I know a lot of people who watch this show have strong opinions, hell I’m guilty of that too. But I would like to take a moment to appreciate that even though it’s not perfect, the people involved with this show are trying so hard.
And I think we sometimes don’t appreciate it enough.
This show took a book series full of metaphors for racism and saw the almost entirely white cast and thought, hey, I know how we can improve this
They cast Latina actors for the main family, even though in terms of the race metaphors, Shadowhunters are ‘white’
They have written multiple interracial couples where neither character is white
Even though they had to keep the incest plot (ugh) for story purposes, they didn’t glorify it the way the books did
The saw a gay couple that had been poorly handled and always pushed to the background or offscreen and instead made sure to give their romance subplot development pretty much each episode
They showed a healthy gay, interracial relationship, where both parties talk and listen and learn from each other
The have an openly bisexual character that doesn’t cheat
^and on that note, the cast have corrected people in the past for calling Magnus gay and actually used the word bisexual
They show casual touches and kisses between a gay couple
The saw a character that so many read as asexual, and saw the author brush us off, and decided to go, you know what, if you think he’s ace, he’s ace
And they debunked myths about asexuality while doing so
They have religious characters who speak openly about their religion
They show characters dealing with addiction
Yes, every so often they misjudge, sometimes they don’t do exactly what the fans want, but everyone involved tries so fucking hard to make this show amazing.
Tl;dr: It may not be perfect, but I think sometimes we get caught up and expect too much. Because this show is trying harder than most others on TV and every so often it deserves our thanks.
I’ve been in here a long time, you see. Or at least, I think I have. Hours… or, what’s longer than hours? Years. My memory’s a bit, um… it’s a bit, uh… Oh, what’s the word? What’s the word? Dishes? No.
I took down some notes/observations/conclusions about Cary and Kerry after rewatching their scenes, just to help me keep track of what we know about them. I would love to get feedback on these, if anyone interpreted them differently or if anything important is missing.
Kerry is (based on appearance) the biological daughter of their mother Irma, but Cary is the one who came out when she gave birth.
Cary was eight when he saw Kerry for the first time. She was eight as well. The way the story is told, it sounds like that was the first time she had ever manifested outside of his body or shown any sign of existing, but that’s not explicitly stated.
When Kerry is inside of Cary:
Cary and Kerry have conversations while Kerry is inside. Cary speaks out loud to her. He hears her responses somehow, but we don’t.
Kerry experiences Cary’s pain. (She apparently tells him to not move so much after he absorbs her wounds from the fight. He tells her he has to move because he’s working.)
Kerry is consciously present sometimes, but not always. (Kerry says that Cary does the tedious stuff – eating, sleeping, “whatever you guys do in the bathroom”, implying she usually checks out when that stuff is going on and doesn’t think of herself as a participant.)
When Kerry is outside of Cary:
Kerry pops in and out of Cary quickly/easily, fully dressed.
Kerry only ages when she’s outside of Cary.
Kerry doesn’t usually eat while she’s outside of Cary, but she can. (He says that he knows she’s not such a big fan of mealtime but offers her some soup.) She was also able to be a host for Farouk. She also healed on her own a little bit from her injuries before Cary reabsorbed her.
Kerry seems to stay inside unless there’s a reason for her to be physically present. This is implied both by her behavior from what we see and her age. If she and Cary are just hanging out – like the word game they were playing while Cary was scanning David in episode 2 – she stays inside.
Cary experiences Kerry’s pain as it’s happening, but doesn’t experience the damage until he absorbs her. When she goes outside again, she’s back to normal, he carries the injuries.
Kerry does not experience Cary’s pain.
Kerry tells Sydney that Cary “called” – presumably he called over the telephone so there’s no psychic communication.
Kerry needs to “recharge” by going back inside Cary.
They can interact physically with each other – hug, etc., and touch skin-to-skin. So they have control over whether to merge or not. It’s a voluntary action, not something that happens whenever they touch.
Cary says he wonders what will happen to Kerry when he dies.
When Sydney says, “You live inside his body?” Kerry is a little defensive and says, “We share.”
In this interview with Bill Irwin (the actor who plays Cary), he says, “We need to be locked together inside of each other for sustenance to happen.”
I’ve also read a few theories about if the mutation isn’t quite as it has appeared so far. And it seems to me a solid theory that Kerry is actually the mutant, and Cary is her mutation/power.
FLUFF. Asexual character. 882 words.
Follows this. Cari x Cullen. A part of the alternate timeline for More Than Smoke, the noir au: A Glorious Disaster, where Essa and Cullen break up and Essa (very eventually) ends up with Garrett Hawke. If you want to just read the Cari x Cullen relationship fics, there’s a mini masterlist here.
Cari couldn’t quite believe it. She was giddy, actually giddy. She hadn’t had butterflies like this since she was eighteen years old and Gerrick Tann kissed her at his parent’s annual Summerday barbeque. It wasn’t her first kiss, but it was the first with any true affection, and she had been convinced then that somehow those fluttering, breathless nerves had cured her of her peculiarities. Later–too much later she sometimes thought–she had been heartbroken to find that butterflies or not, she hadn’t been interested in doing much more than kissing Gerrick. Oh, she had tried, but at eighteen Gerrick hadn’t exactly been skilled in that particular area and she had been too uncomfortable to enjoy the supposed intimacy of the act.
Today, she wasn’t worried about a repeat of any of that. She wasn’t eighteen years old and unsure of herself, for one thing, and for another, the man who had just kissed her was certainly no Gerrick Tann.
“Cari?” Cullen was still holding her face in his hands, thumbs sweeping soft as a sea breeze along her jawlines. His amber eyes were filled with wonder and he looked nearly as stunned as she was. “Should I…should I apologize?”
Cari wasn’t entirely certain what it all meant, but she knew the kisses had sweetly given and honestly returned.
“Not unless you mean it.”
His smile quirked up, scar hitching just so on the one side and Cari reached out to run cautious fingers over that earnest ascendance.
Cullen released her with care. “I would,” he said, pressing a kiss to her fingertips,“mean it, I mean. That is…if you…”
He reached up with one hand, and rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck. They had been working together for a while now, had been friends for a pair of years before that. She knew that someone else might be bothered by his history with her sister, but Cari knew him well enough that she couldn’t quite bring herself to be. He had become a dear friend, and she enjoyed spending time with him. She would have been lying to them both if she couldn’t admit she’d been thinking about kissing him for some weeks now.
“I don’t need an apology.”
Cari smiled hesitantly, and lifted one hand between them before he could take another step away. Cullen Rutherford was a lot of things, but impulsive was rarely one of them. That he had kissed her meant something, to both of them. She was trying to decide if she should just ask him what that was or if she should kiss him again, when he took her outstretched hand, long work-worn fingers lacing through hers, locking together as if they were meant to be that way.
There was so much they weren’t yet saying—so much she was afraid to ask—because really, she wasn’t ready to lose the warmth in his eyes, the steady clasp of his hand, or the pounding of her heart that was somehow both too fast and too perfectly certain.
Cullen knew she was different. He had been subjected to a particularly frank conversation once after Essa mistakenly assumed he was trying to set her up with an old templar friend.
“I know that you kissed me back,” Cullen said, lifting her hand to his lips. His breath was slow and trembling against her knuckles, then his chin bumped her hand, afternoon scruff a faint, pleasant scratch. “And I know that I want to kiss you again.”
He wouldn’t kiss her, she thought, if it didn’t mean something. He wouldn’t kiss her, she thought, if it weren’t a promise.
“And the rest?” she asked, heart in her throat as she took the single step between them.
His breath left him in a rush, smile lifting high enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes and Cari smiled back, just as broad, just as reckless.
At least for them.
“As slow as you want,” he said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe where they were; Cari certainly couldn’t. “Nothing more than you want.”
“I need to know…” Cari bit her lip, took her courage in her hands and found his there, clinging. “Are you certain?”
Maker’s breath, she knew that’s not how these things worked. People eased into relationships, especially people like them, hearts determined but carrying scars.
“I know it isn’t fair.” She held tight to his hand. “I know it’s a lot to ask after a few perfect kisses.”
And they had been perfect. If she had to, she could treasure them for nothing more than what they’d been.
“I…I don’t want to change you, Cari.” Cullen cleared his throat, gaze sliding over her shoulder, getting lost somewhere in the soft shadows before he brought it back to her, met her eyes with determination. “But I think…I’ve been thinking…for too long now…That I would like to see what we could have.”
Cari leaned up on her toes, pressed her lips to his with more daring than finesse. “I’d like that too.”
FAVORITE GERMAN WORDS: Easy German 82 - Fremdschämen
“Back in Berlin Cari meets Richard from Canada who wants to find out how people would describe the German word “Fremdschämen”. It’s a verb that Germans use to describe when they feel ashamed (or embarrassed) on behalf of someone else.”
On January 18, 1904, a child was born and he was called Archibald Alexander Leach. It was this child who, in later years, will change his name that will be on the lips of every fans and moviegoers.
But there’s more to Cary Grant than his lady-killer smile, his beautiful brown eyes, his tanned skin, his odd but sexy voice, his graceful walk, his elegance, his style, and his oozing charm…
He was a man who transformed himself from a working-class Archie Leach to the world-class Cary Grant. And to borrow the words of Howard Hawks: “He was so far the best that there isn’t anybody to be compared to him.” 💜
Happy Birthday to you dear Cary! Thank you for bringing so much joy and happiness to my life 😘
oh, you want to hear about yuuri katsuki’s infamous viktor nikiforov essay?
don’t worry, don’t worry, yuuri didn’t write an essay about his future husband for a class, that would be just a tad too humiliating (and, luckily, viktor only got famous (and known to yuuri) when yuuri was out of that stage in school where every other essay is ‘write about someone you admire’ or ‘what do you aspire to be’)
maybe yuuri’s infamous viktor nikiforov essay was worse, because yuuri wrote it when procrastinating actual schoolwork. it was his third year in detroit during the gpf qualifiers. it was also 3 am, and yuuri was supposed to be writing a history essay that he’d been putting off for three weeks. phichit was with him, supposedly to keep him on track, but that basically meant if he caught yuuri looking up scores for the gpf or watching the stream when he was supposed to be writing that essay, he could give him a Disappointed Look
phichit thought it was finally working when 3 am hit and yuuri was typing ferociously at his keyboard, definitely typing something long (so it had to be an essay)
it turned out to be a 3 page paper about why it was obvious that viktor was going to win the gpf (breakdowns of his programs from memory, breakdowns of past scores from memory, all of it from memory), and then 2 pages about how beautiful viktor is and how talented he is
and then a page about how yuuri knew he’d lose if he skated against him but he’d accept that failure gracefully if it meant that he got to skate with viktor nikiforov
phichit is the only one who’s ever read it. yuuri’s pretty sure that copy is long lost (thank god)
or, well, was pretty sure, until phichit pulled it out and read it at their wedding rehearsal
viktor cried more than yuuri.
(oh, and that history essay? it was written the next morning - 3 pages long, and he passed. somehow)
Star Wars AU in which Chloe is the red leader in the resistance, and Beca is probably a rebel, but she actually don’t remember a thing. Only soldier survivor from a Resistance’s Mission, she had lost both her memories and the right half of her body. She now goes around by Sand, with a team of three other guys, rebels two. On one mission they got pick up to the headquarter of resistance. That’s where she met Chloe, feeling like the woman is familiar…
I had fun drawing this, but I’m also a bit sad to draw in the Star Wars verse, because Carie Fischer just died… RIP Carie Fischer, thanks for your words, and for remind us not to wear bras in space!
I was made warrior by my father, mage by Desire, and apostate by Rage. I spent ten years in the Circle of Ostwick, in a cage of my own choosing, one forged from the fear and hatred of others. I learned to bind my demons and to fight theirs, and when the sky tore and I stumbled out of too many deaths, the people of Thedas whispered that Andraste had made me her Herald. Now, by some turn of absolute madness, I have been made Inquisitor. But I am both more and less than history will try to paint me. Those dry tomes will undoubtedly leave out the most important parts in favor of the more sensational. Blood and fire, no matter how sacred, are not the whole of my story.
Surprisingly, mine is a tale of love and fear, faith and redemption, and more surprisingly still, it has not been mine alone since I first charged across the smoldering ruins of Andraste’s temple to meet the open distrust in a pair of amber eyes.
Cullen, no matter where this journey takes me, I hope you know that I will be forever grateful to have walked so much of the way with you.
Essa Trevelyan is nothing like he expected. A circle mage, a murderer, former apostate.
She charges into combat, blocks with the shield she no longer carries, and would still rather talk to horses and dogs than people. Originally slated for a warrior’s life, she began training with a sword and shield at the age of three. Had her magic not manifest—late and tragically—she would be a mercenary even now and not the Herald of Andraste.
More than once Essa has told Cullen that she was never meant to be a mage, much less the
figurehead of an international military organization. It doesn’t take long before he believes her. She isn’t exactly used to
people—being raised mostly by a mabari will do that—and spending a decade in a
mages’ tower certainly didn’t help. She’s blunt, churlish, makes Cassandra look subtle, and while she is, by all appearances, the least secretive person he’s ever met, Cullen can’t quite trust her.
Essa’s smile comes as easily as her scowl. Too easily given all that she’s been through. Her grey eyes are just a bit too wide and utterly guileless, everything about her direct enough to wound. She’s an idealist, and Cullen has long since learned that such unflinching righteousness only hides corruption.
Master list below the cut. Everything is in chronological order and up-to-date. Now complete!
Request by Anonymous: Maybe one where the reader
is plus sized and shy/quiet. When her and Steve get assigned a mission together
he underestimates her and doesn’t pay her any mind until he gets badly injured
and she actually protects I’m and caries him all the way back.
Steve couldn’t believe he’d been assigned to go on the
mission with Y/N. He honestly wasn’t sure what your ‘talent’ was or why you
were even on the Avengers. Steve realized that he hadn’t even had a real conversation
with you. He begrudgingly agreed and the two of you loaded onto a chopper the
next morning, headed for one of the many HYDRA bases to dismantle it. The
chopper touched down and the two of you exited, sneaking to the back exit. You
followed Steve closely, scared of what might happen if the two of you were
split up. You came up to a door and he signaled for you to wait. He then kicked
open the door, blocking the two of you with his shield. The two of you fought
and shot at the enemy, until you believed all of the enemies were defeated. As
you turned to leave, a HYDRA agent got in one last shot, bringing Steve
tumbling down. Your reflexes kicked in and you shot the agent right between his
eyes. You knelt down, patting the sides of his face, trying to get some kind of
“Steve, Steve? Can you hear me?” he was already out cold. You
looked around to make sure there were no agents left standing, and began pulling
Steve up. He was heavy, but you managed. You were bigger and on top of that
spent a significant amount of time in the weight room, accumulating quite a bit
of muscle. You half carried half dragged him a mile back to where your chopper
was waiting to take you to Stark Tower. The pilot stared in shock when you came
into the clearing carrying Captain America. You pulled him up and strapped him
in, signaling for the pilot to take you back to Stark Tower.
After receiving medical care from Tony’s elite staff, Steve
finally woke up. You were waiting by his bedside, feeling you had to be there
when he woke up. His eyes opened slowly, and he was taken aback when he saw you
and realized he was in the hospital.
“Wha-what happened?” he rasped.
“You were shot by a HYDRA agent, and I carried you back to
the chopper.” You replied. He raised his eyebrows, obviously impressed. The two
of you spent the rest of the evening talking, and Steve realized how wrong he
had been about you.
On March 27, 1957, Ingrid Bergman was awarded the Oscar for Actress in a Leading Role for her work in Anastasia. Bergman was in Paris at the time and her good friend Cary Grant accepted the statuette on her behalf.
Here we see the typewritten thank you letter (middle photo) from Bergman to her Notorious co-star where she explains that even though she had been interviewed by the press all day, the magnitude of the Oscar didn’t sink in until she had heard his voice in the background.
“That was the moment I really received the Oscar and I felt tears coming to my eyes,” Bergman wrote. “Having known about it all day, but still not GETTING it, I GOT it in the bathroom! What a place to get an Oscar! Nothing could have made me happier than that you took it and I thank you for the sweet words you said.”
Top photo: Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in a publicity photo from Notorious (1946).
Middle image: Letter from Bergman to Grant. Part of the Cary Grant papers at the Margaret Herrick Library, Fairbanks Center for Motion Picture Study.
Bottom photo: Grant holding Bergman’s Best Actress Oscar flanked by columnist Sidney Skolsky (who is occasionally deemed as the man who dubbed the Academy Award “the Oscar”, left, and Chicago columnist Sig Sakowicz backstage at the 29th Oscar ceremony.
Just utter the words “male style icon” and images inevitably form of celestial beings like Cary Grant, Paul Newman or Steve McQueen.
Not only were Steve McQueen, Paul Newman and Cary Grant uncommonly handsome humans, they were also possessed of that certain ineffable quality we categorise as cool. They looked great in clothes seemingly no matter what they wore. In part, this was because they looked as if they gave clothes and fashion not a moment’s thought.
The Italians have a handy term — sprezzatura — for sartorial gracefulness achieved through artful nonchalance. The concept behind sprezzatura was first codified by Baldessare Castiglione in his 1528 treatise, “The Book of the Courtier.” In it he steered young Renaissance gentlemen away from dangerous shoals of artifice and affectation, guiding them toward the safe haven of a public comportment predicated on making all a man does or wears “seem uncontrived and effortless.”
Naturally, sprezzatura is abused all the time in modern practice.
Think of a necktie deliberately knotted that slight bit wrong. Think of the absurdity of a half-tucked T-shirt. Think of shoes without laces or sneakers with suits. Think of the overwrought pocket square. The great cinematic icons would never have been caught dead betraying the amount of care that went into transforming, Paul Newman — a middle-class kid from suburban Shaker Heights, Ohio — into the quintessential sexy rebel or the archetypal cowboy of “Hud.”