eight years ago, have never actually dated, are interested in other people, and miles in particular largely dates nonwhite girls. there's a reason that the idea of gwiles has gotten more marketing than the reality of the relationship with a black girl that miles has been in for years. there's a reason editorial won't stop pushing gwen as a love interest, and won't even bother to try with tiana, and that's because they've already decided that the black girl isn't a commercial enough love interest for a mass audience, the white girl is... and that dating her will make miles more marketable too (... because aside from giving people a self-insert, if he has a white girlfriend, his stories will still center white people, and he'll have to prioritize their feelings). no surprise whatsoever that the first time miles made it to the movies, the white writers gave him a white love interest.

gwen's whiteness is the thing that gwiles stans like the most about her. putting aside how most of them have no clue who gwen is on her own and don't even know what her personality's like because her appearance is the most important thing to them, just watch how they talk about miles's other girlfriends and try to count the racist and sexist microaggressions.

and look at the way gwiles stans either completely ignore miles's blackness and how it informs his character or their relationship... or insist that white-ass gwen stacy would somehow speak perfect puerto rican spanish, be able to do miles's hair, and seamlessly fit into his community with no misunderstandings or friction. even spiderverse fans ignore their movie's own canon actually addressing those issues.

either they want the aesthetic image of an interracial relationship without any engagement with the actual challenges of being in an interracial relationship, or they want miles to date a blonde blue-eyed white girl who behaves like an afrolatina girl. okay. i see.

… even look at the way gwemj shippers blatantly ignore that em jay is already in a relationship with glory grant, or that gwen had a crush on her too. not a coincidence that the white f/f ship is getting favored over the interracial ones.

her overall plotline

is that of a privileged white woman who has faith in the system, slowly being failed by it until it kills her.

she's a star student studying to be a scientist, but she's consistently only valued by all her friends for her looks. the reason her boyfriend noticed her in the first place is because she's pretty, and she's valued more for her appearance and politeness than her scientific aptitude or her status as peter's intellectual equal; the only time we ever see her on page is when she's socializing, instead of in the lab. her father cares more about who she's dating than how her grades are. even her professor turns out to be only giving gwen special attention because he wants to fuck her, and he's so obsessed with her that he keeps cloning her after her death for that reason.

she trusts the cops to protect her, but they consistently don't.

she reaches out to a politician who's her dad's old police force friend for protection, but realizes he's only using her.

she trusts her boyfriend to be honest with her, but he never has been since the day they met. she believes she's in control of her relationship with him, but she never was.

her father, both the chief of police and the literal patriarch of her family, dies and leaves her completely alone.

she's ultimately murdered by her friend's dad*, and is put in a position to be murdered because her boyfriend won't be honest with her about the danger he's putting her in yet won't let her go when she makes it clear that she wants out of that situation bad enough to flee the country.

her murder itself strips her of all agency: she's so drugged she has no idea she's even being killed, and all retcons about how awake she was are more about her ~realizing her boyfriend was a hero~ than realizing she's about to die or that she's been lied to by said boyfriend.

*and depending on if you retcon a certain hated plotline or not, gwen's murderer, a wealthy and powerful middle-aged man who is her close friend's dad, may have coerced her, a teenager, into sex (which may have been her first time) and impregnated her. and her murder may in part be a coverup for that crime. look sins past was retconned because its the Fucking Worst, but this is how canon treats her and there are still fans and writers who hold a plotline that is so clearly a sexual assault against her.

(and then her murderer... never really gets punished for it. norman isn't killed, doesn't go to jail, even gets a redemption arc or two. and peter's off making out with her best friend a few issues later, never tries particularly hard to bring gwen back when dozens of other people are resurrected all the time, and whenever she's cloned, it's agreed that those clones don't count and aren't worth preserving. there is no justice for gwen's murder and everyone agrees that we don't need to bring her back anyway but we sure as hell will obsess over how tragic her death is. they like her better dead because if she's alive, they don't have full control over her anymore.)

she's failed by everyone and everything she trusts and cares about. specifically all the white men. her male friends, her boyfriend, her teacher, her father, his coworkers at the police station, her friend's father.

(... and the only people who have not failed her, and have even stuck up for or supported her are mj, sally green, aunt may, hobie brown, and darius leclerc. women and people of color.)

and maybe most importantly: she never gets an opportunity to process any of this or make a choice about it. because she's dead. and every time she's resurrected, it's only to fluff the ego of the guy who got her killed before being quickly killed off again. it's been like this for fifty years and it just doesn't stop.

-> gwen 6160, a version of gwen who gets to grow up to full adulthood and does so without spider-man triggering the collapse of the system around her-- and therefore, gwen still believes in it-- even goes so far as to become co-ceo of oscorp, and marry harry osborn-- a white billionaire who literally has the leader of their totalitarian oligarchal society on call. she has her doubts about the way things are and wants the system to change, but believes she specifically is superior enough to solve things with no consultation or oversight. this character's being primed to either have that arrogance lead to her death or a descent into supervillainy.

-> even spider-gwen has to unlearn her specifically white feminist politics. she needs to have the concept of gentrification being bad explained to her. she initially behaves like a rogue cop and her killing of peter parker is framed as an act of police brutality. the entire point of her initial comics run is gwen realizing that the police, the legal system, the media and society are corrupt and that she has to change her mindset if she's going to be a worthy protector of her city. she has to unlearn girlboss feminism, does so by listening to people of color, and refuses to take advantage of her privilege even when not doing so could get her killed-- when she's incarcerated, she receives a reduced sentence in part because of the optics of a girl with a 'good background' being locked up and she's offered a fully commuted sentence in exchange for becoming a government agent. which she refuses. the origin story of spider-gwen is all about radicalization. i can't get over how smart her creator was for doing that.

-> and as spider-gwen has since regressed back into white feminism, to the point where she's been explicitly called a "girlboss" on-panel, she starts palling around with her dimension's cops again and has not-so-coincidentally begun favoring only her white friends-- first harry and em jay, then only em jay (who she starts to have romantic tension with... even though em jay is already in a relationship with a black girl). and now she's abandoning the world she spent years learning to be a better ally to entirely for an easier one where she has fewer responsibilities and is in closer proximity to the important men who treat her like a romantic object.

the missed potential of gwen stacy's plotline all boils down to lack of agency. she needs to live so she can realize how she's been failed, and decide what to do about it.

if she concludes that the system is bad for her and stands up against it, she stands a chance at breaking the cycle, surviving and becoming a hero, like ghost-spider.

if she doubles down on supporting it, it will corrupt her into a villain.... and probably kill her once she's not useful to it alive anymore.

to bring the subject of this ramble home: the payoff we're waiting for in gwen's narrative is about how a white woman responds to realizing the system she's been raised to trust and uphold is corrupt and broken. you have to reckon with your privilege, how you've been lied to, how the power you thought you had doesn't actually exist, how your special position near the top of the hierarchy has nothing to do with how special you are and everything to do with keeping you close so the people with actual power can use you to replicate the system through another generation, the authority figures in your life are actually useless or harmful and the people you've been taught to fear and push away are actually more like you than the more powerful people you want to identify with. and then you choose to help undo that system to liberate yourself and the other people it's hurting... or you keep believing the lie because you'd rather keep the few privileges it does allow you, become complicit in its continuation and it still eats you up when it's done using you.

spider-gwen already passed this test and become a hero (but may fail it if she ends up with miles). gwen-6160 has failed and become villainous. gwen-616 has never gotten to take it, so her fate's still up in the air.

anyway politically speaking, from right to left, the main gwens go: 6160/hickman ultimate (knowingly complicit in the shadiest shit), 616/original (wobbling on the fence until she loses her balance and gets impaled by it), 1610/bendis ultimate (edgelord who occasionally stumbles onto the right idea), 65b/spiderverse (she's a little confused but she's got the spirit. dump miles and you've got it.), 65a/spider-gwen (the actual radical, pre-spiderverse synergy).

#spider gwen meta #gwen stacy 616 #gwen stacy 6160 #gwen stacy 1610 #gwen stacy #gwiles

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justapoet · 1 month ago

Text

hearts don't break around here

There were flowers on her desk. It was a random Wednesday morning, she had just greeted Bleta and some other workers ‘good morning’, and there were flowers on her desk. A whole, entire, huge bouquet of red— Somethings. She had no idea what flowers those were. Worse: she had no idea how they were there to begin with. Or, Percy is a florist that seems to see the world through the colors that he sees everyday — bright, different and slightly utopic. Annabeth, an overly serious architect that works just across a lovely flowershop, and doesn't really look for the beauty around her world and outside her office's walls. When she starts receiving flowers out of nowhere, with notes signed only with an initial, her biggest plan is to figure out who could possibly be sending them. What she doesn't know is that all she has to do is look out the window.

read it on Ao3

The hostile atmosphere of the city of New York was almost palpable for anyone used to being or living there, hardly masked by the illusion of tourists fascinated by every old building lost among mirrored skyscrapers. The cloudy skies that stretched over people's heads and the cold, albeit gentle, breeze shattered the fantasy that the most famous city in the country could be as welcoming as in the films.

It was fun when one stopped to analyze everything that people have been told and what actually happens when you're there to see it. The hostile climate of New York, or the strange cold that surrounds London; perhaps how pleasant it would be to arrive in any city in Latin America, or the tranquil and strangely cultured air in Amsterdam — and how different it can all be when one switches perspectives.

It was fascinating, in fact, how things are put together in such different ways when placed in the same place. How the old buildings gave off a nostalgic air, more because of the strange feeling that they would soon disappear than because of the amount of time they had stood, or how the newer constructions seemed to carry with them an air of boredom and stress more than any possibility of a well-designed future. Fascinating, and rather hopeless.

Or perhaps the boredom belonged not to the city, but to those who lived in it at a rapid pace, with no time to admire anything other than their own misery or unhappiness. People who walk with their heads down, dragging their feet or marching towards what brings them the tragedy in which they sink daily, ignoring the landscape and cursing anyone who stops to do so.

Whatever was the case, the hostile climate was present at every sunrise as the icy gloom was replaced by warm rays wandering through the blinds that enveloped the wide glass windows of a silent office. Although the sun was up early, breaking the dawn, the grey fog that would sometimes take over the entire urban territory still masked its discreet presence for a few hours, cutting through the atmosphere as the city began to come alive again.

On the dark surface of the rough wooden desk, the faint rays of sun flickered in the reflection of the jug of water, and highlighted the white of organized stacks of sheets of paper. A laptop, two pens and a triangular gold plaque also shone against the light, and the silence was absolute against the noise of the cars, buses and a whole society outside the wide, mirrored building.

Absolute, except for the light, brief snores that cut through the air on the other side of the spacious office.

Covering almost the entire room, a fluffy grey carpet stretched under the desk, only to be interrupted a little further on, next to the immense glass wall from where the city of New York didn't appear so dense. The city itself, however, was hidden behind long white curtains of light, diaphanous fabric, the daylight timidly penetrating the mostly dark environment.

Just before them, a set of armchairs and a sofa in the same shade of grey were elegantly positioned around a round coffee table with a translucent glass top that supported a neatly folded jacket and an equally neat engraving on top of it. Next to the table, on the floor, a pair of black dress shoes rested perfectly aligned, and the only thing seemingly out of place was the woman stretched out on the couch.

One of her arms was over her face, covering her eyes to protect them from the daylight. Her hand hung beside her head, turned uncomfortably away from the windows, her nose almost wedged between the backrest and the seat, and her other arm was folded, hand flat over her stomach, partially trapped between two buttons of her white button shirt.

Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and her lips parted to mumble something that tried to sound like sentences. The shirt was wrinkled, as were the black trousers, and only one of her feet was covered by a white sock — that also seemed to be about to come off at any movement of her feet. The brown braids of her hair were disorganized and seemingly tangled, making an exquisite contrast with the surroundings.

A few more soft snores sounded in the air until they were interrupted by the double wooden door being opened from the outside, followed by the low click of the lock clicking back into place and soft footsteps, which stopped after no more than two soft ‘knocks’ and were accompanied by a sigh. The next moment, the footsteps sounded again against the floor across the room, only to cease again when near the couch.

“You're the most depressing situation I've ever seen,” a male voice sounded, and the figure stretched out on the sofa jerked upwards in fright. Her brown eyes looked around hurriedly, shoulders tense, and the weight of her torso being lifted by her arms, until her pupils caught sight of the person speaking. She relaxed one more time.

The woman grunted, and the man rolled his eyes.

“What time is it?” she asked, bringing her hands to her eyes and rubbing them over the eyelids.

“Too early to come to work and too late to go home,’ the man replied, sighing and turning round to face the arm of the furniture. “You do remember that you have a house and a bed, don't you? Because I didn't spend hours hopping from shopping center to shopping center so that you'd simply forget that you have at least six pillows, Annabeth.”

The woman laughed softly, yawning and throwing her legs over so that they rested against the tiled floor.

“For starters,” Annabeth retorted, stretching one of her arms above her head. “We spent hours in shopping centers because you wanted to find God-knows-what to put in the living room, Grover. Besides,” she groaned, facing her friend. “Yes, I know.”

Annabeth stood up, putting her hands on her lower back and stretching her muscles, grunting before exhaling in relief. Grover rolled his eyes again.

“And what goes on in your head that you decide to sleep on the couch in your office?” he asked, arching one of his eyebrows. Annabeth shrugged briefly and sat down once more.

“Work,” she replied. “And a surprising laziness to drive anywhere,” she frowned, and Grover shook his head in denial. “Besides, Oliott called.”

Grover raised both eyebrows this time.

“Again?” he asked, his voice surprised and disbelieving. Annabeth nodded. “God, that man is unbelievable,” he continued, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shaking his head.

Annabeth sighed, nodding.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “Can’t really blame him, though. I, too, would be desperate if I bought illegal land in protected territory and needed someone to build in it so I won’t go to jail.”

Grover snorted, suppressing a smile, and shook his head.

“Hope he’ll rot, fucking asshole,” he grumbled. “What did you say?”

Annabeth threw her body backwards, leaning back on the couch and leaning her head on the cushioned backrest.

She sighed again.

“The same thing as the other eight times,” she replied. “That we, first, don’t make business with criminals as a firm; second, I don’t design for assholes as a person. And that we don’t have space in schedule whatsoever to take any more projects.”

“We don’t?” Grover asked. Annabeth smiled mischievously, turning her head and resting her ear against the cushion of the furniture.

“We do,” she mumbled, voice filled with childish playfulness, and Grover laughed at how juvenile his friend sounded. “But he doesn't know that. Or he does, but it doesn't matter anyway,” she shrugged. “Can’t wait to turn on the news and see him being arrested.”

Annabeth yawned, then, long and trying to somehow muffle it. Grover, who had been sitting over the arm of the couch, stood up and straightened himself before turning towards the architect, arms crossed over his chest and one of his eyebrows arched in judgement.

“Get up,” he said, and Annabeth — who hadn’t noticed closing her eyes for a second or more after yawning —, stared at him with clear confusion on her face. When she spoke again, another yawn threatened to leave along her words.

“What for?” she asked.

Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“If you don't sleep in your own bed, do you really think I expect you to look after yourself?” Grover argued, and Annabeth waggled her eyebrows and nodded briefly, agreeing. “Come on, get moving. I’m buying you breakfast.”

Annabeth snorted, and Grover walked round to the back of the sofa once more, standing in line with his friend’s head, only to land a light slap near his ear. Annabeth exclaimed in surprise and cursed quietly, laughing softly before getting up and picking up the jacket from the coffee table.

Grover, who was already near the door, waited for Annabeth to approach and grabbed the handle, opening the door and holding it for her to pass through. She, trying to knot the small bow in her shirt while still tripping over her shoes, took long enough so the man would huff and snatch her hands from the failed attempts and claim she needed to breathe, anyway, so she could deal with it later.

Annabeth laughed, following him to the elevators.

[…]

Large urban centers rarely had places that hide from the eyes of passers-byes. Everything was too clear, too crowded, too big — things were always extremely visible, and there were always too many things to be seen, to be heard, to be noticed and talked about.

New York was no different, and perhaps was quite too much that stereotype that Hollywood had established globally. Huge shops with bright signs, crowded shop windows and people who were surprisingly not bewildered by so much information; the city was just a huge anthill of people who were desperate, consumerist, bored or all three, in some cases.

There was a narrow side street, however, between two corners — one with a huge Starbucks shop and the other with a bank — which apparently hadn't been overwhelmed by chaos or huge lights. There, simpler shops with vintage content such as vinyl, comics or clothes that didn’t completely care about following the current strange branding, as well as two restaurants and a cozy coffee shop adorned the weathered pavements. In the center, from one of the pavements, one could access a park that was usually empty.

The café faced the park. Its white façade with sash windows and double wooden doors already indicated the comfort that the bright surroundings gave off, the extensive shelves with books only adding to the cozy impression that spread throughout the place. At the back, where a bay window with light cushions made the café even more inviting, was Annabeth’s favorite place to be whenever she found her way there.

Grover and she had discovered the café a few years before, trying to find somewhere they could study without the chaos outside and the noise of the city driving them crazy or completely out of concentration. She would take her drafts and sketches while Grover took his books and notes — and they wouldn’t speak, simply basking in each other’s company and, more often than not, ordering more coffee than anyone should ever consume in a span of eight hours.

They’d given up the last café they had thought would be a good idea after the fights in the kitchen got too loud and would catch their attention more than whatever they needed to focus on. Sure, Annabeth and Grover loved to know about the chaos — a cheating husband and a best friend and something involving purple dresses, when they last went there —, but, at the time, their finals were nearing and they needed a saving grace.

After a wrong turn, they spotted the façade, which at the time was an aqua green color, and placed one last bet on the place. It was late afternoon, and the orange of the setting sun — and urban pollution — reflected in the windows and accentuated the warm lamps inside the uncrowded and seemingly perfect establishment.

After that day, when they met River, Nicholas and Naomi, who worked there, the two of them decided that it was the right place for them to meet and, since then, that little café — which, honestly, none of them can remember ever asking what it was called — has become one of the best places in the world for unwinding and spending time with a good book.

With time shorter and shorter for them to be there as more than a passage to get coffee, the pair tried to make most of the occasions in which their schedule wouldn’t get in the way of enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes Juniper, Grover’s fiancée, would join them, as would Thalia, one of their best friends. River, Nick and Naomi — who were teenagers fresh into sophomore year when they first met — would also join the conversations whenever they could.

When Grover dragged Annabeth out of the firm, she already knew where they were going, and dropped her jacket on her friend’s car instead of putting it on as she usually did. The man had removed his jacket on the way, while humming any song on the radio and commenting on any news — gossip, if Annabeth was being honest — that was going round the building's departments.

Nicholas greeted them as they entered the cafeteria, always with his animated face that looked like it belonged to someone who hadn't slept in days and said that he would take care of their usual orders — with a little treat on the house, since they were the first customers of the day, as it was usually the case. The pair thanked him, walked to the back of the establishment and took their seats around one of the round tables, the one in front of the bay window.

It was a pleasant view, as the property extended a little further into a small yard surrounded by live fences and various flowers, always well looked after. There were a few tables dotted around, as well as ottomans surrounding lower tables, and the atmosphere was something straight out of a publisher’s portfolio. The hedge divided the café from a costume shop — old, she knew — and a vinyl record shop that Annabeth could not deny having fallen in love with at first sight.

Just a couple of minutes later, Nicholas returned with their favorite coffees on a tray and a smile on his face — for no reason, as the pair knew after so many years. Grover fidgeted in his chair, eager for his first caffeine fix of the day, and Annabeth simply shook her head with a soft giggle.

“A double espresso for you, sir, and a flat white for the beautiful lady,” Nicholas announced, changing his voice to a falsely dismissive tone as he spoke to Grover, and gently tapping his saucer against the table, only to turn to Annabeth, speak with false pomposity and then bend down to place the order in front of the woman.

Annabeth chuckled, and Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“One of these days, I'm going to rat you out to your manager, kid,” Grover grumbled, bringing his cup to his lips and holding back a groan of satisfaction when the strong drink came into contact with his tongue. Nicholas' smile widened, and Annabeth gestured with her hand as if to say that it was just an empty threat.

“Oh, yes; of course,’ Nicholas said, mockingly. “You love me, Grover. You should stop denying it to yourself,” he said, followed by a wink, and Annabeth pressed her lips together not to laugh.

“There's nothing to deny if what you say are lies,” Grover shrugged, and Nicholas made a false expression of offence. “Besides, I've never denied that River has always been my favorite,” he mocked, and Nicholas frowned in fake indignation.

Annabeth took another sip of her drink. And before the waiter could reply, she spoke:

“Where is River, by the way, Nico?” she asked. “You always arrive together,” she pointed out, and Nicholas made a move to tuck the tray under his arm, smiling with satisfaction at whatever he was going to say next.

“Belgium,” he replied, and Annabeth stopped the cup in mid-air, halfway to her lips. Grover straightened his back and narrowed his eyes, while Nicholas just shrugged. “Or on a train on the way to Belgium; I don't know the exact situation.”

“Belgium,” Grover said. “As in the country? In Europe?”

Nicholas nodded happily. Annabeth cleared her throat.

“And since when is River in Belgium?” the architect asked. “Why is he in Belgium on a Thursday morning when we saw him yesterday afternoon?” she frowned.

“Has he finally realized that the world isn't so big when you have money?” Grover asked, also with arched eyebrows.

Nicholas simply shrugged.

“About your question,” Nicholas pointed at Annabeth with his head. “Since last night, apparently. About yours,” he pointed at Grover in the same way. “I think the answer goes together with her other question. The world is definitely not as big when you have money and that, in a way, makes it easier when you want to run away,” he shrugged again, his animated tone faltering a little.

They knew River well enough to know what it was all about. And Annabeth personally understood all too well why the boy had taken a ticket to Belgium in the middle of the night.

“It took him longer than I thought it would, for him to do something like that,” Annabeth said, her eyes downcast, staring at the drawing in the foam of her cup. The two men agreed in silence. “And let's be clear that I'm referring to running away from those two as much as filling that pocket with money and going anywhere in the world. Although, frankly, I always thought he was going to take a boat,” she joked, lightening the mood in the room.

“I think we can all agree on that,” Grover said. “I've never seen anyone so insistent that packing up and travelling around the continent wasn't the best thing to do on a gap year. I'm glad he gave it a chance.”

Nicholas squeaked in amusement.

“Tell me about it,” he agreed. “I nearly put him on a plane myself. Imagine having the world in the palm of your hand and spending your days in a lost coffee shop in the middle of New York! I mean, he can do the most incredible things on this trip! See the Colosseum, the Louvre, the Parthenon, that hooped thing in Warsaw-

“Segovia Aqueduct,” Annabeth interrupted, and Nicholas chose to ignore her.

“... Pantheon, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower...” Nicholas listed. “And along the way, he could meet the love of his life. Imagine that!”

Grover laughed.

“Why do I think you and Naomi bet on that?” he asked, and Nicholas smiled mischievously once again. “For God's sake, Nico! What are the chances of River simply bumping into the love of his life on a train to Belgium?!”

“There are!” Nicholas argued, and Grover laughed even harder. Annabeth followed, taking another sip of her coffee. “Hey, don't you even start. What were the chances of River travelling anyway? Even more so in the middle of a Wednesday?!”

Annabeth tilted her head slightly to either side, agreeing.

“Well, yeah. You might have a point,” she said, and Nicholas smiled. “And you also have access to food,” she smiled, amused. “And food is always a good idea, don't you think?” she suggested, and Nicholas rolled his eyes before turning in his feet and walking towards the counter and the kitchen.

Annabeth lifted her wrist to look at her watch, then picked up her cup again to take a little more of the drink. After a few minutes, the architect felt a pair of eyes burn into the side of her face. She turned her head around to find Grover, leaning back on his seat, his elbows resting on the window ledge, legs crossed and a look on his face that Annabeth honestly didn't know if she wanted to decipher.

“What's wrong?” she asked anyway. Grover arched one eyebrow again.

“When are you going to give yourself a chance?” he asked, his serious tone and frank countenance staring into the confused expression of his friend, whose frown deepened at the environmentalist’s words. “Just like the one you’re glad River gave himself.”

Annabeth squinted, a little because of confusion over the last sentence Grover had said and a little because of the context of the sentence itself. She also threw his body back, leaning against the comfortable cushion, but leaving her head raised so that she could face the man in front of her.

“I like New York,” she said, as if that were some kind of explanation. “And I've lived alone for years, which frees me from any River-like motives.”

Grover rolled his eyes and grunted.

“You know very well what I mean,” he said, and Annabeth cocked her head to one side. Her friend sighed again. “You live for work, Annabeth, for God's sake. When was the last time you agreed to go out with anyone? Or by yourself?”

“Now?” she asked, pointing her finger at the table, and Grover bit his tongue. “Grover, I'm the director of the firm. I sort of have to work a bit harder than the others, and you know that.”

Grover nodded, but his pose remained the same.

“Oh. ‘A little’, you say. I'd like to emphasize it, then. You've been abusing any hyperbole or augmentation for years,” he retorted. “And it's not just going out with me, Annabeth. When was the last time you had a decent night's sleep in your own bed? Or the last night you even went to bed?”

The architect opened her mouth to say something, but Grover didn't let her speak before taking the floor again.

“When was the last time you left the house without a suit? Or the last time you, I don't know, met someone who wasn't a client?” he asked, and Annabeth chose to close her mouth. “Annie, when was the last time you ever flirted with someone?”

At the last question, Annabeth frowned again. Grover arched his eyebrows again, tilting his head slightly to one side and waving his foot in the air under the table where his legs were crossed.

“And what does that have to do with anything?” she asked, and Grover just sighed loudly, shaking his head. “What does it have to do with anything? I’m serious!”

The man sighed.

“I know! That's even worse,” he pointed out, raising his hands in exasperation. “Do you plan to spend your whole life being miserable and lonely and solving other people's problems?”

Annabeth opened her mouth in indignation, and Grover just lifted his chin, his lips twisting in defiance.

“Ouch,” Annabeth said, placing one hand over her chest. “I'm not miserable, G-Man.”

And if she pouted, Annabeth would deny it completely.

“Hm,” Grover muttered before reaching into his bag and slipping his hand inside, taking out his mobile phone and unlocking it. Annabeth frowned again, alternating her gaze between the man’s face and the mobile phone he was skillfully typing on until he smiled briefly and cleared his throat. “Hm. ‘Miserable’. Adjective and noun of two genders: ‘who or that which, by its misfortune, arouses compassion’,” he recited, and Annabeth sighed briefly before crossing her arms over her chest, too. “There's even a picture!” Grover exclaimed.

Grover turned the mobile phone towards Annabeth, and it took her a few seconds to notice that her friend had switched it off and there was only the black screen reflecting her twisted, confused face. The man had a proud, smug smile on his face, and Annabeth just snorted before pushing Grover’s arm to get the mobile phone out of her face.

“You think you're hilarious, don't you?” Annabeth asked, and Grover nodded in agreement. “And despite your blatant offence towards me, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need any advice. I’m fine, Grover,” she said, his tone serious and extremely formal.

“I know you are, I can see that,” he said. “But being fine doesn't cancel out being miserable, Annie. Come on, haven't you ever wanted to fall in love with someone? I know you have. We grew up together,” Grover said, and Annabeth settled a little further into her seat. “To be given flowers, to smile for no reason, to have someone to hug or to tell unfunny jokes to?”

Annabeth mumbled something, but spoke again before Grover asked.

“Doesn't that sound too cliché? Sugary?” she asked, and Grover just shrugged.

“Love has been love since the world was a world, Annabeth. It may sound repetitive in theory, because it is the theory,” he argued. “What really changes is that you're the one feeling it.”

She arched an eyebrow. And chose not to comment on the poetics, given the smile so sincere on Grover’s lips — thinking of Juniper, she knew, because the glimmer in his eyes was quite obvious.

“And what's so special about that?” she retorted, and her friend merely repeated her previous gesture, but leaned forward to reach for his cup again.

“Love is a universal concept, but this one anyone could call their own,” he said. “Which, you must admit, is quite something,” he sipped his drink. Annabeth just shrugged, imitating her friend and picking up her cup as Nicholas returned from the kitchen with another tray, spouting words that the two of them were still too slow to decipher.

As she ate the slice of cake Nicholas had brought — and I'm sorry it took so long, but I forgot to make it part of the sweet display and I really don't need to be sacked now, so close to my first semester of Med School — Annabeth pondered some of Grover’s words.

Smiling for no reason? It sounded merely silly. Having someone to hug? Sometimes... It would be nice, but it also sounded too trivial to have at the cost of a possible heart. Telling unfunny jokes? Isn't that what she's in that friendship for starters?

And to receive flowers?

Annabeth laughed to herself.

It was too sweet — and the hope was too foolish — for it to ever happen to her.

“I don’t even know why you brought ‘falling in love’ up, Grover,” she said, then, suddenly. Her friend took his time to savor the piece he was taking to his mouth and ignored her for a minute before swallowing.

“Because I saw your face when Nico joked about River finding love in a train, dipshit. I know you better than you know yourself.”

And she didn’t know how say anything back to him, because there was no way she could deny it, either. Tragically, Annabeth hated to admit, she was a romantic — and she would often daydream of meeting someone and being enchanted and going through every single cliché on the book.

She shook her head, ridding it of the stupid thoughts, and focused on her cake again.

As they left the café to return to the firm, Annabeth left the conversation, her thoughts and unfounded hopes hanging on the glass of the bay window, hoping that the wind or the passing of people would blow them away.

[…]

Sometimes, he believed New York was quiet for the big city it undoubtedly was.

Of course, there were lights and noise, and people walked around in their own misery all the time — but it was calmer, from where he stood, because the anguish didn't seem to be constantly in the spotlight. There were more trees here and there, and one could hear the birds every morning, as well as dogs barking and whatever it was that seemed to be screaming when the sun comes up.

The streets, at least the newer ones, were wide and full of lights, and were crowded as the daylight shone down on them, penetrating through the clouds and shining on the buildings — but quietened down as the moonlight began to replace the golden glow with a pale, soft glow. Things seemed to get a little quieter, and the pace would slow down significantly, making it seem as if the great city had had the courage to fall asleep.

The New York he lived was quiet for a big city; it was.

It was the first thing that crossed his mind whenever he woke up in the morning or in the middle of the night, and one could hear the crickets sharpening the silence around the streets. If he tried hard enough, he would be able to hear the sleeping city itself, a few cars and motorcycles from time to time, some owls hiding from the remaining lights of the streetlamps.

It was a feeling he had forgotten he could ever feel — if he ever had, because growing up in central New York takes away most of the sense of silence. It was soothing, most of the time, and it helped whenever he couldn't fall asleep after a busy, hellish or chaotic day.

Because, even if New York was quiet for a big city, he could count on his fingers the number of slow days he'd managed since work had started again.

And wasn’t it surprising when one worked at a flower shop?

Switching on his cell phone, then, Percy kept a quick pace out of his house, the headphones now loud in his ears and his eyes straying to the hour on the screen once more. He sighed, and his fingers tightened the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his feet moving a little faster.

And, because his New York was quiet for a big city, it was easy to dodge the crowds as he walked through the people occupying the streets. The sidewalks were long and, although crowded, there were far fewer people than Times Square when it was summer or the very end of the year.

The drier weather, however, was something Percy still longed to get along with ever since he had mover further from the coast — Montauk, where he spent so much of his childhood and had yet to see for a few years, now. While the streets of New York were crowded and always in motion, the coast always had a gentle breeze every now and then, passing over people's heads and through their clothes as they walked in the shadows of the buildings made. The heat seeped in, the sun being reflected by gigantic buildings, which left the air humid, almost sandy.

The very core of New York, on the other hand, was not hot, but dry — and Percy should have gotten used to it by now, but his muscles always felt uncomfortable, his nose often ran, and his brain would most likely stop working when the clouds declared a truce.

Juniper would always make fun of him, as would his mother — but sometimes she also faced the same problems with the cold and drier weather. And then Paul would make fun of her, because someone who did grow up in central New York shouldn’t be so unused to its weather, regardless of how many years she’d spent on the coast.

Those were funny interactions — except for the time Percy nearly had an asthma crisis, and his father nearly snatched him to Greece just for good measure (with his mother’s permission, that was) — that made him laugh every time he remembered them, especially on the way to the flower shop, not far from his apartment but not exactly near it either. Percy held his breath whenever a funny comment came to mind, so as not to look completely crazy while laughing in the middle of the street, especially when he was half-running to where he needed to be.

In less than fifteen minutes — running and bumping into a few people — Percy was already able to see the mirrored building opposite the flower shop. The building, an architecture office, was a huge construction with large windows and busy people, although he never paid it any attention. The flowers and the people were better to look at than a skyscraper with ties and walking headaches.

Apart from that, the architects and engineers who worked there rarely stopped their busy day to talk to anyone — and Percy could swear he'd never heard any of their voices in his entire life. Overall, he could understand; the firm was always bustling with clients and he supposed that being stressed was just a direct consequence of it.

But he doubted it to be completely true even more after meeting Grover, who was more of an angel than a real person.

The point was that he had met him before, through Juniper’s stories, the sighs of love and the moon eyes at the mere mention of her fiancé. In later conversations, the shop’s team discovered that he was an environmentalist and worked at New York’s newest influential architecture firm — which wasn't exactly a surprise, as Juniper talked about him as if he were Superman.

And Percy, although he worked at the shop his entire life, never paid enough attention to see either Grover or Juniper entering or leaving the mirrored building. Neither of them did pay attention to the flower shop, either, and it was a funny Tuesday morning when Grover entered the store only to bump into Percy’s presence behind the counter.

The environmentalist was leaving the mirrored building early and walked to the flower shop as soon as Juniper let him know she was there. It was flattering how he smiled, and even more so how his comment about how much he had heard about Percy gave away how much Juniper cared about him and the whole team — but the florist couldn't help seeing the woman nearly explode in embarrassment when he offered Grover an entire bouquet.

The man’s ears turned red, and Percy believes that was the moment they decided to be best friends.

Ever since they met, then, on Tuesdays, Grover would show up with or without Juniper — the days she didn’t work —, just to chat or keep Percy some company when he wasn't buried up to her neck in piles of paper and work and stress. Sometimes he would talk about how crazy things were, or how much his best friend, who worked with him, could annoy the life out of him — and Percy would doubt it, of course, because Grover had the patience of an angel and a mocking tone in his voice while he pretended to hate whoever she was.

It was one of Percy’s favorite friendships, if he was honest. Of course, it wasn't rare or difficult for Grover to be someone's favorite person — Juniper herself was the most obvious example — but it was a delightful experience to know and feel that he was also one of his dearest friends.

But about the mirrored building, that was all Harry knew — Grover. And some of the gossip that went around, of course. Like how Hawks cheated on Bernardez with his superior, Minelli, and still refused to admit that he wasn't one hundred percent heterosexual. Or even how Mendes got angry and broke a few things when Levesque was promoted in his place.

Percy didn't know any of them, but it was particularly amusing to hear Grover tell him with such a conspiratorial tone in his voice. It brightened up his days and got him out of his own head sometimes.

Which was always useful, of course.

Taking the last few steps to the store and slowing down, Percy smiled as he approached the horizontal white wooden fence with vertical black metal bars, stepping onto the wooden walkway that crossed the well-tended garden. Percy tightened the grip on the strap of his backpack, looking around and waving to a couple sitting at one of the tables before stepping through the doors into the cooler atmosphere.

The large windows around the wooden walls gave the flower shop a comforting clarity, and the sophisticated building seemed cozy with all the flowers around it. The arrangement of the tables, the frames, the bouquets, the lights and how warm the whole place seemed — even with the air conditioning on — made it Percy’s favorite place in the whole world.

It was a friendly and danger-free environment, as if nothing outside it could reach anyone inside. The flowers seemed to be a reminder of how much beauty the world could hold, and sometimes being there was all he needed for the tightness in his chest to ease.

“Ma?” he called out, walking up to the counter. Harry put his bag on a coat rack while he still didn't go to his own locker, also picking up the apron he had hung up the day before.

As soon as the apron was around his neck and waist, an older woman came out from behind one of the wooden walls in the middle of the flower shop, with a small flower in a small vase in her hands and a fond smile on her face. Percy arched an eyebrow, a small smile on his face too, and waited for her to notice him.

Sally Jackson was a lovely woman, someone who seemed much younger than she actually was. The only wrinkles on her face were scars of smiles through time, and the kindness of her expression would fool anyone to how much pain the world could hold — and that was something Percy grew up admiring and looking up to. His mother would always have a smile to offer and advice to share with her flowers and whoever needed to hear it, and her arms were the most welcoming place for anyone to ever step into.

The flower shop was practically her home, although Percy obviously knew that Sally didn't live there — anyone could be fooled, considering that she never seemed to leave. She always seemed to be at peace as she strolled through the bouquets and flowers, and everything there seemed to revolve around the woman; the place felt like a safe haven, and the feeling of “home” hung in the air for anyone who wanted to breathe it in.

Percy always took a deep breath, then, and exhaled slowly each time his demons and the noise seemed to try to reach him. The mixed scent of all the flowers could be a little nauseating at first, but the contrast with some other citrus plants would make his lungs feel as fresh as if there was the purest oxygen passing through each of his pores. It was safe, welcoming and almost addictive.

And his mother didn’t ask questions when Percy seemed to breathe more deeply than necessary, and simply invited him to take a walk, taking him away from the throng of people coming in and the noise they carried. It had always been that way; she wouldn’t press on the hurtful matters, trusting him to come to her whenever he felt ready to — and how he loved that woman and everything about her nature.

Most of the time, the days at the flower shop passed the same way — a warm mist covering the dim, welcoming sunlit room, and one of them, lost in their own head, wandering around the flowers as if there were no evil within those walls. A smile would remain on both their faces, suddenly, for no reason, with no time to leave, and it would simply be easy to be there.

Sally kept walking to one of the display tables, but she didn't hear Percy’s greeting as she looked at the flower in her hands. The man arched an eyebrow, placing one of his elbows on the counter and pressing his hip against it, crossing his legs in front of each other as he stared at her.

Percy waited, and it took about three minutes for Sally to look around, searching for something. The man shook his head, stepping away from the counter and then stretching out his arm to reach one of the tools underneath it, on one of the shelves. When his hand reached the pliers, Percy walked closer to his mother, not bothering to call out to her, but just to place the tool closer.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she muttered to herself, accepting the pliers and not sparing a glance at her son, who swallowed a laugh and put his hands behind his back, watching curiously as she cut some branches and leaves from the plant's stalk.

“Which ones are those?” Percy asked, observing the yellow-brown flower that looked a lot like a sunflower in a strange way. Sally, who was concentrating on her task, only answered after a few minutes in silence.

“Gaillardias grandifloras,” she replied. “Also known as Spanish lace,” she said again, and Percy smiled a little at the new piece of information he had been offered.

“And what do they mean?” asked the man, and she let out a happy sigh at that question. It was almost a rule by now that any new flower would result in those two questions coming from Percy, and the flower shop owner couldn't say that it bothered her at all. If anything, it flattered her more than life — that her child grew up to remain as curious as he had been as a little kid.

“Modesty, charm, happiness,” his mother replied, and Percy smiled. “Joy of being together, too. It's a subtle option to give to friends or to that person you have a crush on and never dare say a word about,” she added, and a brief laugh escaped Percy’s lips.

“Not a problem I have, luckily,” Percy joked, shrugging softly.

“Yet,” Sally laughed, the sound soft and charming as Percy always remembered it to be. “I'm counting the days until you climb the walls and want to leave early because there's a pair of eyes you can't get out of your head,” she said, and Percy could only roll his eyes affectionately.

“Where did that come from, uh?” the curly-haired man asked, turning his body when the little bell on the door sounded and looking again at the woman next to him when the guest dismissed his help with a smile and a wave of one of his hands.

His mother, eyes so kind and smile so sweet — welcoming and proud and teasing when looking at him, as if, even if Percy was able to do wrong, there was nothing but goodness in his soul —, shrugged.

“I just have a good feeling, dear,” she decided to say “That love is in the air,” she nearly sung.

Percy arched his eyebrows again.

“Oh, really?” he asked. “And what makes you feel that way?” he wiggled his eyebrows, and Sally smiled, lifting the flower in her hands and smiling at it, ignoring Percy’s condescending look.

“The flowers, Percy,” she said, inhaling the sweet scent close to her nose. “All the flowers,” she added, and Percy couldn't help but smile along with her.

“Let's hope they listen, then,” the man said at last, turning once more as the bell rang again and a trio entered the store. The girl saw him, and Percy smiled, waiting for them to approach so that he could greet everyone. “And you should stop behaving this mystical. Soon enough you and Juniper will be hosting a summer camp to clean souls and vibes.”

“The flowers will listen,” she said. “And you act as if you wouldn’t be right in the middle of the summer camp trying to pretend that you’re the Lord of the Waters and can communicate with fish,” she added in a sharp, teasing voice, narrowing her eyes and causing Percy to stick out his tongue. “Insolent.”

Before he could vocalize his apologies, however — because he was a good son, excuse him —, his mother smiled, and the man just rolled his eyes, knowing then that it had been a joke; mostly.

Sally slapped his arm softly, and Percy took a few more steps, catching up with the group that had entered and stopping after a while. He smiled sweetly, but also frowned when he noticed one of the boys and the girl teasing their other friend, pointing at flowers, and then making a low joke that would give anyone the impression that the boy wanted to disappear.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Percy cordially, interrupting the group dynamic a little. “Can I help you today?” he offered, and the boy who was being teased swallowed dryly, clearly nervous about the florist’s presence there.

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#percabeth #percy jackson #annabeth chase #my writing #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #pjo fandom #fanfic #justapoet writes

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