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nostalgebraist · 6 months

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clarification re: ChatGPT, " a a a a", and data leakage

In August, I posted:

For a good time, try sending chatGPT the string ` a` repeated 1000 times. Like " a a a" (etc). Make sure the spaces are in there. Trust me.

People are talking about this trick again, thanks to a recent paper by Nasr et al that investigates how often LLMs regurgitate exact quotes from their training data.

The paper is an impressive technical achievement, and the results are very interesting.

Unfortunately, the online hive-mind consensus about this paper is something like:

When you do this "attack" to ChatGPT -- where you send it the letter 'a' many times, or make it write 'poem' over and over, or the like -- it prints out a bunch of its own training data. Previously, people had noted that the stuff it prints out after the attack looks like training data. Now, we know why: because it really is training data.

It's unfortunate that people believe this, because it's false. Or at best, a mixture of "false" and "confused and misleadingly incomplete."

The paper

So, what does the paper show?

The authors do a lot of stuff, building on a lot of previous work, and I won't try to summarize it all here.

But in brief, they try to estimate how easy it is to "extract" training data from LLMs, moving successively through 3 categories of LLMs that are progressively harder to analyze:

"Base model" LLMs with publicly released weights and publicly released training data.

"Base model" LLMs with publicly released weights, but undisclosed training data.

LLMs that are totally private, and are also finetuned for instruction-following or for chat, rather than being base models. (ChatGPT falls into this category.)

Category #1: open weights, open data

In their experiment on category #1, they prompt the models with hundreds of millions of brief phrases chosen randomly from Wikipedia. Then they check what fraction of the generated outputs constitute verbatim quotations from the training data.

Because category #1 has open weights, they can afford to do this hundreds of millions of times (there are no API costs to pay). And because the training data is open, they can directly check whether or not any given output appears in that data.

In category #1, the fraction of outputs that are exact copies of training data ranges from ~0.1% to ~1.5%, depending on the model.

Category #2: open weights, private data

In category #2, the training data is unavailable. The authors solve this problem by constructing "AuxDataset," a giant Frankenstein assemblage of all the major public training datasets, and then searching for outputs in AuxDataset.

This approach can have false negatives, since the model might be regurgitating private training data that isn't in AuxDataset. But it shouldn't have many false positives: if the model spits out some long string of text that appears in AuxDataset, then it's probably the case that the same string appeared in the model's training data, as opposed to the model spontaneously "reinventing" it.

So, the AuxDataset approach gives you lower bounds. Unsurprisingly, the fractions in this experiment are a bit lower, compared to the Category #1 experiment. But not that much lower, ranging from ~0.05% to ~1%.

Category #3: private everything + chat tuning

Finally, they do an experiment with ChatGPT. (Well, ChatGPT and gpt-3.5-turbo-instruct, but I'm ignoring the latter for space here.)

ChatGPT presents several new challenges.

First, the model is only accessible through an API, and it would cost too much money to call the API hundreds of millions of times. So, they have to make do with a much smaller sample size.

A more substantial challenge has to do with the model's chat tuning.

All the other models evaluated in this paper were base models: they were trained to imitate a wide range of text data, and that was that. If you give them some text, like a random short phrase from Wikipedia, they will try to write the next part, in a manner that sounds like the data they were trained on.

However, if you give ChatGPT a random short phrase from Wikipedia, it will not try to complete it. It will, instead, say something like "Sorry, I don't know what that means" or "Is there something specific I can do for you?"

So their random-short-phrase-from-Wikipedia method, which worked for base models, is not going to work for ChatGPT.

Fortuitously, there happens to be a weird bug in ChatGPT that makes it behave like a base model!

Namely, the "trick" where you ask it to repeat a token, or just send it a bunch of pre-prepared repetitions.

Using this trick is still different from prompting a base model. You can't specify a "prompt," like a random-short-phrase-from-Wikipedia, for the model to complete. You just start the repetition ball rolling, and then at some point, it starts generating some arbitrarily chosen type of document in a base-model-like way.

Still, this is good enough: we can do the trick, and then check the output against AuxDataset. If the generated text appears in AuxDataset, then ChatGPT was probably trained on that text at some point.

If you do this, you get a fraction of 3%.

This is somewhat higher than all the other numbers we saw above, especially the other ones obtained using AuxDataset.

On the other hand, the numbers varied a lot between models, and ChatGPT is probably an outlier in various ways when you're comparing it to a bunch of open models.

So, this result seems consistent with the interpretation that the attack just makes ChatGPT behave like a base model. Base models -- it turns out -- tend to regurgitate their training data occasionally, under conditions like these ones; if you make ChatGPT behave like a base model, then it does too.

Language model behaves like language model, news at 11

Since this paper came out, a number of people have pinged me on twitter or whatever, telling me about how this attack "makes ChatGPT leak data," like this is some scandalous new finding about the attack specifically.

(I made some posts saying I didn't think the attack was "leaking data" -- by which I meant ChatGPT user data, which was a weirdly common theory at the time -- so of course, now some people are telling me that I was wrong on this score.)

This interpretation seems totally misguided to me.

Every result in the paper is consistent with the banal interpretation that the attack just makes ChatGPT behave like a base model.

That is, it makes it behave the way all LLMs used to behave, up until very recently.

I guess there are a lot of people around now who have never used an LLM that wasn't tuned for chat; who don't know that the "post-attack content" we see from ChatGPT is not some weird new behavior in need of a new, probably alarming explanation; who don't know that it is actually a very familiar thing, which any base model will give you immediately if you ask. But it is. It's base model behavior, nothing more.

Behaving like a base model implies regurgitation of training data some small fraction of the time, because base models do that. And only because base models do, in fact, do that. Not for any extra reason that's special to this attack.

(Or at least, if there is some extra reason, the paper gives us no evidence of its existence.)

The paper itself is less clear than I would like about this. In a footnote, it cites my tweet on the original attack (which I appreciate!), but it does so in a way that draws a confusing link between the attack and data regurgitation:

In fact, in early August, a month after we initial discovered this attack, multiple independent researchers discovered the underlying exploit used in our paper, but, like us initially, they did not realize that the model was regenerating training data, e.g., https://twitter.com/nostalgebraist/status/1686576041803096065.

Did I "not realize that the model was regenerating training data"? I mean . . . sort of? But then again, not really?

I knew from earlier papers (and personal experience, like the "Hedonist Sovereign" thing here) that base models occasionally produce exact quotations from their training data. And my reaction to the attack was, "it looks like it's behaving like a base model."

It would be surprising if, after the attack, ChatGPT never produced an exact quotation from training data. That would be a difference between ChatGPT's underlying base model and all other known LLM base models.

And the new paper shows that -- unsurprisingly -- there is no such difference. They all do this at some rate, and ChatGPT's rate is 3%, plus or minus something or other.

3% is not zero, but it's not very large, either.

If you do the attack to ChatGPT, and then think "wow, this output looks like what I imagine training data probably looks like," it is nonetheless probably not training data. It is probably, instead, a skilled mimicry of training data. (Remember that "skilled mimicry of training data" is what LLMs are trained to do.)

And remember, too, that base models used to be OpenAI's entire product offering. Indeed, their API still offers some base models! If you want to extract training data from a private OpenAI model, you can just interact with these guys normally, and they'll spit out their training data some small % of the time.

The only value added by the attack, here, is its ability to make ChatGPT specifically behave in the way that davinci-002 already does, naturally, without any tricks.

#ai tag

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ohsalome · 1 year

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What are some amazing, most read Ukraine authors? The only one I know is Gogol and I would like more on my radar.

First important disclaimer is that without knowing ukrainian, your pool of choice is very limited. Unfortunately, our translators haven't done nearly enough to make ukrainian literature acessable for english speakers, so a lot of genuinely amazing stuff would require you to know the language.

The second important disclaimer is that I am going to recommend you a lot of poetry, and, with no disrespect to the translators, it doesn't hit nearly as hard in english as it is in ukrainian. I've recently heard the phrase "to read poetry in translation is like to take a shower wearing a raincoat", and it is so true. So, apologies for this barrier, but there is nothing one can do.

With that in mind, let's start from classics:

The first most important author is Taras Shevchenko. He mainly wrote poetry, but has some prose works as well, and during his life he was more known as a popular artist. The Bible of his works is Kobzar (a ukrainian word for travelling blind musicians), and the same word is also often used as a nickname for Shevchenko - akin to how Shakespeare can be called the Bard. Among the most important poems pay attention to A Dream (the poem for which he was imprisoned by the russians with an explicit ban on writing and painting), The Caucasus, My Testament, Kateryna, A cherry orchad by the house, О thoughts of mine

The second big name to know is Lesya Ukrainka. Lesya is also more known for her drama and poetry than her prose, but she also was a prolific translator and a feminist. Her most well-know play is The Forest Song (a cartoon adaptation is soon to be released after 7 years of production, but from the trailer it looks like it's not going to be close to the text). I find her Бояриня play to be much more interesting and relevant, however, it looks like it has not been translated yet. Among her poems, some of the most important are Contra Spem Spero and Cassandra (the latter has had some successful stage prouctions in Great Britain last year, mayhaps it will gain popularity)

Some links to her works: [x] [x]

Fun fact: there are speculations about Lesya Ukrainka's relationship with her close friend Olga Kobylyanska. The letters they exchanged are quite intimate and sometimes even erotic in nature, which lead some academics to believe that they were more than friends (most still fall in the "gal pals" camp tho). However, if that were true, that would mean that Lesya Ukrainka is the only bisexual woman to ever be printed on banknotes.

The third pillar of ukrainian classical literature is Ivan Franko. Once again, we are talking about partiotic poetry, but there are also many socialistic ideas in his works (although he became dissilusioned with it in his later years ), which I think many western readers will find appealing - (side comment - it looks like "collective west" is going through the same processses that we overcame a century ago, so ehm... good luck, y'all will need it). I haven't been able to find much of his works translated in English, so here is a good master page. Zakhar Berkut is considered to be one of his greatest works (a ukrainian-american co-production movie The Rising Hawk was released a couple of years ago, it was shit). If you manage to put your hands on it, I would greatly recommend The Painted Fox and Moses. Also, reading Eternal Revolutionary imprinted on me so much in childhood and determined who I grew up to be, I pretty much consider Franko to be my spiritual father.

A great event that happened this year is that Valeryan Pidmohylny's The City is finally getting an english translation. I have been gushing about this book on this blog before (you can also find the link to the publisher there), because for the archetypical ukrainian literature this book is a breath of fresh air. It's beautiful, it's modern, it's urbanistic, the protagonist is irredeemable asshole, it's amazing and I should re-read it as well.

Among the authors that are much more difficult to find, I greatly recommend Ivan Nechu-Levytsky. In my humble opinion, he like no other has managed to capture the "ukrainian spirit" and his plots are extremely captivating and dramatic as hell.

I will always, always add Ivan Bahryiany to my lists of ukrainian "must reads". He is an author of the first ever ukrainian adventure novel Tiger Trappers/The Hunters and the Hunted, which is the book that is loved even by those who don't like ukrainian literature. However, I personally find his Garden of Gethsemane to be a much more important (but take care, it is much more depressing as well). This author is extremely important, but I struggle finding PDFs of his work - perhaps, you'd have to search the libraries or ukr diaspora publishers for paperbacks. I have also been unsuccessfully hunting for an english translation of Why I am not going back to the Soviet Union? pamphlet for years - and I know for sure it exists because the USA first lady at that time has read it and it influenced her opinion on the USSR - but I've had no luck so far.

Another very important author of the same time period is Mykola Khyvylovy. One of his plays has actually been recently put to stage in English (shamefully, I haven't watched it yet, but I can vouch for the text it was based on - it's brutal).

I can't speak about ukrainian literature without mentioning crimean tatars, and although their works are much, much less known (in Ukraine as well, unfortunately), please do not overlook it. It is a gorgeous culture, and reading it, I grew to love and value Crimea so much even without ever visiting it. There are some english translations avaliable, including those of Noman Çelebicihan - an extermely important figure in Crimean Tatar history, the founder of the unfortunately short-lived Crimean Democratic Republic, the author of their national anthem, and overall very influential revolutionary.

Now let's jump to the popular modern authors. Many don't have english translation, but the problem is much less prominent in comparison to the ukrainian classics. With these authors, you shouldn't have trouble with finding paperbacks. Among the most influential authors I can recommend Serhiy Zhadan (Timothy Snyder has once said that he expects Zhadan to receive a Nobel Prize in literature and I agree), Oksana Zabuzhko (she either aught to release soon or has already released an english-exclusive book about the russian-ukrainian war), Yuri Izdryk (extremely modern and unconventional, but he's a good represention of the current state of art), Yuriy Andrukhovych (love his mastery of language, hate his characters). These authors are more light-hearted, but a grim necessity for today is Stanislav Aseyev's The Torture Camp on Paradise Street. It is a autobilgraphical book describing his experience being imprisoned by russians between 2017 and 2019. Western journalism often describes the war crimes russians commit on our land, but just listing the number of people lost doesn't show the face of the russian horror. Read this book to understand why we were screaming about the russian threat before the full-scale invasion, and why every time we regain the territory we brace with terror of what we'll discover there - because everywhere russian army goes, they build hunderds of such Isolyatsya camps that the book describes.

Also check out Serhiy Zhadan's band!

#response #ukraine #ukrainian literature #thank you for this question this is much more fun to talk about than the usual topics on this blog

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moonyasnow · 28 days

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TWST OC showcase: Junia Rondo

Merfolk - Rainbow Parrotfish Right-handed Queendom of Roses - Octavinelle Dorm 161cm / 5'3 - #e85483 / 232, 84, 131 May 14th - Taurus - 19-20 y.o. 2nd year - Sophmore - Class B, no. 24 Pop Music Club Best Subject: Music Hobbies: Macabre stories and songs Pet peeves: People not taking care of themselves Favorite food: Fasolada Least favorite food: Plain Anything Talent: Singing Floyd-given name: Parrotfish Rook-given name: Demoiselle Chanteuse/Songbird Cater-given name: Junie-pie Signature Spell: 'Use Your Voice' Can perfectly imitate the voice of absolutely anyone, so long as she's heard it at least once

[ ~Based on the Nautilus Ariel's voice was kept in~ ]

Some quotes:

“No, no, Junia! You weren't supposed to think about it!” She slaps her cheeks. [internal narration] *It's better I not think about it. Besides, I'm stupid after all, so what would I even be able to figure out if I did? It won't do me any good.*

[internal narration] *Haah, what should I do?! They need backup, but I can't exactly fight…but there's no one else available to help!* She stands there almost in a panic, hesitating and second-guessing herself over and over again on wether to or not to run over. *But what could I even do?!* Then she hears that some of the people she knows are injured, and something clicks. She gives herself a light bonk on the head with her closed fist. “Ah— duh, I know first aid!”

“I-I would love to laugh at your joke, but to tell you the truth I am much too confused right now.”

She was born in the ocean surrounding the land known as the Queendom of Roses, in a cushy bay in the middle of the country. At least cushy compared to the rest of the open ocean, which was far more competetive when it came to survival. However, her mother was born in the Coral Sea. As a Parrotfish, her bright colors stood out against the deep blue, so though she was lucky to be born into a wealthy family which granted her some protections others didn't have, she was still forced to fight to survive. Her marriage to the heir of the Rondo family was what finally ensured her safety. Junia was born some years after, but her father died before he could meet her. Junia's mother then decided to move the two to the Queendom of Roses, where her mother ended up becoming a successful lawyer. Her plans for Junia, already fully formed at less than a year old, was for her to become an excellent student and find a good, stable career of her own. That way her mother could be sure she'd not only survive but further their family legacy.

When she got older and was supposed to start learning how to read, she tried her best, but could never make sense of it. The letters seemed to jump around and flow together, and she would sometimes need to spend 10 minutes just trying to read a poem. If she'd ever been taken to see a doctor about it, she would have been diagnosed with severe dyslexia, and also as being autistic, though the latter has nothing to do with her difficulty in learning to read and write. It took much more time and practice for her to be able to read than it took for her peers. Junia was also a very gullible person and tended to believe most things people said to her if they seemed somewhat plausible. She didn't doubt other people or consider that they could be lying, since the thought of someone operating in bad faith just never naturally crosses her mind. Some of the other children around her used this to pick on and even bully her. Because she had trouble reading both words and the room and was so gullible, everyone around her— including her mother— started calling her stupid. She started to believe it. As a child, people often remarked to her mother about how cute Junia was, and as she got older, they started calling her beautiful. Coupled with her reputation as being stupid, people whispered behind her back that her appearance was the only thing she had going for her. Her mother seemingly took this to heart and began raising Junia to be the perfect dim-witted, obedient housewife, since she hoped that at the very least maybe Junia could have a future as a trophy wife to fall back on if she couldn't get a good job with her own effort. Her mother told Junia that smiling made women beautiful, so Junia started smiling all the time. She told Junia that she was an ugly crier, so Junia stopped crying in front of others. She was never really able to make any friends, since her mother pressured her to spend as much time as possible studying. Whenever she tried to speak to other kids her age, she would always end up saying something that got her weird looks. Or she had trouble finding a gap in the conversation in which to speak, and since she had been taught that interrupting was rude, she ended up a quiet observer in the background enough times that she stopped wanting to try to talk to them. Instead, she grew very fond of animals, smaller fish with somewhat 'lesser' intelligence. For whatever reason, these fish always loved her, and so she would often spend time with them over her peers. These smaller fish who were sometimes sought out as prey returned the love she gave in full, and saw her for what she was, unlike other people who only saw what she lacked. People who saw how much time she spent with these creatures considered mere animals felt it only further confirmed their beliefs of her being an idiot. People began calling her 'Guppy' as an insulting nickname— akin to calling her a child and suggesting her intelligence was on par with one.

Junia had always loved to sing and play the harp, and wanted nothing more than to continue with her passions. She can actually read musical notes quite well, and has a really good musical memory, which means she can remember the lyrics even if she's only heard a song once or twice. However, her mother told her to stop, since she thought the songs Junia wrote and composed were too 'strange' or 'disturbing' or 'eccentric'. Being the obedient girl she was, Junia agreed to stop. She was even forbidden from humming in the house. As she became a little bit older, her mother became more and more concerned with finding a husband for her. This was when she started forbidding Junia from any and all self expression that she didn't approve of, which included her music, and Junia's love of an abundance of 'flower' patterns from the surface. She started preparing her and telling her about the things she would need to give up to be married. She must remain obedient and do exactly as her future husband says, in order to keep him happy. She must never do anything her future husband hasn't given her permission to do, she must never bother him with her worries, anxieties or insecurities, and never state her opinion on anything, in order to not risk disagreeing with him. She must be seen and never heard, unless spoken to, and her only value outside of having children is to make her husband look better by having a pretty, obedient wife. Basically, she must give up her entire personhood to be forever tied to someone she knows nothing about, and become little more than an accessory to someone else. Junia started to feel more and more as though she didn't want what her mother had decided for her and began dreading her future marriage, even though it wouldn't be until she was at least 18. But still, she said nothing. What could she even do about it anyway? She couldn't somehow convince her mother to allow her to not go through with it. If she decided to run away, she'd have nowhere to go, and would probably end up meeting with an even worse fate, since she's been so dependent on her mother her entire life that she has no idea how to survive on her own, having never been taught how. So, Junia started acting the way her mother told her an 'ideal woman' should.

Then one day, what she had dreaded seemed to come to pass. Her mother informed her that she had found a good suitor for her in the Coral Sea. And so they would be going there and staying for a month, so Junia could start getting used to the environment before meeting her husband-to-be. She was miserable every tail-flick of the way, and felt like she was being suffocated. She had to start to grapple with the fact that she would never be able to sing again. So the first chance she got, she snuck off into an empty area, bringing her harp with her, and started to sing a series of songs she'd been working on for years— something like her life's work. Her mother always said they were 'too creepy' so she knew she'd never get the chance to again. Unbeknownst to her, while she was singing song after song, she had a secret audience of three…

(They knew who she was. The Rondo family was quite well-known, at least in this part of the Coral Sea, and who would the Octomer be if he didn't do his research? They had also heard the widow and daughter of the previous head of the Rondo family were coming back to the Coral Sea after 18 years in order for said daughter to be politically married-off. Azul didn't take much note of it— at least not until the moment he happened upon her; tweets following behind after he'd been gone for a bit too long. The two first things that struck him were her bright tail and gorgeous singing voice. The ones that came later was her great conventual beauty, and the passion she seemed to have for each song she performed. Yet there was also a sadness reflected on her face every time she finished a song. He saw the facts:

These songs were quite…unconventional, or at least so a family as traditional as the Rondos and whatever company they were trying to marry into would believe.

She was here to be married, and did not seek very happy about it.

She seemed even more sad after finishing each song or having to go back for the day, suggesting she felt this was something of a swan-song to her love of music.

She was a girl with a reputation for being gullible, naïve; easily deceived. He smelled blood in the water and had Thaumarks in his eyes. He could use this. The tweels just snickered quietly behind him, matching his smirk.)

One day during her singing, when she had just finished a song, she heard a whistle, and clapping. Hands flying up to cover her mouth to cover not only a surprised squeal, but also the fact that whoever made that sound had heard her singing! She saw two eel mer slithering out of some nearby seaweed. They said they'd been listening to her sing, and wanted to keep hearing the story. Her eyes lit up with the stars ocean-residents never saw, and they knew it wouldn't be hard for Azul to convince her. They introduced themselves as 'Jade' and 'Floyd'— and only laughed or smiled each time she got their names mixed up. The louder one of the two even burst out laughing when she called him something WAY off the mark. He thought it was hilarious she was so bad with names, even though they'd started coming to listen to her sing every day.

There was something different about her when she had an audience. She was absolutely exuberant, and somehow put even more passion, emotion and effort into each and every song she sang. They thought she was interesting. She was clumsy, shockingly observant, skilled with her hands, oblivious, had 'etiquette school' written all over her and said the strangest things sometimes. She was like an open book— but one they couldn't predict. Without knowing it, she'd got their mental seal of approval.

As the day on which she would meet her future husband— and thus be forever trapped in a life she didn't want— was drawing near, she told her unexpected friends a bit about it. They obviously already knew thanks to Azul, but the confirmation was what made the three of them decide amongst themselves that it was time: she'd be taken to see Azul, and would most likely end up striking a deal with him.

Jade and Floyd had talked to Azul about what she was like before. Floyd often went on about 'Parrotfishie is so fun~!' and even Jade would smile and agree 'She certainly is interesting.' Azul, for his part, while not surprised at Floyd's opinion, was more startled that Jade agreed, given the latter often kept his feelings much closer to his chest. Everything they'd told him had him already prepared for her being a bit eccentric. But he was still surprised by her when he actually met her. She did say the strangest things sometimes. But she had this charm that always made her able to completely get away with it, cocking her head to the side in confusion, a surprised expression on her face when one of them laughed, asking with a confused, somewhat shocked voice if she'd said something weird. There was something comfortable about her presence, which he yet-again thought could be a great asset to them, and to his business.

When she was told that he was this 'sea witch' she'd sometimes heard whispers of, even back in the waters of the Queendom of Roses, she wasn't scared. She was surprised, even shocked, sure, but not scared. In fact, she seemed amazed, asking if it was true that he was really that good at granting wishes, saying that he was amazing with an expression of genuine awe.

And when it came time for the actual deal, she didn't try to haggle or negotiate the terms of the contract— she didn't even read it! It wasn't until much later that he would learn she couldn't read. Regardless, even knowing it might be dangerous, she had just laid everything she had in his hands, and was happy to do so, so long as she was still allowed to sing.

And thus, the contract was signed, and Junia Rondo never met her husband-to-be.

After signing her contract with Azul, a letter was sent to her mother. The specifics aren't important because Azul left a TL;DR on the first page in big, bold letters saying:

[The voice of Junia Rondo— and by extension Junia Rondo herself— is now the legal property of Azul Ashengrotto.]

And as Junia was 18 already, there was nothing the authorities could do about it.

She knew her mother was probably furious. But for once, she didn't care. She was too happy to be free.

Next thing she knew she went with Azul, Jade and Floyd to a sort of 'human boot camp' where, after drinking a transformation potion for the first time, they would be trained on how to live on land. They all struggled with the whole 'having legs' thing— none so more than Junia. It seems her clumsiness with everything but her fingers had come back in full force and even worsened now that she had legs. She couldn't even always manage to calibrate her own tail, so it was no surprise, really, that it took her almost twice as long as the other three to learn to use her legs effectively enough to not fall over. Well…fall over less. Baby steps. And she always had someone there to catch her. Though Azul, being used to eight limbs, also struggled more than the tweels. So at first when she stumbled into him, he stumbled as well, ending with them in a heap on the floor.

After completing their boot camp, Junia with the lowest marks— barely passing, but somehow good enough!— the four of them were enrolled into 'Night Raven College', a very prestigious magic school. Junia was a little worried at first about how she'd even get in, knowing it was an all-boys' school— would she have to crossdress? She wasn't super happy with the idea but she would do it if she had to! But then she just watched Azul hand over a big stack of Thaumarks to the Headmage and that was that. 'Oh.' was all she said, surprised it was really that easy.

At NRC:

Among the four of them in the Octavinelle Quartet, Junia was the one who took the longest to acclimate to walking on legs as opposed to swimming with a tail. In fact, even into her second year, she still tripped quite often. And so, Azul mostly had her working taking orders and showing people their seats. Because for as cute as her clumsiness could be, having to constantly replace plates and glasses she'd dropped and shattered was really draining his budget for the Mostro Lounge.

On Saturdays and Sundays, Junia would do almost nothing but sing at the Mostro Lounge. And on Sunday nights, she was allowed to sing songs she herself had written— ones that were way more experimental, intent to tell a story rather than just be a nice background song. And these nights became massive hits! A lot of people would come to watch just to see the next part of the story! And of course Azul capitalized on this, offering special offers on Sunday nights that lead to Mostro Lounge's business going up a lot!

She feels incredibly grateful to Azul for giving her a chance to not only share her music with others, but also for taking her with him to NRC despite the fact female students aren't typically allowed. She's gotten to meet so many different kinds of people there! And at a school with so many strange people, she feels right at home, instead of like the misfit she always felt like she was at home. And being away from her mother, she feels happier and more confident than ever. She's slowly starting to find out about strengths of hers that aren't just how 'pretty' she is.

But...she does also still feel very self-conscious of how 'stupid' she feels like she is. She had to get Azul's help in order to have the staff agree to a deal where she could give her exams orally instead of written on paper (bribes. he bribed them) and she is also the only student for whom this is the case. She always has to study alongside someone else because she's just not really capable of taking down notes since she's illiterate. When she does get that help, of someone explaining it to her, she understands it pretty ok eventually, but she still feels self-conscious that she needs that help in the first place. She kinda dreads going to class because of it.

The specific terms of her and Azul's contract were that Azul now owns her voice in exchange for her being able to still use it, and working for him for as long as the contract is in effect. That means not only singing at the lounge, but also working as a waitress, and— since Junia has always been seen as beautiful and attractive by those around her— he started using that to have her advertise the lounge and any and all new menu items right away. All without pay. But she would be allowed to eat 3 meals from the lounge for free a day— she'll be working for him, so he certainly can't have her be starving!

Since it's a very feminine voice, he couldn't really use it himself without it clashing with his appearance and normal speaking voice, not to mention he also already has Prince Rielle's pretty singing voice. But Rielle's voice can't do Soprano very well, just because that's not its range. So that's one of the reasons he lets her keep use of her voice. And he will admit that her natural charisma— and the charm her obvious, genuine passion for music gives all of her performances— certainly lets her make use of her song voice to greater effect than if he'd given it to someone else.

Junia is, as expected, great friends with Jade, Floyd and Azul.

She's often a bit startled and confused when Floyd drags her along to go follow his whims and do whatever he wants, but once her mind catches up she often ends up having a lot of fun. And through him she's also slowly starting to learn it's ok to prioritize things she wants to do over what she's been told to do. Azul is not always happy about Floyd making off with his best advertiser, but he never seriously punishes them harsher than giving them an extra shift to make up for the one they missed.

Despite being in the Pop Music Club, she sometimes goes with Jade on his hikes in the mountains. It's also a bit of plus for her since she gets to see more kinds of flowers! And birds, and other critters. She also always tries out Jade's new mushroom dishes, to Azul and Floyd's utter confusion and bafflement, and Jade's delight.

And as stated before, she has a lot of respect for Azul, and really admires him. And the two understand each other pretty well, since she was also bullied as a child, albeit less harshly than he was. She's also very quick to compliment him and tell him her positive opinions of him. He's had her tone it down whilst among others, since he doesn't want to end up blushing hard enough that his reputation is put in jeapordy, which she's gladly agreed to, thinking his shyness was actually really cute.

She's basically best friends with Cater, Lilia and Kalim as well, since the four of them are the only members of the Pop Music Club. She is actually often the only reason they get any kind of music practicing done at all. She also composes all the 'band's songs, since the others don't mind trying out something that isn't just an actual pop song cover now and then, and it's yet another way in which she gets to play her songs! Her playing piano well easily translated into keyboard, and she's also a prominent vocalist, but also loves being able to sing as a back-up.

#twst oc #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland oc #Moony's OCs #🩷junia #Spotify

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clove-pinks · 2 years

Text

It's still Christmas Eve in my timezone, and I would be remiss if I didn't share some excerpts from one of the most entertaining and heartwarming documents in the Le Vesconte family archives in Newfoundland: a Christmas Eve letter from Henry TD Le Vesconte, aged twenty-three, dated HMS Excellent Portsmouth Harbour Dec 24 1836.

I don't think this will be in the upcoming Franklin expedition letters book, May We Be Spared to Meet on Earth, because it's not from anywhere near the time period of the expedition.

It's addressed to his father, like the majority of correspondence from H.T.D. Le Vesconte in this collection, and features some of his nicest handwriting! (He not only became more jaded with age, his handwriting got messier).

He starts by explaining that he has held off on writing a letter due to the uncertainty of his movements, and he's very glad for the educational opportunities on HMS Excellent:

I am sure no one could value more highly the advantages arising from an acquaintance with all the useful sciences than yourself and you must be well aware how far the Navy are in general behind their neighbours in science and literature then you must allow that the Excellents will acquire a no small advantage over their brethren if this ship is properly conducted, I assure you I think we have here every opportunity of gaining knowledge

It sounds like a very good environment for him! He's not only learning maths, but how to use small arms as well as naval artillery! He outlines his career prospects, which are looking up.

the duty is so arranged as to interfere very little with our other pursuits, the Captain is a gentlemanly, intelligent man and we have a first rate mathematical instructor the common course of education here comprises all the higher branches of mathematics and mechanics, besides the regular gun drill, mortar Field-piece musket cutlass - at these latter we work very hard every day & altho I have been in ships considered smart at their quarters I did not know, or half know how to manage a gun before I came here, we remain here sixteen months and then after passing a short examination, are sent as instructors into all ships of more than Twenty guns, one great advantage is being always sure of a ship for when we are paid off we may come again to the Excellent and and remain until again called on

One of the things that I personally love finding in Henry Le Vesconte's letters are any kind of references to literature, songs, or other clues to the kind of pop culture shaping his world.

it is not the most delightful thing in the world, beating this exercise which savours a good deal of the soldier, to the “Tars of Old England” but I must do something. I have passed the college, so that I am quite ready for the commission but its a thing I hardly dare think of. However I shall keep my eyes about me

(Aaaaand we start to get into cross-writing).

He quotes from William Cowper’s poem “Pairing-Time Anticipated”, in an amusing passage about officers on his ship who can now barely stand each other:

We left Lisbon in the Endymion in October last were paid off at Plymouth the end of Novr in the midst of continued rain I believe we “parted without the least regret” except that we had never met”, the day was cold and wet the pay clerks very slow so that it was not until late in the evening that the officers singly and sulkily went one by one over the side some one way and some another four or five of us indeed dined together and even in so small a party there were three who had only become reconciled to each other for the occasion.

Henry's letters, while technically addressed to his father Commander Henry Le Vesconte, were obviously read by all of his family members who could get ahold of them, and Henry was very much aware of this. He always included lots of gossip in his letters, ostensibly for the benefit of his mother and sisters in Canada. Henry acknowledges it at the end of this letter, too: "My dear Mother and sisters will I am sure give me credit for writing them every thing they can wish for"

Henry hoped to someday join his family in Canada (right up until the Franklin expedition, as more and more family and friends emigrated):

I went to Southampton and saw nearly all our friends [...] Sarah as usual mischievous looking seven years younger than when I saw her last she wants to go to Canada before its too late. Wm Le Feuvre is very well one of his children a little girl was very ill not expected to live poor Jane Le F died not long since at Barbadoes his wife is going to be a neighbour of yours her family are going out & she meets them there.

Henry's not alone for Christmas, however, since his younger brother Philip is with him! Aged 18, Phil had ambitions of becoming a doctor (a goal he successfully achieved, living a long life in Canada).

Philip is down here spending the Christmas week with me I hardly knew him again his trip to France turned out very well, he talks of going over again in the summer.

Philip is mentioned again when Henry talks politics:

Philip says while William has turned Tory - and so quarrelled with all parties - but I am inclined to doubt it since he sent me a few days ago a paper bill of a Totnes reform meeting - the old thing eating on it of course

That's not the end of Philip Le Vesconte—there's a scrawled message from him around the border of the folded letter, and he starts out by roasting his older brother for not letting him have more space:

University of London Jany

My dear Father

As Henry has been kind enough to leave me a small bit of his letter I must take the opportunity of letting you know how I am getting on. With respect to my studies I feel every reason to be satisfied

Poor Henry, he longs for more letters from home to enjoy in the cold winter nights:

I hope you will write to me now as I shall be stationary for some time - I long to get a regular letter from you the only one I have had was from Kingston (or your way also) and said but little. will you make them write me a “round Robin” one of these long winter Evenings the said evenings are rather cold here there is now plenty of [damaged portion of letter from broken seal] the ground and it bids fair to be a severe winter

Although his signature is caught up in the cross-writing, I'll include it here with his closing:

My dear Mother and sisters will I am sure give me credit for writing them every thing they can wish for - with kindest love to them and my dear Brothers believe me ever My dear Father

Your truly affectionate son

HTDLeVesconte

#henry thomas dundas le vesconte #henry le vesconte #henry td le vesconte #franklin expedition #royal navy #1830s #hms excellent #hms endymion #christmas eve #le vesconte family #letters

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bqstqnbruin · 3 years

Text

But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all

Imma be honest I forgot what this last part was supposed to be called aidfjaoisf (also I know I used that gif for another part but c’mon tell me you don’t love it)

ANYWAY I caved and decided to post THE FINAL PART of 10 Things I Hate About You tonight as an ✨early✨ birthday thing for Matty (compromise ?). Thank you to everyone and anyone who has read it and put up with my perpetual being annoying about this but especially a thank you to @fratboytj for pretty much writing the poem in this with me and @pucksnsticksnhockeyboys @indyfish for their help, too, ily 💛

Here we go, y’all. Enjoy the ride!

Read the other parts here: I hate the way you talk to me and the way you cut your hair // I hate the way you drive my car // I hate it when you stare // I hate your big dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind // I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme // I hate the way you’re always right // I hate the way you lie // I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry // I hate it when you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call

___________________________

“What? No, I’m not going to-”

“Leave. Now.”

---------

“Because I love you.”

You take a step back in shock, even Evelina letting out a small gasp before retreating to her bedroom. “You have no right to say that to me,” you tell him, trying not to let him get to you. “You can’t leave me alone for over a week and then just waltz here and say that to me. You couldn’t even pick up the phone when I called you yesterday.”

He looks at you, completely confused. “You needed space. How is that my fault? You pushed me away at the bar and I came back. You pushed me away in the street and I came back. You pushed me away here and where was I supposed to go? How could I call you when I was afraid you would push me away a third time?”

“I tried to come back to you. I called you yesterday and you ignored me,” you repeat, your voice getting louder, “If you wanted anything to do with me you would have answered.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do? Drop everything any time you call me? I was on the phone with someone else and I called you as soon as I saw you called me, and you didn’t answer me,” the level of his voice matching yours, the flowers he brought you making a mess all over your floor as he angrily waved them around.

You shake your head, not wanting to tell him that it was because you had blocked him. ‘If it were meant to be, he would have been able to answer when you called,’ you tell yourself. “We’re only meant to be friends, Matthew,” is all you can manage to get out.

“How long are we going to keep dancing around the fact that you and I are meant for each other?” he asks, trying to fight back the tears that he knew were coming. God, if anyone else could see him right now, they would never think he was some NHL enforcer, whatever the hell the media called him. He was just a guy in love, trying to get the girl to understand her feelings for him.

“How long is it going to take you to understand that I hate so much about you?” you spit out at him, trying to hide the regret you felt as soon as you said it. “If we were meant to be then making that list wouldn’t have been as easy as it was,” you lie.

“Because we both know that’s not true,” he says, choking back the inevitable sob that was begging to come through as he tries to get closer to you. You weren’t sure what to make of this, you had never seen him this worked up over anything like this before, not to the point of tears, at least.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” you lie, trying to stand your ground, trying not to crumble before him.

“How is it bullshit? Everyone can tell that we’re in love with each other. Everyone but you. There is no one on this planet who knows you better than I know you. There is not one person that is more made for you than I am. There is no one more made for me than you are,” he tries to tell you, not wanting to let yourself hear his words.

They stung, no matter how much you didn’t want his words to get to you. Part of you knew he was right, and the other part of you didn’t want to admit it. “So, what, because other people believe it, that automatically means it’s true? I could get any guy and he could be better than you are for me.”

“Yeah? What names would this other guy call you in bed? Would he know where to touch you? Would he know that right here,” he drops the flowers so he can spin you around, kissing you behind your ear, his lips lingering long enough to pull a moan from your lips, “Is where you melt into me?”

“No!” you say, pulling his arm from your waist. “You can’t do that to me,” you tell him, tears falling down your face, your voice choked with a sob, “You can’t tell me these things when you’ve been hiding so much from me this entire time.”

“I hid one thing from you,” he insists. “You hide ten things you hated about me. I don’t even care about that at this point. It doesn’t matter if other people think it’s true or not. What matters is that we know it’s true. I love you.”

“Fuck you. Fuck. You. You do not get to tell me that. I can’t even look at you right now, Matthew,” you tell him, trying to think of anywhere you could retreat to when you remember you’re supposed to be downstairs waiting for your boss to show up, Evelina locked in her room to avoid any confrontation that might come from her being a third party.

“You don’t mean that. You know how you feel about me. Why can’t you just say it?” You look at him, the pain he felt showing on his face. You hated that you were doing this to him, but you hated it more that he was doing this to you. You couldn’t say it to him. You couldn’t lose him because of how you felt about him.

“You don’t know what I mean, Matthew. Evelina and I have to get going,” you try to go to her room to get her, praying that your boss wasn’t bombarding you with texts on your phone buried in your bag before you had to deal with him.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

You whip around to him irritated, that hatred of yourself turning into anger towards him that he kept pushing you when you clearly were already on edge. “Why do I have to make sense? I have not slept. I have barely eaten. I can’t even go five seconds without thinking of your stupid face, hearing your dumb laugh, and just wanting you next to me and knowing that all of that is a bad idea. We are friends Matthew. That is it. That is all we can be.”

“Is that what you want? Why do you keep denying everything?” he asks, his hand warped around your arm, just tight enough that it didn’t hurt, not hard enough that you could easily escape from him.

You look down at the floor, biting your lip. “Why do you think?”

“Come on,” he says, his other hand on you, pulling you ever so slightly closer to him. The distance between you was the smallest it had been in a week, you wanting nothing more than to take him in for a hug, kiss him, something that would make this go away. But you couldn’t do that. You couldn’t even answer him. “This right here is our issue!” he snaps, letting go of you.

You stand there, frozen, hearing Evelina come out of her room. “I don’t care. You need to leave.”

Matthew stands there, shocked. “What? No. I’m not going to-”

“Leave. Now,” you say, standing firm, grabbing your bags from the floor along with Evelina’s hand. “We have to go, our boss is waiting. Take the pile of shit that’s in Evelina’s room that yours,” you say, looking to her for a nod telling you it was ok. You drag Evelina to the door, her shocked over your entire conversation. “And Matthew?” you ask, a single tear falling from his eye.

“What?”

“Leave your key,” you tell him, your voice cracking as you shut the door and leave him there to collect his things.

“You just left him in our apartment to go through my room?” Evelina whines as the two of you run to the stairs in hopes that he won’t be able to find you, catch you and cause a scene out on the street.

“You nodded and I took that as it was ok. He’s out of my life and that’s how I want it for now so I don’t care what you think but you need to respect it. No more of this meddling, Evelina. There is no way he would have known to come right before we were leaving unless you told him,” you spit out at her as you sprint down the stairs. You hear her inhale as if she were about to say something, stopping at the landing and turning to her, “I’m not mad. You gave me the chance for a goodbye. A goodbye before we leave for a new city, even though we’re coming back here.” It’s Thomas all over again, but this time, you were the one leaving him.

Evelina nods, taking your hand and leading you outside where the caravan that had your coworkers and boss was already waiting, your boss leaning on the door of the car. “Sorry, I had a slight family emergency that I was trying to deal with. Luckily, though, you planned out plenty of extra time so that we were going to be at the airport about four and a half hours before our flight anyway,” you say, smiling at him, hoping he could hear the sarcasm that was dripping in your voice through the latter half of the sentence.

“Evelina said you couldn’t find something,” he mutters, taking your bags from you as you climb in the car, not sure how to respond to the rest of your obviously sarcastic chipperness.

“That was the emergency,” you lie, “My mom thought I took something with me back here and wanted to catch me before we leave. Don’t worry we found it. It’s right where it belongs,” you say, closing the door as the three of you join the other two, getting ready to finally leave for a few days.

This was good. This is what you needed. Work would keep you busy, especially considering your boss bought what you were telling him, already changing subjects to talk about the conference and what else he thought the four of you should be doing while you weren’t presenting. The van was about to pull away, seeing the door of your building swing open, Matthew red in the face holding his coat and the key. You swallow hard, not letting yourself start to cry as you pull away, focusing your attention back to your boss even though what he was saying was mundane and trivial to you at this point.

Matthew watches the car leave with you in it, the key he thought he lost in his hand, not realizing you had had it the entire time, never using it. He had no idea if you even wanted it, if you knew you had it. If you did, then that would mean the entire time, you never wanted to use it. This entire time, you really didn’t love him, no matter how much he loved you.

All he could do was put the key in his pocket and walk away. So he did.

You do your best to tune out our boss, getting to the airport in no time and finding yourself sitting on the floor outside of the gate, the four of you on your computers going over the last minute details of the presentation you had tomorrow. No matter how hard you tried, you still had a nagging voice in your ear that you need to tell him, that you shouldn’t push him away. All you could do was take a breath and ignore it, talking when you had to, giving your input, and forcing yourself to think of nothing but this presentation and the conference.

By the time you land in LA, you were more exhausted than when you left, your boss talking your ear off about heading to the conference that night to scope things out, see potential future directions for projects for your company, talk to other people and make more connections in the states since he thinks you were one of the few groups from Canada present. “Y/N? Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” he asks, either oblivious to your eyes drooping as you struggle to stay awake while Evelina checks everyone in, or not caring in the slightest.

“You want to go to the conference tonight because there’s the expo and you want free stuff, and other people to talk to about their business ventures” you mumble, knowing that was what he said pretty much verbatim.

He leaves you alone, Evelina coming over and having to drag you to the room the two of you were going to share. “We have like three hours before he wants us to meet for dinner and head to the convention center. You’ve gotta get some sleep,” she insists, you acting like such a zombie you didn’t even realize that you were already standing in front of your hotel room door.

You nod, not caring enough at this point to argue with her. You fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow, Evelina probably moving around the room without you even realizing it. You knew you were dreaming, unable to really talk, just watching the scene around you unfold. You had no idea where you were, walking around a backyard, two small children, a boy and a girl, squealing as they chased each other around. There was a house behind you, other people who you couldn’t make out laughing and talking. You knew that everything and everyone you saw in your dreams were places and people you had seen before, your mind unable to conjure up life like that when in a dream state. You just couldn’t figure out where you knew everything from.

You feel two arms snake around your waist, someone’s chin nestled onto your shoulder, immediately feeling yourself relax into whoever it was even though you couldn’t tell.

“Look at them,” the familiar voice says. You knew that voice. You knew who it was as he planted a kiss on your neck, feeling his curls graze against your ear once he pulled away, your knees going weak at the feeling you didn’t realize you missed. “I can’t wait for the next baby Tkachuk to come along,” he whispers. You look down, reaching to touch your swollen stomach, somehow missing that before.

You shoot straight up, awake and breathing heavily. “Fuck,” you whisper, thankful that Evelina was in the bathroom and unable to see the panic wash over you. Dreaming about pregnancy typically meant that you were about to start something new. One point to your subconscious for that one. “Ev?” you call, getting off the bed and going over to her. Do you tell her about the dream?

“What’s up?” she calls from behind the closed door.

“Uh, what time are we leaving for dinner?” you ask.

“I was gonna wake you up in like five minutes to give you half an hour to get ready?” she says, opening the door. “You ok?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Your hand is on your stomach.”

You hadn’t realized it was, involuntarily holding it like you had been in the dream. “Yeah, just hungry,” you lie as she passes by you, thankful she couldn’t see the smile that was growing on your face.

--------------

It was the first and only night of the conference that you didn’t have to be there if you didn’t want to, unbothered by your boss who encouraged you to wander the city and try to find something ‘more fun than listening to people talking about what you’re passionate about,’ despite him being oblivious to the fact that none of you wanted to be there for the last two days you were supposed to be. You were sitting on the bed, your computer up with your earbuds in trying to find something on Netflix to watch for the night, watching Evelina get ready to go to the game out of the corner of your eye.

“I really do want you to come with me,” Evelina says, standing next to your bed with her Lindholm jersey on from Matthew.

You don’t look up from your computer, knowing that if you saw her in the flaming C you would cave in and go with her, the last thing you wanted to do. “I don’t have anything to wear even if I wanted to go,” you tell her, trying to give her a tone that made it sound like you didn’t care, no matter how much you did.

“You know you want to go. Come on. Matthew or not, it’s free tickets to a hockey game. We haven’t seen a bunch of grown men in skates beating each other up live and in person in ages because we never have money. And, it’s LA. If you start swearing at him then no one would question it because they hate him, too. And you do have something to wear.” You look up, clearly confused. Evelina goes over to her bag, holding up the red fabric that was supposed to be in Matthew’s apartment. “Please?” she says, handing it to you.

“You’re not going to stop until I say yes, are you?” you ask her, tracing over the letters of his last name slowly with your thumbs.

“You know me well enough to know that the answer is probably not,” she says. “Plus, I don’t know. Since we got here, you’ve been different than you have been the last few days. I know he’s been on your mind.” You look at her, unsure how she could have figured that out when you knew you hadn’t mentioned him since you got to Los Angeles in the first place. “You changed your phone background from a picture of us to a picture of you and Matthew. The one when we went to that apple orchard back where your parents live? You were on his shoulders so you could get the apple at the top of the tree?” she says, pulling a smile from you. You tap on your phone screen, bringing up the picture she was talking about. You mentioned that your dad always said the best apple was at the top of the tree, putting you on his shoulders so you could reach them when you were younger. Matthew picked you up and helped you get the apple, Evelina taking the picture of you two right before Matthew nearly dropped you.

Caving easily after her pointing that out, you throw the jersey over your head, closing your laptop. “Then we’re going before I change my mind.”

She squeals, grabbing your hand and running out the door, ordering the Uber for it to get there in record time. You get into the car, your heart racing about seeing him again, even if it were from afar. You didn’t know what to do if you came to face to face with him, somehow.

“I don’t like how easy it was for you to convince me,” you say to her as she gets the tickets Matthew had set aside for you.

“You’re just lucky that I packed the jersey instead of leaving it for Matthew,” she boasts, the two of you wandering through the Staples center, two red dots in a sea of black and white. You could feel the eyes of everyone on you, clearly sticking out, not belonging while wandering through the arena while you try to find your seats. You get there as the boys take the ice for the first warm ups, half an hour to puck drop.

You feel your heart start to race when you see Matthew take the ice, unsure if he realized you where there or if he even knew where you would be sitting. “Are you ready to admit it yet?” Evelina asks you, noticing that you hadn’t taken your eyes off him since he started skating and stretching.

You watch him joke around with Johnny and Sean, not seeing Elias find you two in the crowd and waving to you. He gets Matthew’s attention, pointing to your seats. You and Matthew make eye contact, giving him a weak smile, all you could manage to give. He nods, his lips forming a thin line before turning back to his other teammates. “I guess not,” you say, the excitement you felt from seeing him gone.

Why were you even there? He didn’t want you there anymore, clearly. Evelina sees your shift in mood, trying to change the subject back to the conference, telling you about one of the talks she went to while you were off at a poster session. You try to keep your focus on her, listening to what she was talking about but not hearing anything, stealing looks at Matthew whenever you had the chance, just wishing that you would catch him doing the same.

The game starts, you paying no attention to anything besides Evelina, unable to keep your focus on the puck moving across the ice, instead focusing on the curly haired pest that was already wreaking havoc against the Kings. No matter what you did to try to take your attention away from him, you were drawn to him.

Elias ends up scoring off an assist from Matthew, Evelina jumping and cheering even though she was drowned out by the deafening boos from the surrounding Kings fans. You watch the boys skate over to the bench, sitting down and taking off their helmets. Matthew makes eye contact with you, both of you freezing for a moment before Gio gets Matthew’s attention. You knew he could feel your eyes on him as your stare lingered, swearing that you caught him glancing over, a smirk on his face even though his captain was talking to him.

“I’m going to head to the bathroom before the line gets too long,” you tell Evelina, getting up with two more minutes left in the period.

“Wait,” Evelina stands up with you, reaching into her jersey and pulling out a folded piece of paper, “Read this.”

“You’re a woman. You don’t have pockets. How did you keep this in there?” you ask her, taking the paper from her clearly confused. “That’s not important. Just go read it.” She pushes you away, causing you to trip on some already irritated Kings fans as you stumble through the aisle to get out.

What even was this? You get up to the concourse, pacing around the currently empty area. You read the first line, immediately knowing that whatever this was is from Matthew:

10 things I love about you

I love the way you rant to me as a way to relax yourself

I love the way you dress to your comfort and won’t listen to anyone else

I love the way you play with your pen even though it makes a mess

I love the way you focus on your work no matter how much it makes you stress

I love the way you get along with the guys and can chirp them all the time

I love the way you’re quiet at first, not letting anyone see you shine

I love the way you’re stubborn as hell and how you drive me crazy

I love the way I’d do anything for you even when you call me lazy

I love the way you’re the one I want to talk to, how my heart races when you call

But mostly, I love the way you say you hate me, even though you don’t, not even a little bit, not even at all.

You get to the last line, tears clearly falling down your face as you walk around like a zombie, your eyes fixated on the piece of paper in front of you while people start flooding from their seats, the silence around you broken by the noise of the Kings fans.

“Hey Calgary!” you hear a man yell, for some reason catching your attention. You see an older guy in a Doughty jersey, looking you up and down. “Fuck Tkachuk,” he says, walking away.

“Don’t you think I would if I could?” you yell back, stopping in your tracks at what you just said out loud. You would if you could. “Ah fuck,” you mutter to yourself. You had to find Matthew, and you had to find him now. You couldn’t go the rest of the game without telling him.

You start running, unsure where you were headed, just hoping that it would eventually lead you to finding someone from the Flames that you recognized that could get you down to Matthew now that it was intermission, forgetting the fight you had back in your apartment before you left for this city.

You finally find someone you recognize, begging them to bring you back down with them because of an emergency that you had to tell Matthew about. What if he didn’t want to see you? What if he left you standing there, humiliated while you waited for him? You started pacing, trying to figure out what you were going to say to him in the case that you did see him.

“Y/N?” you hear him, heating rushing to your cheeks at the sight of him. “They said it was an emergency, what’s up?” he asks, panic washing over his voice at the thought of something wrong with you.

You scrunch your face up, feeling bad that you worried him, but not enough not to do it. “I kinda lied? But I,” you close your eyes, letting out a sigh in hopes of releasing the tension that overcame your entire body, “I needed to see you.”

“Ok?”

“What is this?” you ask him, handing him the paper that Evelina gave you.

His eyes scan the page, a smirk on his face letting out a small laugh. “Evelina asked me about all the ways I love you. I guess she typed it up. But I didn’t say this last thing. Evelina must have written that herself,” he tells you, pointing to the last line. But mostly, I love the way you say you hate me, even though you don’t, not even a little bit, not even at all.

“Is it true?” you ask him.

“You tell me.”

You stand there in silence, both of you staring at the page that Evelina wrote. “I hate the way you cut your hair,” you start, Matthew raising an eyebrow.

“We were having such a nice moment, what are you doing?”

“Just, shut up,” you tell him, both of you smiling at each other. “I hate the way you cut your hair: your curls could make any girl melt and yet you do that thing on the side of your head. I hate the way you drive my car: everytime you get behind the wheel I’m worried about how I’m going to claim the inevitable damage on my insurance,” you start to rant, Matthew laughing as he traces patterns on your hand with his thumb, sending chills through your body, “I hate the way you tease me, and I hate the way you stare because it makes me weak and act so stupid and it makes me so mad that I can’t help it. I hate the way you read my mind, and the way you make me rhyme. And I hate the way you’re always right.”

He can’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he takes a step towards you. In his skates, he towers over you, reaching for your hand as he looks down at you, “That’s only seven things.” “It’s been a month since I started the list. I never got to ten things.”

“Why’s that?” he smirks, pulling you as close to him as he could.

“Do I have to say it?” you whine, a smile on your face anyway.

He nods, his curls moving he did. “Yeah. You do,” he teases, you biting your lip and looking at the ground instead of him. His thumb and forefinger find your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, “Please.”

“Because I love you.”

“There it is!” he yells, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around, your cheeks red as you don’t even try to hide the joy you felt finally admitting it.

“Put me down!” you squeal, his hands on your waist with arms draped on his shoulders. “Do not ruin this,” you warn him, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You really mean it?” he whispers, a bigger smile on his face than you had seen in a long time.

“Yes. I love you, you idiot,” you giggle, caught off guard as his lips connect with yours, the first time in over a week. You hated to admit how much you missed that. You hated to admit how much you really did love him.

“Matthew! Warm ups!” you’re interrupted by Elias standing down the hall, the guys filing from the locker room to ice behind him.

“I gotta go, but meet us after?” he begs, not wanting to let you go.

“Go win the game for me,” you tell him, moving away from him, the connection between your hands lingering.

“I’ve already won,” he says, pulling you in again for another kiss, running down the hall to finish what they started.

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk imagines #calgary flames #calgary flames imagines #nhl #nhl imagines #flames #flames imagines #hockey #hockey imagines

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diavolosthots · 3 years

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Hi there! I love your writing so much, your angst is one of my favorites to read because they always hit me in the feels. Can I request a hc or imagine (I can’t remember what they’re called) about Diavolo x Satan where Satan feels insecure because he thinks that Diavolo is with him as he was once a part of Lucifer, who doesn’t hold romantic love for Diavolo. You can add some smut if you want, I’m perfectly okay with the angst either way 😁!

I wrote this and posted it on AO3 first but here it is. Hope you like it anyway!

Warning: like 1 dust crump of slight NSFW if you look hard enough

Love's Poem (SATAN X DIAVOLO)

Love is such an unpredictable thing.It comes so unexpectedly and knocks you over, or it will come gently and embrace you in its arms. Love is also odd. You may feel it strongly, almost too overwhelming, you will find peace in it, almost as if a blanket is draped over your shoulders. Love may come in full force, or it will come agonizingly slow. In Satan’s case, love could’ve been anything, but it was always there, he noted. Despite his exterior and the picture people painted of him, he always wanted to feel it, to experience it, to have it… and only in his books did he ever find it. It’s almost sad, really, pathetic. Or at least, Satan thinks so. A millennia old being holding on to such a childish dream, and yet… he can’t seem to let go of it. He has hope for it and he longs for it, but he isn’t foolish. He won’t blindly reach out for it. “Patience is a virtue.” he says, even if he finds it hard to be patient for a lot of things. He craves to be in love so desperately, laying there day and night with his nose buried in a book that tells of things he has yet to experience. A poem. A poem is what he yearns to create with someone else; a poem of their lives together.

In all his yearning and waiting and desperation, though, he failed to realize that the poem had long started to be written. He failed to realize its soft touches, its gentle glances, and its sweet words calling out to him. He was so preoccupied with the paper it was supposed to be written on that he failed to notice the ink creating words on it. When he finally did notice, though, it was neither calm nor overwhelming. It was there, and Satan felt as if it had always been, because it had been. Still, when he realized whom he held it for, he was taken aback. Diavolo was never someone he excessively thought about… or so he thought. Diavolo, too, took a while to see Satan in such a new light and only when the two of them shared a moment over some literature did the Demon Lord realize just how deeply he could feel for the fourth born.

But Satan was unsure. He was questioning the demon’s motives, and quite honestly, he was scared. Scared of giving his all only to be left in the dust. To him, as much confidence as he bears and he truly does, coming from the Avatar of Pride himself and all, to himself, Satan was no one special. He’s attractive, very much so, and of course highly intelligent, but he also realizes how much of a brat he can be, or a bore, depending on the day. Diavolo was a manchild with insecurities, and Satan had said that more than once. Yet, their relationship blossomed and Satan found himself quite attached to the man, and vice versa. Diavolo felt like he had someone to confide in, someone who gave it to him straight but also comforted him. Someone he could experience things with and have a calm, peaceful evening with every night. Satan appreciated being brought out of his room, in which he would otherwise have been holed up in, and although he wasn’t after Diavolo for the money, status, or fame, he also appreciated the extravagance that his life brought to him. They balanced each other out, in the most unlikely ways, and both of them knew it.

Still, on one some days, Satan felt more like a shadow than anything. “Lucifer will come by today” again. “You won’t believe what Lucifer told me earlier” yes he will. “Lucifer” this “Lucifer” that. He understands that the two of them are close, after all Diavolo considers the first born his best friend. It angered Satan, though. Was he not enough? Does Diavolo still have to bring up Lucifer when he knows how the former feels about him? It’s not for a lack of communication, either. Satan has voiced his distaste quite a lot and changed the subject on more than one occasion, but a part of him also feels terrible for wanting to keep the Prince’s best friend away. “Satan!” especially when the guy so happily calls his name. “Hm?” It was nice outside, although when is it not in the Devildom. It rarely ever rains or snows or storms, and the temperature is always perfect to the demons. Satan was sitting under one of the trees in the courtyard at the House of Lamentation, reading one of his many books although he had a feeling that won’t last long. “Hm? That’s all I’m getting?” The pout that graced the Prince’s lips made Satan smile and a soft blush tint his cheeks. He looks up at the man, pursing his lips up into a kiss and waiting for Diavolo to take it. This is what he means when he says he wants a romance like in the books he reads.

Diavolo leaned down to give one to him happily before falling into the grass. Somewhere behind them, they could hear Barbatos gasp, probably because the butler knows just how clumsy his Lord could be, but Diavolo waved him off and laid his head in Satan’s lap, who laid his book on top of Diavolo’s face. “Hey! I came all the way here and I got the cold book?” “You disrupted my reading” all meant in good humor, of course. Diavolo pushed the book off of his face and reached a hand up to brush along Satan’s cheek, which made the latter blush deeply. He’s still not fully used to this type of affection. “Hm… you look so handsome today. Did you do anything special to yourself?” Satan rolled his eyes although he did manage to turn his head and kiss Diavolo’s hand before it moved behind Satan’s ear to scratch it. Satan groaned softly, shivering slightly. Diavolo knows damn well that that is one of his weak spots. “There it is…. Good kitten.” Satan knows it’s a mock and although he’s blushing profusely, he’s also flicking Diavolo’s forehead, making him laugh. “Watch it. Kitten’s can claw.” Diavolo only growled playfully in response.

“Can you believe us? A few months ago you didn’t even like me.” That’s not entirely true, he was just vary of the Demon Lord for over a few millennia, “and then Lucifer told me to just go for it.” Ah yes, Lucifer. Satan held back the urge to roll his eyes. “And then he said ‘Lord Diavolo, you would be not only blind but also a fool if you let this opportunity pass’ because he knew way more than either of us did.” The hell he did. “And you know what I said?” No, but he’s sure that Diavolo’s about to tell him. “I said, ‘Lucifer, my friend, don’t you worry. I will never take your beloved brother and son without first asking for permission’” Satan’s eye is twitching now and he finally found it in himself to say something, too, “is that all?” Diavolo’s smile slowly dropped when he saw Satan’s reaction and he was genuinely confused, slowly lifting his head from the guy’s lap and looking at him confused, “yes? Is something the matter?” He’s trying. He’s trying so hard not to snap right now so he just closes his eyes and just breathes for a couple of moments, “you know Lucifer said that when you--!”

A growl escaped Satan and this time he actually did snap, whipping his head around to look at Diavolo. “Yeah? He said that? Must be nice. Anything else he said? Anything else he would like to add to our relationship or does he want to include himself next?!” Diavolo just stared at him blankly for a moment, unsure on how to approach this, “what? No. No, it’ll always be just us.” Blatant. Fucking. Lie. “apparently not! It’s Lucifer this, Lucifer that, and if you want Lucifer that badly, you can go and get him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know that he ruined yet another thing!” anger is getting to him and the next thing he says was neither thought out nor actually meant to ever leave his lips, “you’re probably just with me to get back at Lucifer, am I right? Poor little Lucifer wouldn’t give you his heart so you go to the next best thing; me!” Diavolo was taken aback by that last statement and for a moment he just stared at Satan, his mouth hanging open, but it soon turned into a glare.

“Is that what you think? That my feelings are a lie? If you believe me to be such a liar, why are you with me?” Because he loves him, duh. He hates how much he feels for him but he can’t stop it, that’s why constantly hearing about Lucifer drives him insane. “I only want you, Satan, and I thought I made that pretty clear, but apparently not.” Diavolo sat up on his knees and for a moment he thought the guy was going to get up and leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he slammed his hands flat against the tree Satan was leaning against, glaring down at the fourth born before his eyes soften. “Stop being so jealous of your brother.” “I’m not jealous! You’re the one who only ever talks about him when your attention should be on me!” No matter how nice Diavolo was being right now, Satan is still glaring at the Lord, who turned his head and nodded at Barbatos. For what, Satan didn’t know, but it was for something. “Look at me Satan.” His eyes turned back up to look into Diavolo’s gold ones, holding so much softness and love, “I love you and only you.”

Satan rolled his eyes and he was about to push Diavolo off and away, but the latter cupped the blond’s face and kissed him softly before resting his head against his. “Lucifer is my best friend, yes, but you’re my lover and if I wanted to pursue anyone other than you, I would’ve, but I didn’t. Don’t be angry.” Although it is hot when Satan gets angry and if this wasn’t such a serious discussion, Diavolo would’ve definitely made a move. The blush returned to Satan’s cheeks and he tried turning his head away, but Diavolo wouldn’t let him. “No. Say it back. I know you do.” Satan mumbled it under his breath because he knows he loves the guy too. “What? What’s that?” “I love you too…” “a little louder, Satan.” The blond glared at him and Diavolo couldn’t help but laugh, kissing him again, this time a bit deeper before he grabbed Satan’s hips and fell back into the grass with him, making sure the demon landed on top. “I said I love you too…” He’s been atop Diavolo so many times, but every time he feels like it’s the first time. “There you go. It’s way easier being honest, isn’t it?” Diavolo’s hips playfully snapped up against Satan’s and the blond’s blush deepened, barely able to steady himself on Diavolo’s chest.

“Whatever… Just don’t forget I’m your only one.”

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me scenarios #shall we date satan #obey me satan #satan obey me #satan avatar of wrath #obey me lord diavolo #shall we date diavolo #obey me diavolo #diavolo x satan

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rumor-imbris · 2 years

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La tua Fatina Lunare!!!

For the asks!!!

Name a movie that makes you genuinely laugh.

What’s a smell that reminds you of home?

Describe the memory of the last time you felt true happiness.

Name a song that makes you feel ethereal.

Talk about something exciting or good that happened to you this year.

Do you believe dreams have meanings or are they completely random?

What’s the sweetest thing someone has done for you?

What’s your zodiac sign? Do you think you fit the general characteristics of that sign?

Do you collect anything? And what are some hobbies you have?

TIGHT HUGS, DEAR!!!

La Fatina Lunare Giulietta 🌙✨

My Lunar Fairyyy! Welcome back *w*

Thank you, let me start!

I'm not so much into comic movies, but... I don't know, I just laugh so much at people slipping, stumbling or weirdly screaming in fear xD

That singular scent you can only smell after it rained.

At the last concert I saw, when the singer took my hand during my favourite song of the setlist.

There are many, I'll name a few:

Alba - Sleeping Romance Abyss of Time - Epica Master the Hurricane - Vision of Atlantis Danse Macabre - Delain Together Again - Evanescence

Hearing my voice in a couple of Netflix shows and read my name in the end credits for the Italian voice-over was definitely the best so far.

I think dreams are some sort of signals from your subconscious, yes. But sometimes they can just be the result of your brain putting images together; I guess it depends on the period you're living, your mood, stress and so on.

When he returned from his journey to Japan, my partner brought me a hoodie with cat ears and the japanese special version of an album I was looking for. And, two months ago, he went back to his hometown to visit his father and when he came back he brought some special heavenly smelling teas called "Green Sun", "The Tea of the Poets" and "The Rose Tea", the latter literally with tiny rose buds to infuse. I was in awe!! Also, when You asked Tricky to draw my muse thanking me for the poems on my birthday *w*

It should be Cancer. Nope.

CDs from my favourite bands, I also have rare singles and EPs... but, shhh, that's a secret! ^_- Beside writing, I love playing videogames (especially survival horrors) baking, singing and watch period dramas.

I hope you enjoyed!

Tight hugs <3

#ask game #ask me anything #send a number #thanks for asking #la fatina lunare giulietta

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matthiasschoenaertsdaily · 4 years

Text

Matthias Schoenaerts full interview for De Morgen Magazine (original in Flemish, translated into English by @matthiasschoenaertsdaily)

Interview by Els Maes, published on November 28, 2020

Even a global pandemic will not destroy the optimism of actor Matthias Schoenaerts (42). Because he knows from his own experience how much beauty can emerge from the most hopeless situations. "I've had my back against the wall often enough, I'll always find a way out."

A bleak autumn day on a concrete square. There is lukewarm coffee, lukewarm Chimay and rolling tobacco. At dusk we see the silhouettes of fat rats that shoot past our ankles. And yet Matthias Schoenaerts will tell us in a glowing argument that this, here and now, is the very best place to be. That there is so much beauty to discover, he says. Le paradis c'est ici. As long as we want to see it.

"It's strange to say in this unpleasant period, but I've enjoyed the past few months enormously. It's the first time in ten years, since Runskop actually, that I'll be home for a long period of time. This is so beneficial: I am photographing, painting, writing. I can devote time and attention to the very simple things we'd otherwise race past."

"Seriously, look at that," he says, picking a leaf off the ground. "Those colors, that pattern. I can spend hours looking at the pure beauty of the things that surround us."

Above us a pigeon is wreaking havoc between the thinned out foliage. "While you are singing about the wonderful beauty of nature, that animal is going to shit on our heads," I say. "And that too will be a s-p-l-e-n-d-i-d moment," Schoenaerts answers.

Matthias Schoenaerts is Belgium's most successful international film star. But here and now, on a bench in his hometown, he is a technically unemployed actor, an all-round searching artist, but above all: fighter of cynicism. "I refuse to go along with all negativity and fear. The true battle today is cynicism versus courage. And I always choose the latter."

We're on the Oudevaartplaats, the square that everyone knows as the Antwerp Bird Market, and where Schoenaerts' childhood memories are waiting to be picked up. It comes into the conversation just like that: Brando, the cute chow chow that little Matthias got from his mom on this square, when here on the bird market puppies were still sold. "My dogs were my great loves. The home situation was often difficult, and with my dogs I found security. We had three chow chows, those fluffy lion dogs with a blue tongue. Brando was the first, I loved that animal."

"We lived in a small apartment with three dogs, anything but ideal. One day we let them go, to people with a large estate. That was heartbreaking."

There is a beautiful lesson in that, about love and letting go. It would have been selfish to keep your dogs if you could give them a nicer life elsewhere, wouldn't it?

"Absolutely, but I obviously didn't process that departure properly. Brando still appears in my dreams, after all these years. Then he returns home unexpectedly, and am I mad with joy.

"I often dream about my parents too: that reunion is so intensely beautiful and warm. Oh, there you are, finally! Those dreams are true to life, and the awakening is rock-hard."

Is that one of the reasons why you like being here in Antwerp, because here you feel more connected to the people that you loved?

"This is my home, my zero, I can't imagine a place in the world where I would rather live. When my mom was alive, and especially when she got sick, in between filming I tried to be with her as much as possible here in Antwerp. In the meantime I have an apartment here, my first permanent place of my own, but I've hardly been there in recent years. Now I can finally enjoy my home, I find peace, tranquility and inspiration there. I have seen fantastic sunsets on my roof terrace in recent months. So much beauty, and you can just admire it there, every day, for free. As long as you take the time to enjoy it.

"Normally I would have started filming again in April, and left for a hectic ride of at least two years, with projects that would follow each other quickly. I was at my limits, sooner or later I was going to bang my head against the wall. I feel how beneficial it is to slow down for a moment. David Lynch said that: 'Just slow things down and it becomes more beautiful'.

"As an actor you have to work in a big machine, according to a tight schedule. I have now discovered the pleasure of creating things for myself very spontaneously in my own cadence."

Is that work something you ever want to go public with?

"I want to do something with my photography someday, but I'm in no hurry. I'm also writing a film script, I've had an idea for a trilogy for a long time. It's a very personal project, and it takes time for it to crystallize into something very pure and proper. Maybe those films will come within ten years, maybe never.

"The most important thing is to keep busy. You have to look for something, anything, on which you can focus your passion, love and attention. Of course I would like to return to set, and those projects will come back later. But if I can't change anything about a situation, why worry about it?

"From a very young age I learned that there are not many certainties in life, I adapt easily to unexpected circumstances. There is one thing I can't stand, and that is feeling powerless. I never want to be the victim of a situation, I will always think: what can I do myself? Which way can I go? I have often enough stood with my back against the wall, I will always find a way out and take matters into my own hands."

So Schoenaerts decided to use this period to put Zenith - his artist name as a street artist - to hard work. Since the lockdown he has already created nine impressive murals, including one in the courtyard of the Oudenaarde prison, and one at the beginning of this month in the Antwerp Begijnenstraat, on the bare walls that form their furthest horizon for the prisoners. A moving event, he says. Not only by the touching conversations with inmates, and the forty-minute applause with which the prisoners welcomed him. "The mural contains a poem by my father. While I am there painting those beautiful words of my dad on the wall, I suddenly remember that my mom used to give meditation lessons to the prisoners there in the Begijnenstraat. I had completely forgotten about that until I stood there. How beautiful that is. Suddenly I felt my parents very tangible, very close to me."

It's a bit funny: a long time ago you were arrested for graffiti, now they invite you to prison to make a mural.

"I used to tag a lot, but I really don't like the vandalism that sometimes comes with graffiti. Defacing a facade, that's just ridiculous. But trains, bridges, tunnels.... frankly I think that's the max. Soon I'm going to do another oldskool graffiti wall, with some friends, back to the roots. But with permission, yes."

Scary dudes

The problems of the Belgian detention system are well known: outdated infrastructure, overcrowding and a system of pre-trial detention which means that some people are innocently stuck for years. Schoenaerts: "These are human lives that are destroyed by the Belgian state, isn't that scandalous?"

Schoenaerts' engagement started years ago, after meeting Hans Claus, prison director in Oudenaarde, who contacted him when he wanted to organize a screening of Le Fidèle, the film by Michaël R. Roskam starring Schoenaerts. Claus has been fighting for many years for a reform of our detention system, among others with the non-profit organization De Huizen, small-scale centers that are more focused on rehabilitation and reintegration of the detainee. How does Schoenaerts see his role? "Those murals are a kind of lubricant for me, to get attention for this problem. I am not the expert and I am certainly not a politician. This injustice touches me as a human being, and my message is clear: please listen to the people who have been working hard for decades to reform the system from the inside."

In The Mustang, your last feature film to be seen here before the lockdown, you take on the role of a prisoner who learns to tame wild horses and his demons. Has that role changed your vision?

"That rehabilitation program with mustangs really exists, and the chance of recidivism is almost zero percent. I had a conversation in the Begijnenstraat with the minister of Justice Vincent Van Quickenborne (Open Vld, ed.), and he told me that the chance of relapse here is 40 to 50 percent. Isn't that madness?

"That's what fascinates me most of all: what do we do with those detainees while they're stuck? How can we help to break the destructive patterns that put them in prison? Imprisonment is a punishment in itself, but someday we'll send those people back into society, so let's mainly support them in their self-development.

"In preparation for The Mustang, I visited prisons in the U.S., and talked to men who had been detained for 20, 30 years. Heavy guys: Aryan Brotherhood (powerful crime syndicate of neo-Nazis in American prisons, ed.), Mexican gang leaders... real scary dudes. You know what those say to me? That they live in fear every day, but they must not show weakness. Psychological counseling and things like that have their value, but that's often very cerebral. I especially believe in the healing power of art. Imagine that inmates can express all those fucked up emotions through art: I think that there is an enormous potential in this."

I heard you're playing with the idea of giving acting lessons to inmates?

"That's not a concrete plan yet, but I would love it if people from the creative sector would commit themselves to this: musicians, sculptors, dancers. Or writers who help prisoners put their own story into words.

"The cultural sector needs to start sticking its neck out. The sector is lying flat, and that's terrible. But we have to keep moving. We can all do something for the community, without being paid for it. Planting small seeds, doing something good for your fellow man, something beautiful always comes out of it."

Had you been to a prison before The Mustang?

"To visit friends, yes. In Merksplas, Hoogstraten, Hasselt, Dendermonde... We shouldn't talk about that any further. A prison is deep tristesse. Who dares to call that 'a hotel', shame on you."

This summer you painted an impressive mural in Paris in honor of George Floyd, murdered by American officers. And in Ostend last week a new mural was unveiled, with a 'decapitated' Leopold II. Is activism an important part of your street art?

"Graffiti used to be more of a style exercise for me, you want to create things that get noticed within the scene. But gradually I felt like communicating with a wider audience. I like to incorporate a lot of symbolism in my paintings, such as the cracks I photograph all over the world and then magnify them in another place. And the praying hands, a universal image of hope and faith in yourself. Art has the power to speak to our deepest emotions, and that is what binds us to the other. Connectedness, empathy, harmony, solidarity, that's the essence for me."

The corona crisis is one big exercise in empathy and solidarity. Sometimes we seem to lack that.

"I refuse to surrender to cynicism, and I surround myself with positive people who do beautiful things for others. This period would lead us to insights: how do we deal with each other? Do we help each other, or is it every man for himself? A human is such a wonderful creature, but we mess it up so much for ourselves.

"Yeah, I know. Some people who read this will think: this guy is smoking too many joints. (laughs) I don't smoke joints, and I'm not an unworldly idealist. But I will always focus my attention on the good, in spite of everything."

If you always want to see the good in people, are you sometimes disappointed?

"Yes, of course. I'm not a naive brat, I've learned to guard my boundaries. I can't please everyone all the time, and I don't let anyone rush me. I react badly when people put pressure on me because they want things from me. The perception of me that others have of me, I can't control. I don't let myself put out of balance easily anymore."

I saw that on your Instagram Stories you warned about fake profiles on social media, of people pretending to be you. That made you visibly angry.

"Really, that makes me angry. Every day I receive screenshots from people who have been tricked by crooks who approach innocent victims with my name and my pictures. There are stories of fans who have paid thousands of euros because they were promised a meet-and-greet with me. How disgusting is that? One person has transferred 14,000 euros to someone who pretended to be my manager.

"Of course, that raises questions about how gullible some people can be. But I've seen those chat conversations for myself: those criminals are terribly sneaky. They know how to play on the vulnerabilities of their victims in a very cunning way. This is manipulation and swindle of the filthiest kind.

"Really, I get physically unwell when I think about it. How can someone be so mean? If I ever catch these guys, I'm gonna bash their skulls in, I'm not kidding. Sorry."

Or: those crooks get a jail sentence, where you're going to give them acting lessons.

(laughs) "Okay, let it be clear that I think everyone should be punished for their crimes. My commitment to the prison system is not a plea for impunity, and I certainly don't want to romanticize crime.

"But when someone abuses innocent people's trust in such a cunning way, the question is: how did you derail so morally? And above all: how can we initiate a transformation in that person? Surely you can't lock someone up and expect that person to suddenly make better choices years later? First such a person has to take responsibility for his own actions."

Do you have something criminal on your conscience?

"No." (Thinks for a second) "No. Thank God. I couldn't live with that.

"I've probably hurt people in my life, like everybody else. Sometimes we just hurt people because of who we are, or because we can't fulfill what others want from us. But I have never harmed anyone consciously or criminally, no."

As a teenager you sometimes came into contact with the juvenile court, for vandalism. Do you think you could have ended up on the other side of the bars?

"Probably, a life can take strange turns sometimes."

What made you sit here today, and not get on the 'wrong' path?

"Wait... that's a good question. There's the one terrible dramatic event that caused a total turnaround in my life: when my dad went into a coma after a psychosis, and I was told he only had 24 hours left to live.

"I was 21 then, thrown out of school for the umpteenth time. I was doing graffiti and wanted to find my way creatively. But I was messing around, going with friends who... Anyway, there was latent danger, it threatened to go a little bit the wrong way.

"And then I got that phone call: come and say goodbye. Bam. The relationship with my father had been sour for years, we hardly saw each other. Until I stood there at his deathbed in intensive care... I only felt love, a wave of emotions that I had pushed down very deeply. That realization was rock-hard: this was it. My father and I will never get the chance to figure shit out, I thought.

"Long story, the rest is known: after 72 hours my father woke up from a coma against all odds. Like a plant: he could not speak, reacted to nothing or nobody. According to the chief psychiatrist, we had to accept that his condition would never improve. That was without the fighting spirit of my mother and me.

"It's because of that unlikely event that I've changed my whole lifestyle. For eight months, my mother and I went to visit my father every day. We talked to him, but he seemed to look straight through us. For hours we sat with him at the psychiatry department of Stuivenberg, how desperate those first months were also. We continued to fight, taught him to talk, to eat, to walk. A miracle, the doctors called it. Bullshit of course. It was love, dedication and stubbornness. Especially thanks to my mother, the lioness who kept fighting for him. And see how much beauty came out of it. My life then received an entirely different impulse.

"I suddenly think of an anecdote I've never told before. After a while we were allowed to take my father to the cafeteria once in a while, or to the garden. But he was absolutely not allowed to leave the hospital. Fuck it. I hid a bag of clothes for him, secretly dressed him in the toilet and took my father to the city. By bus, because I didn't have a driver's license. I wanted to stimulate his senses, test if any memories would come back. He was fond of Our Lady's Cathedral, so that's where I wanted to take him."

Matthiaske, why am I crying?

He plays it out. The written version here is only a dead script compared to the lived-through performance, right there on that dark square, just around the corner of the Arenbergschouwburg, where Matthias made his stage debut as a 9-year-old boy next to father Julien, as The Little Prince.

Matthias shows how he supported his frail dad, and how they shuffled in small, careful steps towards the cathedral. Dad looking at the ground to be sure not to fall. "I say, 'Dad, look up'. He looks up, and I see the tears rolling down his cheeks. I had never seen my father cry. 'Matthiaske,' he says, 'can you tell me why I'm crying?'

"I had already decided then that I would take my father into my house. Overconfident, yes, at that age, but they have become the most beautiful years of my life. Mom came by every day to help. Suddenly we were a bit of a family again, something we had only been for a short time when I was young."

It was at that time that you decided to become an actor. Why did you decide to become an actor?

"I had always resisted following in my father's footsteps. In my youth I mainly wanted to break away from my father, and seek my own path. I didn't want to have anything to do with him and all those loudmouths around him in the theater world. But most of all I was terrified that compared to the great Julien Schoenaerts I would never be good enough.

"Only now do I understand why I then decided to go to the conservatory. Not to become an actor, but to understand my father. We had so many years together, and now that we had been given a second chance, I wanted to get to know him as well as possible. By acting, maybe I could get closer to him." (pauses)

Sentimental fuss

He banishes the tears. It's one of the many things he has in common with his father, he says: they're both very emotional, but they hate sentimental fuss. "Come on, Matthias: breathe," he commands himself.

"Voilà, see how much beauty can come out of misery. What a chain of beautiful things came out of the fight my mother and I put up in the most hopeless situation. Who knows how differently my life would have turned out?"

"There are so many lessons in that. If we just talked about the rehabilitation of detainees, for example. It takes commitment. Not a workshop of two hours. You have to persevere, even in the event of a setback, with no guarantee of a happy ending. That's why I think it's so important to keep telling that story about my dad. Those are the values I believe in: dedication, stamina, attention, love. You can apply that to everything in life. Love is the fuel."

You often talk about your parents as if you want to keep them alive with your words.

"Because my mom and dad are the people I've loved most. With them I shared the most important moments, built the most beautiful memories. That loss is enormous. Life has been really fucking tough since they've been gone.

"That's what grabs me so much in this period. How many people have died of corona in Belgium?"

According to Google, today, on the day of the interview, the counter stands at almost 14,000 deaths.

"Fourteen thousand! Imagine how many people that has an impact on? How many people have suddenly lost their mother, father, brother, sister, best friend or neighbor? Behind those figures lie tens of thousands of poignant stories, of people who see a loved one torn from their lives. That is a mountain of unresolved grief, and far too little attention is paid to it."

Earlier during our conversation a guy had walked past coughing and maskless. It pissed Schoenaerts off: "And whining about masks or strict measures. Grow some fucking balls. Having to say goodbye to a loved one, that's the worst thing."

"Isn't that what this period teaches us? That our time here is limited? And what really counts in life: sharing moments of beauty with the people you hold most dear. All the rest is wallpaper. Having success, making movies, that's all fun. But the day you lie on your deathbed, you really don't think about the professional successes on your resume. No way."

#matthias schoenaerts #interviews #misc #by us

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humanized-nonhumans · 3 years

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The time has finally come: here’s the writing collab with @justanotherconfusedman

They are a great writer and I'd suggest y’all check him out. They wrote the first part, before the cut-off, while I wrote the second.

I think the story turned out great and I hope you all think the same. Enjoy!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Are you coming today or what?" Canada stood at the phone annoyed at his brother again.

"I am, I am, I promise. Just give me some time."

"Good because I want to go in the morning before all the bugs get here."

"I'm going, I'm going. I'll leave the house in 5 minutes alright? Be there in 30?"

"Alright. I'll be ready so I can drive you there." America hung up and Canada just watched annoyed, waiting for America to arrive. He had been trying to get America to go on a hike with him for ages and he had finally convinced him to go.

"Finally bro," Tucan muttered to himself. He stood there, keys in hand, bag all ready with snacks and water and a picnic blanket for when America would want to sop halfway up the trail and eat instead of waiting for the top like a normal person. Of course, Canada would get hungry, but he would eat along and walk so he wouldn't slow anyone else down. It was kind and respectful for him to do, unlike America, who didn't seem to care about other people's feelings. While America only took 20 minutes to get to his house, those minutes felt like hours, stretching on and on, Canada was soooooooo bored. "It's nice to finally see you Meri."

"Same here Canman. You still living with Jay?” America's face annoyed Canada. Everyone thought they were together even though they weren't. And the bird puns were relentless.

"Yes, we're still roommates."

"And they were roommates. Jay and Toucan sitting in a tree. Two lovebirds cute as can be." America barely paused between the poem and the vine reference.

"We aren't together Meri. Japan likes girls, He's not my type. It wouldn't work out, but we are both really good friends."

"Mhm, mhm." America nodded his head, clearly not believing him.

"Let's just go before the trails get too crowded Meri." Canada shook his head and started walking towards his car, unlocking it with a beep.

"Fine, fine. But I'll still ship you two together anyways."

"And you can, But it's false. We aren't together and never will be." Canada got into his car, dumping the survival bag in the backseat behind him.

"Riiiiight, have you seen him in a dress?"

"No, he doesn't own any nor show any signs of wanting one. I don't really care either way but he is his own person, he doesn't need anyone forcing stereotypes on him."

"Okay, okay, fine. Let's just get to the trail I guess since you won't budge on your love life."

"It's not a love life. I'm being serious."

The car ride felt very long as Canada and America went back and forth, Canada telling America the truth, that there literally was nothing going on between him and Japan, and America insisting there must have been something going on between them.

"We're here, get your unathletic ass outta the car, let's go." America rolled his eyes at Canada as they got out, locking the car back up as they got out onto the trail. Canada having a bag on his back and America with nothing but the clothes on his back. The trail seemed really easy for Canada but soon he was slowing down for America who was getting out of breath.

"Look at you now idiot. You should get out more, I'm barely out of breath." Meri glared at Toucan as he forced his way uphill. "Fuck...You." He huffed a bit as Canada waited for him, an unamused look on his face.

America finally reached Canada, scowling at him. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I’m the one who wanted to go hiking anyway.” Canada rolled his eyes with a scoff and trudged forward, muttering something about America being lazy. ‘Heh. I’ll show him,’ America thought, a devious plan already forming in his mind.

They walked a bit more, with Canada constantly making jibes at America for being out of shape. The latter, on the other hand, didn’t say much, and just waited for his time to strike. Soon enough, though, he grew hungry. “Ay, Canman. Can we eat?” Canada rolled his eyes again, but nodded and led them off the trail to a small clearing. Canada set down his pack and pulled out the boxes of food and the picnic blanket, carefully arranging everything in a neat and tidy way. America helped him spread out the blanket, hungrily eyeing the food. The two sat down and America immediately began scarfing down his sandwich while Canada watched on in disgust. “You’re eating like you haven’t eaten for DAYS.”

“I barely had breakfast ‘cause you forced me to come so early!” America exclaimed around a mouthful of sandwich. Canada shook his head, looking disappointed in his brother. “Right, well. Finish quickly, the summit is nice.” America nodded.

Once they were done and had packed up everything, the two went back to the trail and started again on their hike. This time, America didn’t complain at all. His chance for revenge was right around the corner. He didn’t miss the way Canada kept glancing at him warily through the corner of his eye, as if he knew America was planning something. He smothered a smirk. Canada didn’t know what was coming.

At long last, they reached the summit. America took a deep breathe, inhaling the fresh mountain air. Canada stood next to him, hands on his hips, and grinned at the scenery. “See, America? This is why you should get out more often.” America rolled his eyes and elbowed his brother. “Shut up, Mr. I-Won’t-Admit-I’m-In-Love-With-My-Roommate.” Canada scowled at him, looking thoroughly displeased. “Because I’m not!”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say.” Canada shook his head and turned away from America, who was quietly reveling in the satisfaction of irritating his brother. But the best revenge was yet to come.

“Hey Canman. Put down your backpack and stuff.”Canada raised an eyebrow, but did as he was told. “Why?”

“Because,” America grinned, stalking closer to him, “of this.” He launched himself at his brother, and began tickling him. Canada’s shrieks of laughter echoed through the mountains as he thrashed under his brother. “A-Amer-America! Wh-What the he-hell man?!” He managed to wheeze out before succumbing to another laughing fit. America grinned evilly, poking Canada's side and sending him into another laughing-screaming fit. “Look who’s breathless now!”

“F-For a different r-reasons, dum-dumbass!”

“Point still stands, idiot."

#countryhumans #ch america #ch canada #countryhumans america #countryhumans canada #my writing #writing collab #ch writing #ch fic #fics

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shyantheswiftfan · 3 years

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“evermore” song analysis part 1 (tracks 1-5)

Hello! I’ve decided to write some short analyses for the songs of “evermore”. The way I’m choosing to write these is by listing main themes of each song, giving a short paragraph about how I interpret the story and feeling of each song, then listing other Taylor songs that I think have similar themes. I might do a more in-depth lyrical analysis of some songs later on. Let me know what you think.

- Read Part 2 Here - - Read Part 3 Here -

So, let’s get into it! This is part 1 of 3.

Track 1: willow

Main themes: (Taylor herself did this one during the live Q&A, so I’ll quote her) “willow is about intrigue, desire and the complexity that goes into wanting someone”

My thoughts: “willow” is the natural choice for the first track. Taylor tends to favor songs that talk about new beginnings, whether with a relationship or a new stage in life, and this is no exception. This is a song filled with her signature metaphors; most of which hint at her sadness before this person came along, but them coming into her life unexpectedly and becoming the one thing she can’t stop thinking about.(This is exactly what the first two lines of the song are saying.) There’s a lot to unpack with the lyrics, so I’ll probably go more in depth with them later.

Sister songs: Jump Then Fall, Enchanted, Gorgeous

Track 2: champagne problems

Main themes: heartbreak, guilt, mental health

My thoughts: The first time I heard this song, it made me so deeply emotional, and I’m sure that’s true for a lot of us. It’s clearly telling the story from the perspective of someone struggling with their mental health who recently rejected a proposal from a long time love. I feel that the other person may have wanted to propose in hopes of saving the relationship that was clearly not going anywhere, but deep down knew they would be rejected (the latter hinted at by the lyric “You booked the night train for a reason”) There’s also signs that their partner didn’t understand the narrator’s struggles, and they thought they could fix them themselves (”Your Midas touch on the Chevy door. November flush and your flannel cure”) The narrator is looking back, clearly feeling guilty, but knowing it was the right thing to do. Accepting that the other person will move on to someone else, who maybe won’t come with the same “champagne problems”.

Sister songs: Back To December, Sad Beautiful Tragic, this is me trying

Track 3: gold rush

Main Themes: daydreaming, jealousy, longing

My thoughts: Taylor said during the live Q&A that the song “takes place inside a single daydream where you get lost in thought for a minute and then snap out of it.” That’s the perfect explanation. It’s simple and relatable. It’s like me with all of my celebrity crushes, knowing I have no chance. Sometimes it’s easier to desire something that not everyone else is after. Otherwise, you’ll lose yourself to the daydream.

Sister songs: Stay Beautiful, Untouchable, august

Track 4: ‘tis the damn season

Main themes: nostalgia, regret, lost love

My thoughts: This is slowly becoming one of my favorites from the album. This is believed to be the song Taylor hinted at that was about “what happens when [Dorothea] comes back [from Hollywood] for the holidays and rediscovers an old flame.” The narrator is reminiscing on their younger years, and thinking about the one that got away. Revisiting them and their past love, allowing for a short lived intimacy (”you can call me ‘babe’ for the weekend”) before leaving again for life back in LA. Nostalgia is a dangerous thing, thinking about what could’ve been. Choices were made, maybe choices that the narrator now regrets, but they are choosing to live with that. There’s also a literary reference to the Robert Frost poem “The Road Not Taken”, which shares a similar theme of choices.

Sister songs: Holy Ground, This Love, Death By A Thousand Cuts

Track 5: tolerate it

Main themes: insecurity, resentment, anxiety

My thoughts: As someone who has a lot of anxieties when it comes to relationships, this is one song that hit me hard. This is about someone doing everything they can in a relationship, trying to be perfect, doing their best, but ultimately being ignored and overlooked by their partner. Their time is spent just trying to be seen and to feel important, like they’re a part of this relationship. Begging their partner to tell them they’re wrong. They start to wonder what would happen if they left, seeing all the pain and hurt being caused by this relationship. They’re seeing that their love is worth so much more than this. (”my love should be celebrated, but you tolerate it.”) This song is truly heartbreaking.

Sister songs: Dear John, The Archer, hoax

Thanks for reading! See you with the next part tomorrow!

#taylor swift #evermore #willow #champagne problems #gold rush #tis the damn season #tolerate it #song analysis

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corkcitylibraries · 3 years

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Cork in Verse | Ana Spehar interviews Jim Crickard

Cork in Verse is a series of interviews by Ana Spehar with Cork Poets. This week Ana interviews Jim Crickard.

Jim Crickard’s poetry is camp, entertaining work that explores culture, sexuality and identity with a hint of colour. In 2020 he was invited to represent Cork in the Cork-Coventry Twin City Exchange, which was moved online due to pandemic. In 2019 he was selected by Poetry Ireland for the inaugural Versify series and performed to a sold out show at Dublin Fringe Festival. He came second in the 2019 All Ireland Poetry Slam Final (and is working through his feelings about it with a therapist). In 2018, he won the Cuirt Spoken Word Platform and was awarded a slot to perform at Electric Picnic. In 2020 his poetry was broadcasted on RTE Arena. A poem he wrote was shortlisted in the 2018 O'Bheal International Five Words Competition, and his work has been published in Automatic Pilot, A New Ulster, and Contemporary Poetry.

When did you start writing?

I started writing when was 16. I had just come out of the closet, my older brother Shane (20) died the same year in a road traffic accident. Looking back, I think I needed space for expression. I started out with a journal before sleep. It was playful, private, and helped organise my thoughts. I’d draw a little picture at the end of each entry. I acted a bit like Virginia Woolf, with a high-neck collar, writing solemnly by candle light. When people write diaries, I think they secretly fantasise them being found and read by the masses.

When I was introduced to poetry in my Leaving Cert, I found it to be a bit stiff and flowery with poets like Keats, which had some appeal, but when we moved on to Adrienne Rich and Eavan Boland I was a lot more inspired. It was seeing people use the art form to represent women and give voice to minorities, and how they both textured their work with the confessional. I started writing my own poetry at the end of my journal entries but kept it secret. After a few years, and my first break-up, I started sharing online on a site called AllPoetry. It was great because there were little competitions between users and when I won a few of them I felt brave enough to share my work on Facebook. A few people were kind, but most were indifferent.

When I started going to O’Bheal in Cork, though, I really felt like writing could have a future for me. Writing and performing alongside other writers really makes it a lot more gratifying and instils the self-belief you need to keep going.

Could you tell us more about your creative process?

I’m always on the lookout for something to play with and tease out until it’s a poem. I write with the intention of making people laugh when they hear me perform. Unfortunately, ideas rarely happen when I’m walking around day-dreaming. I mostly need to sit down and write to find the idea or follow whatever I’ve got on my mind. One of my favourite poems that I’ve written takes a hen party in a gay bar and expands it into a series of images and scenarios that delight me and make me laugh. If it makes me laugh, then I trust that it’ll make a crowd of people laugh. I didn’t start out with that idea of the hen party though, I was trying to write a rather embarrassing romantic poem set in a gay bar, it was for a guy I was briefly dating. Suddenly there was a hen party in the corner. They abducted me with their willy-straws and novelty-glasses, and I followed their embarrassing moments and social faux-pas as they ran around, interloping and ruining the sacred queer-space. I was much more interested in them than the romantic poem I set out to write. I suppose it’s important to trust where the poem is going and let it reveal itself. If I ignored them and focused on the poem I was trying to write then I’d have missed out.

How does the creative process of writing affect your mood?

I’m elated when it comes together. I love when I get into a flow and my fingers are typing as fast as they can and what I’m writing is surprising me. That doesn’t always happen though, it can be slow and boring and the cursor can be blinking in front of me waiting for me to write something.

How often do you write? Do you write every day?

I wish I wrote every day. I’ve heard multiple sources say that that’s the best way to approach it, and I would definitely believe it. I have had periods where I wrote a new poem every week, possibly more than one. I have also had long periods of not expressing anything on the page. The latter feels depressing and I feel my life passing me by. It is this dread I feel that I’m losing precious time to grow and improve as a writer. I rationalise it by reminding myself that I need to work full-time, clean my apartment, cook dinner, which is all true. I also excuse myself by saying that I need to relax and watch some TV or listen to a podcast. I think that writing is the purest of me-time and I’d like to transform my relationship with it.

Can you tell us more about Venus Envy?

I have been known to dress in drag from time to time... I performed as Venus for Pride in O’Bheal. Afterwards I went to The Crane Lane with all of the poets. It was interesting being a drag queen out of context in another bar... People wanted to talk to me, some random stranger touched me as they passed by, and someone confided in me with something they had not mentioned before. There’s a strange power to being in drag. It’s like being a shaman, a eunuch, a jester, who is on the outside looking in. You can say things that you daren’t dream of otherwise, and people love you for it. If I had the time and money to do it more often I would. Drag will always have a special place in my heart, and on my right arm is a tattoo-portrait of Panti Bliss, the Queen of Ireland. I’ve thought about putting more drag queens beside her, but it would be like Mount Rushmore of Drag on my arm. Who knows, maybe I will.

‘Hen Party in The George’

Be careful around the corners, don’t make eye-contact at the bar,

watch out for the mom, she’s on safari, in search of exotic birds.

For a parrot to echo her punchlines,

or maybe a cockatoo,

she’s prowling around the cocktail lounge,

she’s looking for me and you.

The mother of the bride uses her lazy-eye

to her advantage,

she edges into a group of faces with meandering conversation.

Now blocking their exit, unsure

who she’s addressing,

on about her gay hairdresser, how great

he is with the scissors.

“I’ve never had a problem with the gays now myself” she says,

pausing to sip from a pink plastic penis,

pausing for praise.

And one by one, the gays fly south,

migrating to the bar,

to the dance floor, to South-Africa if necessary.

“Snobs” she calls em -

“them gays can be awful touchy.”

All her Christmases at once

when the black crow drag queen

stalking her long legs across the stage,

seven foot tall, in a silver crown of feathers refracting light off the disco-ball.

“Jesus” she says, stealing the

microphone: “you’re looking better than me”

“I should feckin hope so” the drag queen says “you’re twice me bleedin’ age!”

Slowly, slowly, the hen party has pissed off all of the George...

Abandoning punctured plastic husbands all over the stage.

Flashing so many cameras it feels like E.T.’s family has landed.

A gathering parliament of lesbians encircles the hens,

a murder of goth gays come down from their perch

I wonder if they’ve seen Hitchcock’s movie, ‘The Birds…’

by Jim Crickard

Sex in the Housing Crisis

We are the generation of born-again virgins

headboards disturb housemates on shift work,

Air-traffic controllers should be included in rent

to coordinate times to get the ride

Landlords can afford to support our sex-lives

and change carpets once in a while

We are the generation of born-again virgins

Like ships in the night, we work to survive,

but we are no thirty year old cargo boats…

anchored in the harbour, waiting for labour,

we are Ferrari red speed boats

with miles to go before we sleep,

miles to go before we sleep.

We are the generation of born again virgins

Nothing kills the mood like mildew

home-sense is built on the backs of millennials

fumigating probate houses

converted into one-beds

with constellations of mould

and half their salary paid

to make out on an old couch

facing a microwave

We are the generation of born again virgins

If you’re living with parents you can forget it

unless you can face breaking their trust

and explain condoms in the toilet-drain.

We must not forget about our parents sex-lives

afraid their carefully considered bed springs

will be heard by their thirty somethings

Let’s give the government hell for

this inter-generational dry spell!

by Jim Crickard

#corkcitylibraries #CorkInVerse #JimCrickard

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autumnblogs · 3 years

Text

Day 3: Vendetta against Bro

Welcome back to more Homestuck Liveblogging. Picking up with Nannasprite as she prepares to give John the Dirt.

https://homestuck.com/story/421

Sburb’s opening move is to take John’s Dad away from him. If @mmmmalo‘s theory about psychological storytelling is to be believed, Sburb provokes fear and then manifests it in the form of a character’s antagonists. If you wonder why I bring them up so much, it’s probably because I’ve been reading their blog lately. I am almost always game for more Homestuck theorization, and would love to be able to reference more people and engage with their thoughts in my theoryposts and liveblogging, so if you know somebody with good takes, please pass them along my way.

The Incipisphere, like John’s name, was invoked into existence by player/character action, but paradoxically, has always been that way. By engaging with Sburb, John authenticates its retroactive existence, like a mailman taking a signature of receipt for a package.

When we engage with the fixtures of our cultures and material realities, we too, authenticate them. This can be good or bad - when we communicate with each other, recognize each other, we authenticate each other too. Observing and being observed is a mutual act of validation for everyone involved. I see you seeing me seeing you.

I’m full of horseshit again. Read some more horseshit after the break.

Content Warning for this one: Pedophilia Mentions.

https://homestuck.com/story/422

There’s a lot to unpack in this sequence of pages, and I’m almost certainly going to miss a lot of it, but I’ll come back to stuff that I miss as it comes back up in later pages.

As a Crucible of Unlimited Potential, Skaia can become absolutely anything, and the shape that it will take on will be influenced by the actions of the players. But it isn’t anything yet.

This is the second time in two pages that Nanna has brought up the light-darkness dichotomy of the forces at play in the Medium, and after just talking about the act of mutual authentication through mutual observation, my brain is screaming the words Hegelian Lens at me. Might go somewhere with that too.

I also wanna call attention to the name of the Medium. As a story about stories, it only makes sense that the name of Homestuck’s main otherworld should evoke the field used to propagate mass communication.

https://homestuck.com/story/423

I’ve always thought that it’s interesting that of the two forces in the Medium, the players have natural allies in the form of Prospit. The choice here is not to act on behalf of one or the other, the choice is between Action and Inaction. Not doing something is itself, doing something.

https://homestuck.com/story/427

You Can (Not) Redo.

Sburb relentlessly drives its players forward. If you attempt to go back, or stay where you are, you will be punished. No getting your parents back, no getting your planet back.

What’ll it be John? Advance or Advance?

https://homestuck.com/story/431

John is extremely resistant to being made to do things that he doesn’t want to do anyway, even by Narrators.

More thoughts about Cake and Baked Goods in Homestuck and in relation to John. The other main characters baking is associated with in Homestuck are all women - The Condesce, Meenah, Jane, Nanna - and baking in general is pretty strongly associated with women, moms, etc. I’ve always thought it was a little out of place amongst Dad’s other character traits, which are definitively masculine. Maybe it’s for exactly that reason - baking is culturally feminine.

Maybe John’s resistance to baked goods is because he’s uncomfortable receiving feminine affection (especially, but not only from his Dad). It’s like getting kisses from your Mom in public or other public displays of affection between men and the women in their lives, or even men and other men in their lives. John is certainly pretty clueless about affection from women when he receives it later in the story. On the other hand, he responds very well to masculine displays of affection, like the aloof but ebullient cards he gets from his Dad, or the one-upsmanship between him and Dave.

(I’ll have to think some more about the capitalism thing from my other post.)

https://homestuck.com/story/433

More of Rose seeing enemies in every shadow. Then again, could it be Jasper’s fault that they’re in this mess?

https://homestuck.com/story/442

I think the fact that we jump to this point in the past suggests that Rose is probably reminiscing about this spot, going along with my theory that when the Narration is focusing on a character, it’s also giving us that character’s stream of consciousness - we’re experience what Rose is experiencing.

That probably goes a long way to excusing the kind of puzzling, irritating experience we have of our first minutes with John. Due to his tendency to get distracted by things and forget how things work, we have to suffer through his own inability to navigate his disorderly environment exactly the same way he does.

Oh, so that’s why this story gets compared to Ulysses.

It is Jaspers’ fault that they’re in this mess. My hypothesis gathers more data.

https://homestuck.com/story/444

The third of the prose poems. Drat. Got to Dave’s Poem before I even had the chance to write about Rose’s Poem. Guess we’ll come back to this one later later.

https://homestuck.com/story/445

I’ve almost certainly missed a few of these gags by now but “Left him hanging long enough” is one of the jokes that Homestuck reproduces over and over again. Homestuck reproduces itself frequently, like variations on a theme. Its self-referential nature could be called incestuous, as it turns one-off gags into recurring gags.

https://homestuck.com/story/448

While Bro and Dirk are both definitely irony ninjas where Dave is just performing irony to get his Bro’s approval, I think all the irony is an effort to distance themselves from the fact that they really do sincerely enjoy the things they’re “ironically” into. That too, is probably ironic.

Unfortunately, the actual subject matter of Bro’s interests, while innocuous in a vacuum, are still extremely inappropriate to leave out where a thirteen year old can have access to them. Bro probably isn’t a pedophile, but between the martial education, and the uncomfortable degree to which he involves Dave in his sex life, his relationship with Dave recalls pederasty which is one of many, many links between Dirk, Bro, and the Classical Hellenes, and Monastic Shudo, a similar practice historically attested from their beloved Japan. (The term Platonic Relationship is called that because Plato is one of the first Greek Philosophers to argue that maybe it would be better for students’ education if they weren’t also sexually involved with their mentors? Or so the story goes.)

I may have a bit of a vendetta against Bro Strider, which probably has at least a little to do with the fact that, when I first read Homestuck, I got fooled into thinking he was kind of awesome, and it wasn’t until I was able to deal with my own childhood abuse and the fact that I had been indoctrinated with a lot of the very same toxic ideas bro inculcated in Dave that I was able to realize that Bro Strider is kind of a horrible guardian, so I have a sort of special ire directed at this character. Maybe I’m afraid in another life, I could have grown up to be that kind of creep. I’m glad I didn’t.

https://homestuck.com/story/449

All throughout this section, the narration suggests that Dave is both subconsciously aware that his Bro’s pasttimes make him uncomfortable, but trying to soothe himself by affirming them. So, in spite of my sharing some youthful confusion with Dave, the Narrative at least communicates to us from the very beginning that something is off about Bro.

https://homestuck.com/story/452

To interrupt my dark and brooding reverie, please enjoy some Skate 3 Glitches.

I guess here’s a good place to note that I am going to be using the #personal stuff hashtag to denote when a post contains me alluding to my own dark and troubled past.

https://homestuck.com/story/457

The password is six letters long, and based on the fact that it’s the most awesome thing that it could be, I have no doubt that it’s Strider.

https://homestuck.com/story/465

Yup.

https://homestuck.com/story/466

It warms the cockles of me heart that Dave’s first inclination when he starts to flip the fuck out is to reach out to John Egbert.

https://homestuck.com/story/484

8^y

https://homestuck.com/story/485

Remember that one-upsmanship I was talking about? Any chance Dave and John get around each other, they talk each other down. I’m not sure if Andrew was saying anything about Toxic Masculinity at the time. I expect, like a lot of us, he didn’t have those words on his mind in 2009, but that’s textbook toxic masculinity, and I think when viewed as a complete work, Dave and John’s growth out of it is a sign of healthy maturation. Build each other up, boys, don’t tear each other down. In this life, we’re all we’ve got, and you owe it to each other.

https://homestuck.com/story/503

Leveling up is one of those weird things about Roleplaying Games that I didn’t realize until some point in the last two years is kind of an integral fixture of them. Overcoming hardships permanently makes you stronger in games that have an experience-level feature in them, and once you’re strong enough to beat a challenge once, you’re almost always strong enough to overcome that challenge in the future.

It’s a kind of storytelling that on closer examination is weirdly propagandistic, but it’s actually all over media. It’s pretty rare for a story to say “When you overcome a challenge, good job. You will have to overcome that same challenge again and again - maybe every day of your life.” The interesting thing, and I might come back to this, is that I think Homestuck actually takes this latter approach. Exactly the same emotional struggles they begin the story with are the ones they spend all 8000 pages of Homestuck agonizing over, and these characters will probably spend their entire lives wrestling with the baggage of their youth.

Suffering and toil is the fate of humankind, I suppose.

https://homestuck.com/story/518

Surrounded by Idiots.

https://homestuck.com/story/538

Saw is a story about a serial killer who subjects his victims to gruelling trials catered to make them face their own fatal flaws and emerge changed into better people, which is a lot like authorial scorn, which Andrew describes thusly in the commentary for Vriska’s introduction: “It's not as ill-willed as it might sound, but more of a universal principle of storytelling that for things to be interesting, harsh outcomes must befall those you create, in response to which they may thrive or fail. Which to the casual observer may read as hate.“. Lord English and Caliborn bear visual similarity to Jigsaw’s creepy puppet avatars, and serve as instruments of Andrew’s Authorial Scorn. Bro reproduces the same kind of creator’s hatred that Lord English bears toward all of Paradox Space, and reproduces it for the dubious benefit of his ward - Dave is to overcome the challenges thrust upon him in order to become strong.

https://homestuck.com/story/571

Dave does not care for being watched.

https://homestuck.com/story/588

If Dave’s first instinct for when he’s uncomfortable is to go talk to his friends, his second instinct is to attack.

https://homestuck.com/story/625

I don’t remember where I read it originally, it’s too far away in the past, but each of the items in the Rocket Pack is representative of one of John’s friends. The Cinderblock Dave, the Flower Pot Jade, the Violin Rose. John’s friends, his connections and bonds (Blood) tie him down and prevent him from indulging his most impulsive behaviors (Breath).

https://homestuck.com/story/631

In addition to Mad Science (or perhaps as an aspect thereof) John demonstrates remarkable lateral thinking.

https://homestuck.com/story/635

Alchemy has helped me get my thoughts in gear on a subject I glossed over the other day - the way the characters’ personality traits and objects fill the background radiation of the comic. In a way, the same thing is going on when the characters produce all kinds of neat shit from the odds and ends around their house as is going on when Sburb populates itself with symbols from the characters domestic lives.

Clowns become a threatening symbol throughout all of Homestuck, basically because there are a bunch in John’s house from a Doylist perspective. From a Watsonian perspective, Sburb seems, through the vehicle of destiny, to deliberately latch onto things from the players’ lives that will help them to contend with their anxiety and trauma. John has bad dreams about clowns, and seems to conceptualize himself as a clown in his self-critical estimation of himself. Maybe even as a Dark Mirror of his aspirations to be an entertainer? Is a Circus Clown a funhouse mirror version of a stage magician? I don’t have a follow up to that question, but it makes me think. If you checked out the essay from Malo I linked earlier, you might recognize some other things that John is afraid of which characterize his session, like his alleged fear of heights, and his anxiety about confronting his Dad.

I think that’s all for this evening. Another 200 pages down.

Cam signing off, alive and not alone.

#homestuck #liveblogging #commentary #authentication #validation #irony #personal stuff #authorial scorn

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roseategales · 4 years

Text

SOLAS & ORPHEUS I: YOUR NAME IS LIKE A MELODY. (THE POWER OF EPITHETS, TITLES, & NAMES.)

EPITHETS & TITLES:

VGS: Where do you see a character like Solas ending up? Patrick Weekes: [Sighs] Musical theatre.

The above exchange is from an interview with Video Game Sophistry, where Patrick Weekes goes into detail about the creation of Solas and how we ended up with the character and romance we got. Although said in jest, I do believe Weekes honestly recognised that Solas is a character who could easily be adapted to the medium of the stage musical, due to how musicality is baked into the foundations of his story and the world of Dragon Age. In fact, Weekes compares the fantasy and romance of Solavellan to The Phantom of the Opera earlier in the interview, and anyone familiar with Phantom can see the parallels, as Solas and his arc share many tropes and archetypes in common, not just with the Phantom, but with other male characters in musicals. If I told you I was going to see a show about a Morally Conflicted Soldier, a Trickster in Disguise, a Rebel Leader, a Decadent Noble, a Mythic Legend, or a Monster Boyfriend, I’m sure several examples would jump to mind.

Solas is all of these. Layer upon layer, stitched together, and then taken apart, whenever he needs to be whatever he needs to be. And he is also, if we are borrowing the epithets from Hadestown, The King and The Poor Boy Working on a Song.

It has to be noted that Hadestown’s use of epithets is itself a nod to ancient oral poetry, particularly in the vein of Homer. In Homeric convention, important characters, settings, and objects weren’t described by adjectives, but with epithets that would change based on context. (e.g. Much-enduring Odysseus, who is another paradoxical Trickster figure in ancient myth.) The use of epithets is a signifier of the origins of Homer’s works, serving as a mnemonic device and a way to fit the scenes of the stories to dactylic hexameter, as they were first oral poems that were composed and sung in front of audiences before they were written down. However, because of our modern understanding of the English language and what the word epithet connotes to us, what Anaïs Mitchell has done by using this device in Hadestown, is turn it into something that’s closer to the definition and function of a title rather than an adjective. Hades is always “The King.” Orpheus is always “The Poor Boy Working on a Song,” or “The Poor Boy With a Gift to Give.”

Solas bears his names in a similar fashion. When introduced to us as merely Solas, he is the “Humble Apostate” (or “Unwashed Apostate Hobo,” if you have Vivienne and Dorian in your party), or the “Fade Expert”; he is nicknamed “Chuckles” by Varric and “Fade Walker” by Iron Bull. Descriptors that comment on his lowly, outsider status, beaten and betrayed in this strange new world, that endear us to him. When he again dons the badge of Fen’Harel/Dread Wolf, he is “He Who Hunts Alone,” “Lord of Tricksters,” “The Great Wolf,” “Roamer of the Beyond,” and “Bringer of Nightmares.” Bynames that, of course, evoke those given to deities in ancient cultures (e.g. Hades is also known as Plouton in Greek myth, “The Rich One.”), that make him out to be fearsome, malevolent, and unknowable beyond the legends.

When I separate Solas into these two personas and archetypes, of Solas and Fen’Harel, The King and The Poor Boy, I don’t want us to make the mistake of thinking he is someone who bifurcates himself so completely that one part of him is unrecognisable from the other. His is not a situation of one identity hiding another or two identities battling to control the fore. He is Solas and he is Fen’Harel; the way Lavellan is “The Dalish Elf” and “The Herald of Andraste.” He is simply someone who has some impressive compartmentalisation skills (displayed in a conversation he has with Sera on the tactics of the Red Jenny group), and who has a thorough experience of a line he says to Cole:

“We all have a face we want to show, and a face we do not.”

NAMES:

Perhaps the best way to convey Solas’ complexities coming together to form the whole of him, is by examining the construction of his name. How cyclical it is, beginning and ending with the letter S, as effortlessly smooth and slippery as he. The L in the middle like a delineation, a fork in the road of choices before him. O and A on either end like they’re mirrors or masks. How it’s composed of five letters, the way iambic pentameter is composed of five syllables that you must stress and unstress—like the two syllables in his name itself. And depending on which syllable you stress in your pronunciation, your voice will either rise and fall or fall and rise when you say it.

I may be giving Gaider and Weekes too much credit here, but Solas’ name is quite literally perfect for him. Change any single one of these components or his characteristics, and you will no longer have Solas but someone else in his stead.

There are layered meanings to the sound of his name, too. Solas is a homophone for Solace and Soulless in the English language. The former recalls all the times he might’ve provided solace to his friends or lover, or received it from them; and the latter recalls how he does seemingly soulless things to achieve his goals, or becomes someone who is soulless altogether if you don’t reach out to him with kindness. Angela D. Mitchell explores this wonderfully on her blog Dumped, Drunk and Dalish, along with homonyms in other languages. Among them are:

Latin: Solus Meanings: Solitary, alone, sole, only, uninhabited.

Irish: Solas Meanings: Light, Bright, Clear; Brightness; illumination; lucid, intelligible; light-giving, lamp flame; enlightenment, insight; revelation, disclosure; the light of existence; vision. Also: self-interest; limelight.

Old Irish: Solus Meaning: Light.

Scottish Gaelic (derived from the old Irish "Solus" or "light"): Solas Meaning: Light.

Old French: Solaz, Sollas, Soulas Meanings: Joy, pleasure, enjoyment.

She also explores the Latin root of ‘Sol’:

Lone, alone, solitary, lonely, desolate, dismal, gloomy The sun (also can refer to the Sun in a personified sense) A source of comfort, calmness, soothing "To be accustomed" (as found in such words as: insolent, obsolescent, sullen)

These are all such apt descriptors for various facets of his personality and story, it shows the amount of thought and care given to him in the writing process. And of course, there are the Elven meanings: ‘Pride’ or ‘to stand tall.’

Because of the level of thought involved, I wondered how far back Gaider chose his name and decided it would mean ‘Pride’ in Elven, and how that might’ve informed Weekes’ writing of his character. @maythedreadwolftakeyou, @felassan and @lesbianarcana (my heroes!) helped me out and did some top-notch digging.

The first instance we have of the word Solas was found in a codex acquired from Dragon Age II’s Black Emporium, which was released on March 8, 2011. After that, it appears with its Elven meaning and on a map in World of Thedas Volume 1, released on April 30, 2013.

Since we have an enormous amount of foreshadowing for him by way of Shartan in Dragon Age: Origins and Merrill in Dragon Age II, I think it’s safe to say the first concepts of what Solas would mean and who the character who would wear the name would become began as far back as DAO. (Note: I believe Gaider or another Bioware dev confirmed this on social media, but I couldn’t find the post anywhere. If it crops up and you see it, please let me know. I’ll amend the post and credit you.)

In any case, the power of names is yet another running theme that links the storytelling of the ancients, Hadestown, and DA:I. Orpheus pays attention to the composition of Eurydice’s name, and remarks on how it’s “like a melody,” and his arrival in Hadestown reminds her of it when she’s been stripped of it and has forgotten who she used to be. Solas tells Abelas he hopes that he finds a new name after he leaves the guard of the Vir Abelasan, because it means Sorrow. The Qunari in Tevinter Night’s Genitivi Dies in the End have a special interest in finding out what they believe to be Solas’ “true name,” so they can then “track [him] back through the best and worst of [himself]”; “find flaws”; “exploit weaknesses”; “know what [he] failed to be.”

To be named is to be given an identity, personality, and, in most cases, personhood. To be named yourself and to be able to name others is power. Whether that comes as the name you’re privately called, your title, or your epithet.

#da meta #dai meta #solas meta #dragon age meta #mine.#text post.#of a god & man: solas & hadestown meta series.#dragon age.#solas.#hadestown.#this was A Lot to write #spoilers for tevinter nights!!

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empyrealix · 4 years

Text

stolen crowns and weddings | lmh

pairing: lee minho x reader

genre/warnings: medieval au, vikings, blood, gore, slavery, murder, death, violence, mentions of not eating, graphic descriptions of murder and execution (blood eagle), character death, established relationship, yn is a side character

synopsis: it’s based on a norse poem, trymskvida. minho is a king, along with changbin and changbin steals minho’s crown (in trymskvida it’s thor’s hammer). changbin says that he’s going to give minho his crown back on one contidion: marrying yn, minho’s wife.

words: 3 646

1-2

Minho smirked into his goblet. Chan was standing before him, telling him some story about what had happened at Lindisfarne. Minho did not care what happened at Lindisfarne. He interrupted the skald.

“Do you have anything else to say? That is not Lindisfarne,” Chan stopped. His eyes widened.

“Your majesty,” Minho cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Well, do you? You’d be a lousy skald if you didn’t know any stories,”

“I have a poem about Eric Bloodaxe, if that would satisfy his majesty,” Minho nodded, taking a sip of his mead. Chan began reciting the same poem Minho had heard millions of times before. Somehow the skald made it seem like it was the first time Minho heard the story. He slammed his goblet on the wood table.

“Thank you,” The king stood from his chair, whispering something to the thrall by his side. The thrall nodded. Minho left the room. The thrall turned to Chan.

“The king gave you permission to stay until tomorrow,” The thrall motioned for Chan to follow her. He did on unsteady legs. The thrall opened the door for him at the end of the hallway. She bowed before leaving.

Chan woke up to yelling, and screaming.

“WHERE IS IT? I WANT TO KNOW WHO TOOK IT, AND WHERE IT IS!” Chan flinched at the sound, peering out of the slim opening in the door. Minho stood red faced before his throne. He banged his fist down on the table beside his throne. He took a deep breath, his chest heaving.

“Call Felix,” He slumped down on his throne. The thralls scattered.

Minho sighed, rubbing his eyes. He was furious that someone had stolen his crown, possibly his most prized possession. He had a kingdom to rule, he did not have time for other people’s insolence. Minho had half a mind to give the task to Seungmin.

Chan stepped out of his room. Minho’s brown eyes bore into him as he walked. Chan bowed in front of the king.

“I should take my leave,” Minho held out a hand to stop him. Chan noticed his sword leant against the side of his chair, it gleamed in the sunlight streaming in through the window.

“Stay. I want you to write a kvad out of this,” Chan nodded, he stood awkwardly by a pillar. He mouthed the words to the beginning of a poem.

Before long a blond boy appeared before Minho. Chan looked up from the same spot he had been staring for the past thirty minutes. The blond boy bowed.

“Your majesty,” Minho laughed heartily. He embraced the boy.

“You don’t have to address me as your majesty, Felix. You can call me Minho, as I’ve told you so many times,” Felix nodded. His eyes gleamed with mischief.

“You wouldn’t call for me unless something happened, so what happened?” Minho laid his arm around Felix's shoulder.

“Someone stole my crown,” Felix’s eyes widened in horror.

“That would mean the end of your reign,” Minho nodded solemnly.

“Yes, which is why I need your help,” He led Felix over to a table in the corner of the room. They sat down. Chan followed them. He committed everything that happened to memory, his brain creating verses to a poem. “Who do you think did it?”.

Felix tapped his fingers against the hardwood, “King Changbin i believe,” Minho’s expression soured.

“He has always wanted more land, this would be a perfect way to get it,”

“And a wife,” Felix mumbled. Chan barely caught it. Minho hissed. He pulled a dagger from his belt, stabbing it in the table. Felix cleared his throat.

“I will go speak to him,” The younger of the two got up from his seat, he bowed at Minho before leaving.

3-4

Minho stepped out of the throne room. He had told Felix to wait until he returned.

He found you by the river behind your house. Minho sat down beside you, the grass was still damp from the frost. He removed his cape from his shoulders draping it over yours. In your lap laid an abandoned half finished flower crown.

“You should finish that,” Minho nodded towards the flower crown before looking at your face. You hummed pulling the cape tighter around yourself. “My crown was stolen,” Minho broke the silence, you looked at him with wide eyes.

“Do you know who it is?”

“No, but Felix thinks it’s Changbin,” Minho let out a sigh, running his hands through his hair. One of his hands rested on the grass, you grabbed it, running your fingers over his knuckles. A soft smile curved his lips upwards.

“What are you going to do?”

“Felix said he was going to visit him,” Minho entwined your fingers with his. “But to do that, he has to borrow your horse,” You squinted.

“My horse? Doesn’t he have his own?” Minho shook his head, bringing your hand up to his lips.

“No, it was killed in battle,” You smiled at the sensation of his lips on your hand.

“Of course he can borrow it,” The king stood up, he bowed at you before leaving.

Felix’s hair rustled in the wind, he smiled. The wind hit his face. Before he left the head cook had packed an apple, she insisted that if he needed help he only had to take a bite of the apple, and the gods would send help. His horse traversed through woods, there the singing of the birds and the rhythmic tramping of his horse being the only thing he could hear.

Minho had tried to get Chan to go with Felix, but the latter had declined. Saying that if he brought Chan Changbin would not be likely to give back the crown. Felix did not believe Changbin would give up the crown, he would want something in return.

The castle loomed over the horizon. It was built of tree, and one could not really call it a castle. It was more a big house. The house had a straw roof. Felix stepped off his horse, petting its neck before tying it to a column.

He was met with thralls once he stepped inside.

“Is King Changbin here?” The thrall nodded.

“Do you wish to see him?” Felix pulled his cape tighter around himself. He nodded. The thrall led him through a dark corridor. They had carved drawings into the wood. There was no light, spare from a faint flicker from the hearth. The thrall stopped in front of a throne. It was empty.

“His majesty isn’t here, I am so sorry,” The thrall fidgeted nervously with her apron. Felix shook his head, pursing his lips.

“Do you know where he can be?” Felix stood with his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

“There's a hill behind the house, it overlooks a river. He sometimes goes there,” The thrall hesitated, “If you would like I could ask his majesty’s brother to take you,” The corners of Felix's lips turned up into a smile.

“Thank you for the offer, but I believe I can find it myself,” Felix bowed at the thrall before leaving. She looked after him, Hyunjin stepped out of the shadows once the door closed behind Felix.

“What did he want?” He queried, the thrall gasped. She turned around clutching her heart over her shirt.

“He wanted to see King Changbin,” Hyunjin sighed, he punched the column he was previously standing against. The thrall jumped again.

“Make sure no one enters,” Hyunjin sneered, retreating back into the shadows he came from.

6-9

The wind had grown stronger in the time Felix had spent inside the house. He looked around, lush hills met his eye wherever he looked. To the south was the forest he rode out of a mere 30 minutes before. To the north was a hill, on the top of the hill was a lone tree. Felix assumed this was the hill the thrall was talking about.

He patted the head of the horse before beginning his trek up the hillside. A short stocky man sat with his back leant against the tree. He had his eyes closed. Felix snorted, it would be easy for someone to sneak up and kill the man. Felix walked closer, he had wrapped his hand around the hilt of his dagger.

“King Changbin,” The man jolted awake at the sound of his voice. He squinted against the bright sun.

“What are you doing here, Felix?” Changbin’s voice was gruff as he spoke, no doubt from just having woken up. His body stiffened, and he wrapped his right hand around the hilt of his sword.

“King Minho’s crown has been stolen. Do you know anything?”

“I stole it, I would assume I know something,” Changbin smirked, “You won’t ever find it, except if you bring me yn to wed,” Changbin shifted in the grass, he leant against the tree, the grip on his sword loosened.

10-14

Felix met a distressed Minho walking briskly towards him. Minho’s hair was messy, it was like he had run his hand through it a million times.

“What did he say?” Minho was stressed, his back was straight, and he clenched his fists at his sides.

“He said that he stole it, and that you won’t get it back until you bring yn to him so he can wed her,” Felix looked anywhere but Minho’s seething face. Minho threw his dagger at the red painted wall of the stall. The thrall walking by jumped, her eyes widened and she scurried away, not wanting to be victim to Minho’s outburst.

“No, I’m not letting him marry my wife,” He stalked over to the stall, yanking his dagger out of the wall. He pointed at Felix with it. “You have to figure something out,” Minho slid his dagger back into its sheath.

“Why do I have to figure something out? She’s your wife, if anything you should figure something out,” Felix sighed, his gaze ran over Minho’s disheveled form. His hair was messy, he had bags under his eyes. His clothes, usually pristine, were wrinkled and tucked into his trousers. The laces of his brown leather boots were untied.

Minho looked towards the corner of the house, you walked out. Your dress flew behind you as you walked, and you had tucked a flower behind your ear. Gravel crunched under your feet as you walked.

“You should tell her what he said,” Felix suggested. He followed Minho’s gaze. You smiled at him, raising your hand to wave at them.

“yn,” Minho called your name, you stopped halfway across the courtyard. Minho walked over to you with brisk steps. The courtyard milled with thralls, they carried baskets and walked in different directions based on what they were supposed to do. Felix grabbed a green apple from one who walked past, she stopped to glare at him before beginning to walk away.

“Darling,” You squinted at the dishevelled man standing in front of you. Said man shifted his weight from one foot to another.

“You never call me that unless something is wrong, or you want something,” You took the flower out of your hair, fiddling with it. Minho cleared his throat.

“Well, as you know Felix went and talked to Changbin, and he said that he would give me my crown back if he could marry you,” You ripped your elbow out of Minho’s grasp.

“No, absolutely not,” You glared at him before opening the door to the house. It slammed behind you. Felix sniggered, taking a bite of his apple.

“That went well,” Minho glowered at Felix. If looks could kill, Felix would fall dead the moment Minho’s gaze landed on him.

15-19

Voices filled the air with life, though the matter they were discussing was anything but lively. Minho glanced at Felix sitting by his side, the blond male had his gaze fixed on Chan, who was sitting in the corner of the room. Minho banged his hands into the table.

“We are here to discuss a grave matter, my crown has been stolen,” Minho fixed every person in the room with a piercing gaze. “This, if it leaves these four walls, would mean the end of my reign,” The room had gone quiet, no one made a sound. “Which again would have severe consequences for all of you,” Minho took a break to glance out the window. Felix snorted quietly at his friend's dramatics. “Felix has visited King Changbin, and he admitted to stealing it. He said he would give it back on one condition. Marrying my wife,” Minho’s presence demanded attention, and respect. Felix assumed that was why he made such a good king.

“We have to find a way to get it back,” Minho’s knuckles turned white from how hard he was holding the hilt of the dagger.

“Your majesty,” Minho’s head snapped towards the voice. His eyes were wide. His breathing was ragged, and his normally composed figure crumbled as he met Seungmin’s eyes. “You clearly don’t want to give him your wife,” Minho hissed at him. “I propose dressing you up as her. There’s no way King Changbin is going to give up the crown without her majesty,” Seungmin looked at the others, gauging their reactions. Minho let go of his dagger, he flexed his hand as he did so.

“If I do this, this ludicrous proposal of yours, I am going to lose every ounce of respect I once had,” He hissed at Seungmin. Seungmin winced backwards, bowing his head in embarrassment. He slumped down in his chair at the same time Minho did.

“Minho,” Felix called his name softly to gain the attention of the king. Minho’s blood boiled in his veins. “This is the best option we have, and think about it. If this spreads, you will lose everything, including your wife,”. Minho nodded curtly before leaving the room.

20-21

Felix sat smirking in the corner of Minho’s room as the thralls helped him into the wedding dress he had borrowed from you. The dress was blue, it was somewhere between a cobalt blue and midnight blue. Flowers were embroidered along the hem of the skirt, they climbed up stopping just below his knees. The shirt under the dress was white, and the waistcoat had embroidered flowers like the skirt. The thralls handed Minho a silver belt before bowing and leaving the room. He fastened it around his waist, a scabbard hung from it. He substituted the blue embroidered purse for his dagger.

Felix rose from the chair he was previously sitting in, the old floorboards creaked under his weight. He placed a veil over Minho’s face.

“There, that’s perfect,” Minho turned to face Felix, he lifted his veil. His face was pulled into a sour grimace. “You look so pretty that no one is going to know it’s you,” Felix snickered.

“The only reason I’m continuing to keep you around is because you’re useful sometimes, that does not mean I will accept those comments,” Minho sneered at the younger, who flinched back.

“I’ll join you to see King Changbin, then we’ll be two,” Minho gestured to a grey dress thrown over a chair. Felix recognised it as the one thralls often used.

Minho often looked distant, Felix found himself wondering what he thought about more than he should. If he knew it would be easier to plan his betrayal. He rid himself of his robes, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

“If you’re ready we’ll leave,” Minho’s voice cut through the silence. Crows cawed outside the window. Felix tightened the waistband of the dress.

Their trip to Changbin’s house was silent, Felix kept glancing at Minho every five minutes, he never said anything.

22-33

A thrall led them into the banquet hall. Changbin sat on his throne, a goblet in his left hand. He looked at his guests over the rim of it as he took a sip of the liquid. Felix assumed it was mead.

“You’re bringing me yn to marry. I never expected Minho to agree to my terms,” Changbin laughed before jumping off his throne. Minho clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles turned white and his nails dug into his skin. They left crescent moon shapes.

The throne was made of wood, drawings of Ragnarok was carved into it. The middle of the room had a hearth, and along the far right wall was a table. It was set for a wedding celebration. “Let’s sit down, Minho will get his crown once I am wedded to yn,” Changbin gestured to the table with his hand. It was calloused, no doubt from fighting. He had a fresh wound along the tip of his pinky and down to his wrist. It looked ugly. It looked as though it would get an infection, if it was not already. A thin green layer laid above the cut. It looked slimy. Felix never asked how he got it. It did not matter.

Changbin poured Minho his fifth goblet of mead, Minho took another piece of the reindeer heart placed in front of him.

“I have never seen anyone drink so much mead, or eat that much food,” Changbin remarked. Minho giggled. It was a foreign sound, Felix had never heard him giggle.

“Well, yn hasn’t eaten since the news,” Minho glared at Felix, “she was so excited to get here and marry you,” Felix smirked, he enjoyed the pained look on Minho’s face too much. Changbin smiled, Felix only now noticed that his canine teeth were sharp.

“Oh well then, please eat all you want yn. You must be starved,” Changbin pushed a bowl of mashed potatoes towards Minho. He huffed. Felix felt the burning stare Minho pierced him with. No doubt he would be scolded for this once they returned. Felix only hoped that Minho would not be too harsh, that he would be shown some mercy since he helped him retrieve his crown.

Changbin jumped backwards when he lifted the veil. His lips quivered, and his eyes filled with horror. Felix snickered. “Her eyes are red and filled with anger. What is wrong?” Changbin clutched Minho’s hand.

“She hasn’t slept since the news, she was too excited to do so,” Felix took a sip of his mead once he had answered. Changbin seemed satisfied with the answer, he turned to caress Minho’s cheek.

Hyunjin stepped out of the shadows before Changbin’s hand could make contact with the burning skin stretched over Minho’s cheek. Hyunjin’s fingers danced over Minho’s dress, Minho tensed under Hyunjin’s touch. He sat down in the chair beside Felix. He put his feet on the table before grabbing an apple and a knife from a silver bowl.

“It’s custom to give the sibling of the groom a wedding present,” Hyunjin cut off a piece of his apple, “Where’s mine?” He cut off the rest of the peel, Hyunjin ran his tongue over his bottom lip. He looked smug. Minho clenched his fists in his lap, he had ripped his hand out of Changbin’s the moment Hyunjin stepped out from the shadows.

“Hyunjin won’t you retrieve King Minho’s crown and give it to yn? They fulfilled our conditions, it is only fair that we give him his crown back,” Hyunjin threw the half eaten apple on the table. It rolled, Felix stopped it with his dagger. It glistened menacingly in the flickering light from the candles.

Hyunjin returned a minute later, he balanced Minho’s crown on his head. Minho clenched his jaw. He grabbed the hilt of his dagger, and he was about to pull it out of the leather scabbard hanging from the waistband of his dress. A gold ring around Hyunjin’s wrist glistened as Hyunjin placed the crown in front of Minho. He had to have sworn loyalty to some king, Felix assumed it was Changbin. Minho sneered at the carelessness Hyunjin treated his crown with.

Minho pulled his dagger out, he slashed it across Hyunjin’s throat. Instead of gifts, like Hyunjin had hoped, Minho gave him a deep bloody cut. The cut was clean, Felix remembered that Minho spent three hours yesterday sharpening his dagger. It cut Hyunjin’s windpipe. He gasped for air before he started coughing up blood. Blood ran down his neck from the cut, it soaked Hyunjin’s shirt. He continued to cough up blood, it ran from the corners of his lips. It looked as though he wanted to call for help, but he could not.

Minho laughed at Hyunjin’s misery. He turned to Changbin, he had paled. He was not yet as pale as Hyunjin. Minho twirled the dagger in his hand.

“I want to kill you blood eagle,” Minho seized Changbin’s arm. Changbin stood frozen in place as he was bent over the table. Minho traced a line from the bottom of Changbin’s neck to the bottom of his torso. Changbin whimpered. He pushed the knife into the sketched line, he cut Changbin’s back open. Changbin screamed. Minho ripped the flesh off Changbin’s back, his ribs were exposed. Blood splattered onto Minho’s face as he ripped Changbin’s ribs off his spine. He laughed at Changbin’s misery. He ripped Changbin’s lungs out, folding them so he looked like an eagle. Felix took Minho’s bloody crown from the table. Changbin whimpered in pain.

“Are you ready to leave, your majesty?” Minho nodded, taking his crown from Felix’s grasp. He placed the crown on his head.

“Yes,” His dress was soaked in blood as he left the house. The only thing left after him was two corpses.

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angsty-nerd · 4 years

Text

Thinky Thoughts on Max in 2x06

I’ve been thinking a lot about the various perspectives on Max’s character changes in 2x06, and while I was VERY insistent yesterday on Max being Max and being happy during the calm before the storm, I definitely have forced myself to rethink a little bit overnight. Even in my delirious, sleep deprived state of mind from this episode, I still refuse to believe that Max wasn’t Max during those scenes with Liz (particularly after getting his memories back). But that doesn’t mean that there wasn’t something WRONG. So here are some big thoughts from me.

Not going to lie. It did seem way too easy to “fix” Dark!Max. 10 years of destructive energy and all it took was a little earthquake, some lightning thrown around and that’s it? TEN YEARS. Liz wasn’t even dead for like a minute in the pilot and he blew out all the power in town with that dark energy. And his little earthquake didn’t seem to extend outside of the gym -- nothing was damaged or anything outside or around town. I definitely see an argument for there still being dark energy within him to expel.

It was JARRING how quickly he went from “I don’t like a stranger knowing all of our secrets.” to flirting and “people who don’t know each other go on dates all the time”. I was able to dismiss it easily at first because he was so friggin charming and cute at the market. What was it that Mo said? The full weight of his charm thrown at Liz for the first time? And I know he was grumpy about the sciencing and the talking about him like an experiment in the lab, but he was kinda rude to Liz. And then to be showing off in front of her and flirting? People, he had a jacket on in the market scene, but you can see that he’s wearing the same shirt as he was in the lab scene. It’s CLEARLY the same day and very little time has passed. So did Michael and Isobel just have that good of a talk with him? Or what?

I might need to just explore the Liz erasure in his brain some more at some point. I think the thing that bothered me was the absolutely lovely exchange about the worst things they’d ever done - one of my favorite scenes in the episode, to be honest. It makes sense to me that he doesn’t remember the Rosa incident. It also makes sense to me that he thinks that killing the drifter was the worst thing he’d ever done. Even in 1x06, he made it pretty clear that his first murder was still haunting him, even years later. Even after Rosa. But the continuation of that...the feelings about death and not being willing to hurt someone else. His admission that he wanted to stay dead so that he didn’t kill again. He remembers that. He remembers begging Isobel to let him die. But he doesn’t seem to remember Rosa (because she’s connected to Liz) and he doesn’t seem to remember Rosa being his only connection to the outside world, and he doesn’t seem to remember that what he was begging for was for them to “Stop Liz”. I keep thinking of his mindscape, and the storm and the darkness... is it just this weird patchy cloud over pieces of his memory? Like parts of it are clear to him and other parts are just fuzzy or shrouded?

And speaking of darkness and light, let’s talk about the other side of that. The happy. GOD, Max without the memory of Liz was so happy. He was so light, and confident, and inhibition free. It was so compelling and lets be real, it was friggin sexy as hell. Clearly Liz thought so too, until that “worst thing” conversation when she figured out WHY he was so light and happy. But the thing is...I’m not sure it actually went away after his memories came back. Even after remembering Liz and Rosa and everything, he still seemed to be lighter than before. Mind you, some of that is getting the girl, getting laid, etc, etc. But I wonder if some of it is also just the weight of the guilt lifting off of his shoulders. Like, for right now at least, everything feels like things are right in the world. Until the flash of course...

And I’ll get to the flash eventually, but first this. Isobel pointed it out. “Does he seem different to you?” And yes, it seems like a warning shot. But Liz pointed it out too at the end of the “worst thing” conversation. He IS different. And he SHOULD be different. First, because of the lack of Liz history, but then also because of the lifting of the guilt. I’m not entirely convinced that this was supposed to be anything more than building to that epiphany from Liz (which was probably mostly directed at the audience) that he might be better off without her -- which was also intended to lead to that response from him on the rooftop, “I am not whole without you”. That Max was light and fluffy, but he was missing something. He was *gasp* WRONG. So maybe this was all just building to that moment of acceptance of himself too.

Sort of off topic here, but did anyone else find themselves wondering about how open and public Max was in this episode? Amnesia!Max going to the Mexican market by himself. Meeting Liz publicly for a date. Making out on the street in the middle of town. This is the same Max Evans who was missing for months because supposedly he was so heartbroken. This is the same Max whose boss thinks he murdered Noah and hasn’t stopped investigating him in the months that he’s been missing. Thye’re not going to just DROP that, right? At some point they’ve gotten give us some Max & sheriff interaction? Does he even get his job back after all this!?!

Anyway, back on topic. The time jump. Yes, that was weird. And purposeful. It’s clearly early morning when Max leaves Liz at the Crashdown, and Isobel says it’s, like, 2pm when he got home. Is this simply the fault of a cut scene? Crappy editing? Or is it a purposeful time jump. I will throw out there one naive and happy theory, which is this: it is totally in character for happy lovesick Max to stop everything to write his feelings down. He was going through his journals earlier in the episode. It’s possible he was just sitting somewhere writing poems about Liz. Or love letters. Or whatever. BUT, that does feel too obvious. I think the idea of him losing time, of someone else taking over while he was heading home, is a very interesting, scary, and plausible theory.

Okay, so I still think that’s a memory flash at the end. I think from a plot standpoint, the purpose of the whole amnesia plotline was to feed Max some antidote so that he would start to remember things from before the crash. And maybe it took a little longer because the “natural” amnesia had to resolve itself first before the “unnatural” triggering of memories from the antidote could do its thing. And I do think the hand on the shoulder is clearly mirroring the hand in 1947 that lit the military dudes on fire. And I suspect they’re the same person, but I could be wrong. I could get behind the theory that it’s even Max -- some dark version of him, some Alien!Jesus version of him. Although if it’s the latter then it’s kind of super creepy. Especially given the evil twin imagery that @maxortecho has documented really well over on her blog.

Okay, another thing about this whole evil twin, Jekyll and Hyde thing. I don’t think we’re done with Noah yet. I think IF there’s an evil presence inside of Max it might be Noah, or it might be there because of Noah. I just want to remind y’all about the end of 1x13 right before Max kills Noah. “We are Ophiuchus, Max! The man and the serpent, the serpent and the man. They aren’t killing each other. They are one!” That was a pretty fascinating and direct line, and it brings me back to this: we still don’t know what the deal with Ophiuchus was. Why was Noah so obsessed with it? He identified with Ophiuchus, but he also identified himself and MAX with Ophiuchus. Is Noah the shadowy figure in the cave with Max? Is Noah the darkness inside of Max? Is that Max/Noah struggle that we saw in Rosa’s dream in 2x01 still ongoing? Is Noah going to still try to take over? I think it is very plausible that all of this imagery is still leading back to that incident.

So, to sum it up. Things are both as good as they seem, and as scary as they seem. There are a lot of interesting possibilities out there. And I am fascinated to see what comes next for Max.

Shallow eye candy to close this out:

#max evans reboot #max evans #rnm echo #roswell new mexico #i love him #rnm echo meta #roswellnm meta #long post

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