lessing's caterers

the whole concept of ‘being less beautiful’ is … such a charged topic, because… what makes one less beautiful? not catering to the social expectations of beauty? what made taako beautiful in the first place?

that’s why i’m taking it in another direction, which might or might not be the intended one, but that i feel more comfortable with: it’s not about a loss of beauty others can see, but about a loss of taako’s confidence. it’s about him being insecure. he isn’t any less beautiful for it, or for a tangible physical change – he’s less beautiful in his own eyes.

he’s still the same as he was to others, but to himself, he has lost the one thing he felt secure about.


Sil. XXX; clemente and the king of concordia.

So I remembered a post or two about a queer coffee shop instead of bar, to cater less toward those who can/want to drink. And I remembered a post about how if you really wanted to be radical, you’d open a homeless shelter or something that would make a significant difference in people’s lives.

And whilst on the treadmill, I invented a thing.

It’s not plastered with rainbows. If you don’t know what to look for, you don’t even recognize it as anything other than a coffee shop pretending to be a bookstore. It has overstuffed chairs gathered in circles, and portraits and posters lining the walls. If you read the plaques beneath the posters, though, you’ll see they’re of famous or history-changing queers, from Silvia Rivera to Marsha P. Johnson to Harvey Milk. The posters range from resources for homeless youth to one-time queer-themed community events to advertising for groups that meet at the coffee shop. One proudly proclaims an open mic night that is also a safe space. Another explains the workings of a queer interfaith support group–”Discuss broader topics with the whole group and then split off (by faith or not) for more focused support. Currenly attending are Christian, Jewish, and Muslim queer people, but all people of all faiths are welcome.”

An unobtrusive bookshelf lining the back wall bears a sign announcing that all books are paid for by donation. In smaller print, it explains that if it’s a choice between not paying and not taking the book home, they’d rather you took the book. You start at the As and discover The Invisible Orientation: An Introduction to Asexuality. You’re completely confused by the organization at first, but moving further down the row reveals Bi America: Myths, Truths, and Struggles of an Invisible Community and All About Demisexuality, and you realize it’s organized by label. The Ts take up an entire row by themselves.

The baked goods are a tad overpriced, but a sign above the counter and a matching one in the window proclaim that anyone who is homeless can have a free sandwich and as much water and menstrual products as they want every day. All they have to do is ask. A bit of asking around reveals that the local homeless shelters, discount stores, employment offices, doctor’s offices, and food banks are supplied by the owner of the coffee shop with coupons for heavy discounts on anything. You figure that the regular price is designed to get the well-off to help pay for food for those who need it. After voicing this opinion, someone tells you the shop only sells local and Fair Trade, which also boosts the price.

A second sign in the window proclaims, “Help Wanted! Qualifications required: radical socialist feminism or an ability to keep your damn mouth shut. We pay our disabled employees equal wages.” Sure enough, the shift changes, and the new barista props up a sign reading, “I’m Deaf, please sign or write down your order,” with pictures demonstrating how to sign ‘coffee’, ‘milk’, and three different sizes.

You have never learnt a word of ASL, but ‘large coffee’ sounds easy enough, so you haltingly give it a try. She gives you a giant grin and serves you the best coffee you’ve had since you left home. You wave goodbye and leave a hefty tip in the tip jar on your way out.

anonymous asked:

Senpai will you write me a reaper x reader imagine or hcs up to you where Reader was Reaper's superior when he joined Talon, but now she's under him? Something like that pleeeasee<3

I’m beginning to enjoy the whole senpai thing and I hate myself for it. <D

There were two ways I could take this request, with Reader being an asshole the whole way through or them and Reaper eventually working their shit out. I chose the second option becaaaausse it would have been hell working under Reaper otherwise. XD


  • You’re a good superior
  • But, let’s face it, you were an asshole just because you could be
  • I mean, Reaper was an asshole too, so why not?
  • Extra chores, less missions, making him cater to you personally
  • But boy were you ready to run for the hills when you heard rumors of Reaper’s promotion resulting in your demotion
  • Of course, that meant he’d heard them too
  • So you decide maaaaaybe you should cool your jackass self down for a while before all hell reigns loose
  • Reaper sure as hell notices
  • “What, no extra chores? I was your last resort for that mission? Don’t need me to personally clean up your uniform or get you a drink from the cafeteria while you lounge away?”
  • You almost almost hear the smirk plastered to his mask-clad face
  • When the demotion comes, you expect Reaper to treat you like the scum of the earth
  • Hell, it’s what you’ve done to him, after all
  • The exact opposite happens
  • You’re treated like anyone else was
  • However, he gives you all your orders via another member of your status
  • You have to set up a meeting with him to see him face-to-face and ask him what the fuck he’s up to
  • He has his feet up on his desk while you sit across from him
  • He takes his sweet time before answering
  • “This is how you lead a team. No special treatment for those you like, no shit treatment for those you don’t. Learn it.”
  • Then he dismisses you without another word
  • The next morning you’ve gotten your status back, although you still work under Reaper
  • Your once-dark uniform has also been bleached and dyed pink
  • So have fun with this new arrangement
[In Your Shadow]: The Lord of The Wings

Autumn’s Crimson-Leaf,

And Inked Spring’s Ravenshade,

None shorter for a Golden Flower…

Unravel the masquerade.

 The air of the Forest had begun to bare its deceitful treachery upon the joint fates of the two most unlikely companions. Rank upon rank of bark and bough had begun to seep away in the distance, and the further the eye pursued their folds did they sink into an unsettling, murky gloom, laden with a ghastly, silvery mist. Breath availed them not and catered less so to them–their lungs would feel the Shroud’s bosom constrict, as the recline of pure air had come to hint at. It had been an atmosphere accustomed to regions hosting a rich palette of lichen upon unkempt barks–breathing became stifling, the air infatuated with moisture and subtly robbed of clarity, deviously robbing the pair of both sight and comfort. It had not depleted too direly, though. Slipstreams of wind still coursed through the fibers of grass both verdant and murky–under the great, harrowing crowns of boughs did the green carpet grow bolder, held captive by an audience of darker hue.

 Draping the hind of his knuckles against the fine, bulbous peak of his nose, the Sea Wolf would struggle to make aught out of the play that took center stage before that very selfsame snout–a moderate, silenced gasp chanted from his lips as the terrible form of the Shroud-daughter yielded to release, yearning to incur a wrath of her own conjuration–she fended for another cause, that much would not elude his perceptive keenness. His best guess lingered with the idea of assertion–dominance. Rivienne was not wont to bend knee and heel before a militant authority–and less so in the face of adversity propagated by no face indeed. Rhotdornn’s breath grew stale, and his orbs gave away a lulled, swayed portrayal. Hers was a wrathful, sundering form–one outfitted with looming terror and not found at a lack of terrible luster, either. An icon of horror, both divine and awe-inspiring. Her fear was become fled before her divinity, and even the Shadows themselves reeled and trembled like brittle twigs in the righteous gust ripping from a striking gale. From her palm sprung reflections of gleaming bright, and the air had come to be restored–even if to last the couple for but a breath’s respite, before equally, once more, whittling away abandoning them to the mercy of the Twelve–and whatever phantom harried the trees on that eve, to boot.

 The raven greeted her newfound gown of aether and splendor with a craning of its head heavensward. It knew its part–and it knew to play it to perfection in these negotiations and under the decree of these circumstances. Stubbornly would its feet crave the coolant ground, an act of paralleled need of imposition. However, not much of the same could be rehearsed for its brethren–the curtain speckled with many-a-green began to extinguish, the dots in the bloated, blackened wall of the Forest’s wooden folds gradually depleting, one after the other–the swarm of emerald counted lower and lower, until, at last, the final pair of orbs only lingered atop them from a high-vaulted, remote crown of swaying leaves. Far less avian were they introduced to the two, if looks were a feasible judge to go by–a greatly humanoid trait shaped their pupils in an elegant round, their glow protruding through attentive lids–far from closed, yet not maliciously agape, either. They watched restlessly. Tirelessly laboring to cater to the pair’s curiosity–and destiny, respectively.

  At a sudden notice, a hollow breath began sneaking into the luxuriant earlobes of the juvenile nymph. If senses could betray her, they would alert her to the lack of an external voice–but one that almost took onto the suit of appealing to her from within her mind.

“What crave you? What twisted malice do you ride through these woods, driving it through every stump and splinter? Harrowing these grounds with the taint of blood you’ve soaked your fingers in the past?”

 Time did not lend assistance to the maiden, either–’twas as if the chronoveil had become stuck in its loop, a plane bereft of time’s passing–and still was it that only she could remain privy to the lush murmurs of the ghastly choir, hushing and gently tickling her earlobes with a chilled, fresh breeze. The woods to her had gone quiet, the surrendered to the strings of wind that caressed the strings which lulled them into dance, which robbed them of nimbleness and equally so which ripped them from their brittle twigs and battered branches.

“Golden… Flower…”

 The allure in the voice had served but one goal–one purpose. A speck of brilliance fell unto the beak of the raven, and from its nest upon the spears of verdant-green had it begun radiating, breaking through string and string of grass anew. A weak pulse had stemmed from it–and warmth it bequeathed upon the crust of the earth below. Without fail would the raven wind its neck past the obtrusion of grass and blade most emerald, securing the source betwixt the clutches of its keen beak. It’s wings drove in bold arcs apart, for wide they were, and wider still–their full length could stand even with the span of the Shroudmaiden’s shoulderblades were one attentive to such detail. Claps of its wings saw it pushed into the seams of air, yet not too far would it elevate, nor too high would it yearn–steering clear of her companion, the raven sought the heavens, until its flapping of wings could be heard a head above the Shroudmaiden’s own, thin earlobes. From the clutch of its beak hung an elegant, silver chain–the way it soaked and drank in the moonlight betrayed the rings that lined its links immediately, for only one metal gleamed so brightly, so lively, so mysteriously in the eye of the Moon–mithril.

 And from such loose chain an even more so loose opportunity–offering–teetered upon the precipice of her attention. A soft, simple, golden ring. No markings had it borne, no letters encrusted upon its flesh, no gem crowned its splendor–no. Absolutely nothing had it brandish any redeeming, unique traits–no plethora of virtuous designs, nothing save the vibrancy of the golden hue that coveted its span, and the perfect fit it matched for the digit of her own proportion.

“And now, at last to it we come. I will give you this ring freely! In place of this dreadful abyss that harrows your heart you will set up a splendid harmony. And no longer in it shall there be dark, but beautiful and terrible shall it come to be as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the… Earth.”

 The final word streamed fluently from the enigmatic source, and great succor did it find in its utterance–a hollow pause would have the forest suffer the blight of anticipation. From the trinket itself stemmed a coat of challenging dread–and great would it grow indeed, for if it were gazed through its circlet, the maiden would suffer a flash shroud her own mind–and a split second would unravel before her a myriad, tome’s worth of pictures–a burning, crimson slit, shaped like a circle. And from it would vigilance spread, and dread would haunt and herald dominion. Far in the skies was it vaulted, concealed by bough and riddled with a buzzing cocoon of ripe aether. It willed her forth, seeking nourishment in the streams of her courage’s well–to gnaw away at her hope, happiness, life. Swiftly would these images snap like a tense band from her mind, and back unto the frozen standstill of a reality would she be delivered once more.

 At length it once more chimed, passing forth its final query.

“Your dread for harmony, your choice for his suffered existence. The same blade that clings to his sheath, freshly sharpened for your hand only… Will be his demise should you choose poorly.”

“To live is but to choose, Shroudmaiden. Now, yet, you command the fate of another with your own choice… Whatsoever will you choose?”

 Upon closer inspection back within the Sea Wolf’s coat had the blade long fled its scabbard, and now the pieces were accounted for–and revealed. From any vantage point of the woods could an emissary of death issue their strike, easily dispatching either under the nocturnal gown and the stealth of mist that slathered the Wood in a deathly, sickly-grey odor, welling with thickness and density.


okay this is a bit of a rant in response to some stuff i have seen lately.

imo blogs against racism that spend 90% of the time calling out only white people don’t get it at all.

  • White supremacy is a system.
  • All this fixation on white people and disinclination to call out “POC” for racist behaviour, or this notion that POC must somehow be surrounded by white people or have a white partner to internalise and enact white supremacy is just completely wrong.
  • As if white supremacy isn’t something so much more insidious, as if white supremacy isn’t a SYSTEMIC PROBLEM that can reproduce itself via many different proxies. Including us so-called “POC”.Why is there blackface in KPOP? Why do we Asians ourselves subscribe to Western beauty standards and denigrate other Asians whose features don’t measure up to that even in countries where white people are nowhere near a majority? There are so, so many more examples of how white supremacy manifests itself outside of white people.
  • You think calling out every single white person for their racism will end white supremacy? You’ve got to be kidding. White supremacy doesn’t end, doesn’t die so easily- precisely because it does not need white bodies to enact it.
  • Fixating on white people alone and thinking that racism enacted by POC is less serious is catering and centering on whiteness to the detriment of people. Again, this tendency to centre on whiteness is itself a product of white supremacy which is why we need to be critical about this. Not to mention fixating on white people alone on a global scale scarcely manages to do any justice to the enormous variants of racism around the world- of which the colourist variant of white supremacy is just ONE.
  • There is no point in this entire exercise of dismantling white supremacy if those of us racialised as non-white do not also critically evaluate ourselves, if we do not consider whether we have internalised white supremacy (answer: we all do, actually, because it’s so subtle), or consider whether the discourse we use to discuss white supremacy is reinforcing it. It’s all of us who need to do this, in addition to people who presently benefit from white privilege.
  • Using the term “white” in ancient history? Uncritically labelling people “POC” outside the Western context"? Mashing all of us into a grotesque salad by using terms like “POC culture”- as if culturally, the line between “whiteness” and “non-whiteness” is real, as if race is not a social construct?)

  • This is an example of the kind of casual reinforcement of European colonial narratives and white supremacy in history. Please tell me who the hell these “white people” are 5000 years ago when modern constructs of whiteness didn’t exist? Who the hell are these “white people” and you’re telling me they existed as some unitary culture that did not tell them to wash their asses? As if Europe was this unitary concept of whiteness, as though the Romans didn’t see the Celts and Germanic tribes as savages and group themselves with people from the Mediterranean (including North Africa, the Middle East and Turkey)? As if the Roman Empire, the Persian Empire and Islamic caliphates, where Europeans, Africans and Middle-Eastern people were part of the same cultural entity didn’t exist, as if political and cultural identities weren’t once constructed on a completely different basis. Nope, let’s reinforce white supremacy by now acting as though this dichotomy existed even in 3000 BCE, as if it’s not a modern phenomenon that arose beginning around 500 years ago with modern European colonialism.
  • Why the hell are you so bent on extending the timeline of European colonialism and white supremacy thousands of years before it happened by pasting its constructs on ancient history and therefore, whitewashing the diversity of real human history?

And when you fixate on white people as enactors of racism alone, yeah, you miss all of this and do not truly uproot the system. The entire way we discuss history and our own behaviour needs this kind of evaluation or we’ll just continue to see the world along the lines mandated by the white supremacy born from European colonialism.

Dear White Protestors

As I walked through the streets of Berkeley tonight listening to the overwhelmingly white crowd chant things like “Whose streets? Our streets!” and “This is what democracy looks like!” I felt uncomfortable. I passed white people holding signs that said “I can’t breathe” and I felt uncomfortable. Then, when we were instructed to sit down in the middle of the main street that runs through downtown Berkeley and were made to listen to a white person on a bullhorn declare “All lives matter!” I felt invisible. Ignored. Forgotten. 

Dear white protestors, this is NOT about you. 

“Whose streets?” As a Black person in this country, I am well aware that the streets belong to white people. I am not empowered or made more safe by hundreds of white people chanting that the streets belong to them. The street in Ferguson where Mike Brown was murdered and lay dead for 4.5 hours should have belonged to him, but it didn’t. He’s dead. He’s not coming back. That’s because the streets belong to white people.

Dear white protestors, this is NOT about you. 

“This is what democracy looks like?” You’re right. Democracy has always meant that (for reasons you’re well aware of but like to pretend you don’t remember or don’t matter anymore) black people are a consistent minority in this country and thus must petition white people for our basic human rights. Democracy means voter ID laws and poll taxes. Democracy in America is a white majority dictating whose voice matters. Democracy is white liberals telling black folks to calm down and go the polls (and vote for Democrat) as if Bob McCulloch isn’t a “democrat.” As if Jay Nixon isn’t a democrat. As if our president isn’t Black and it hasn’t done shit to lower the ever mounting body count of Black people gunned down in the streets by police and vigilantes. As if any Black politicians in a non-majority Black district can get elected, much less reelected, without catering to white people’s feelings. I know what democracy looks like and it hasn’t done very much for people who look like me. 

Dear white protestors, this is NOT about you. 

“All lives matter?” NO THEY DON’T AND THAT’S THE FUCKING POINT! Black people’s lives don’t matter, that’s why I’m out in the streets, to get people to realize that my life has worth. I have to protest to get people to even think about the possibility that if the police or some vigilante gun me down, it’s not because the genetic defects believed inherent in my blackness finally manifested and I had to be put down before I became more of a threat to white america. White america doesn’t need a reminder that “all lives matter,” it needs to be made to recognize and respect that Black lives matter. 

It’s Black bodies that are bleeding and dying in the streets. It’s Black bodies that can’t breathe. It’s Black bodies that are seen and treated as threats to whiteness as we shop in Wal-Mart, play in parks outside our homes, walk home with a pack of Skittles, sleep in our beds. It’s Black bodies that have hung like strange fruit from the trees of this nation for centuries. 

Dear white protestors, this is NOT about you. 

Stop whitewashing our movement. Stop pretending that “All lives matter” means anything other than “HEY ME TOO! WHAT ABOUT MY WHITE FEELINGS! DISREGARD THE ACTUAL REALITY OF BLEEDING AND DYING BLACK PEOPLE AND CATER TO THE HYPOTHETICAL AND EXTREMELY RARE POSSIBILITY THAT POLICE OR VIGILANTES WOULD BE ABLE TO EXTRAJUDICIALLY MURDER A WHITE PERSON AND FACE NO CONSEQUENCES!” Black people know our lives don’t matter because white people’s hypotheticals matter more than Black people’s reality. 

Dear white protestors, this is NOT about you. 

Stop cannibalizing our movements with hashtags about every other life but ours. Stop plagiarizing Black people’s actual struggles for fictionalized white pain (I’m looking at you Hunger Games, with your whitewashed protagonist. “The Hanging Tree?” For real?). Stop scrambling to stand atop the growing pile of dead Black bodies to use it as your makeshift platform to secure more privileges and status for yourself. Stop using protests that should be about Black lives to exercise your white angst, break shit under the cover of darkness, and then bask in the bright light of white privilege while Black lives are declared to be worth less than the windows you broke. 

Dear white protestors, this is NOT about you. This IS about making Black Lives Matter.  

Our streets shouldn’t be burial grounds for Black people. Black people’s rights shouldn’t be put to a vote. Black people should be allowed to breathe, walk, exist, without fear.

So, if you’re actually here for making Black Lives Matter, put down your “I can’t breathe” signs (because you can, and that’s the point) and pick up one that declares Black Lives Matter (because right now they don’t, and that’s the point). Get off the ground and stand in solidarity as Black people “die-in” (because it’s not white bodies lying dead on our nation’s streets, and that’s the point). Hand over the bullhorn to a Black person (because your voice doesn’t need a bullhorn to be heard, and that’s the point). 

And please, stop saying #AllLivesMatter…until they actually do. 

anonymous asked:

Not being rude but why do you go on about women all the time? Why are you a feminist? It's 2014... You can vote and work and wear trousers.

Short answer: Because I’m woman.

Long answer:

Because misogyny is real and can be fatal.
Because it’s common for people to question every inch of a woman’s life when she reports a rape or sexual assault (what were you wearing? how much did you drink? was it dark out? were you alone? did you know the guy liked you? why didn’t you go home? did you not say no?)
Because in many countries, women are forced to marry their rapist, carry their baby, live a life of non-consensual sex.
Because people ask if my boyfriend minds that I earn more than him.
Because women who have kids and work are called bad mothers and women who have kids and stay at home are lazy or benefit scroungers.
Because when I go out to bars I frequently get touched inappropriately and laughed at when I protest.
Because I can’t walk alone in the dark without fearing for my safety and knowing I’m not being irrational.
Because I get asked “do you actually like Star Wars or are you just into it to look cool?”
Because ‘girl’ and ‘weakness’ are synonymous to so many people.
Because if I like sex, I’m a slut, and if I don’t, I’m a prude.
Because when I grew out my body hair, people gave me dirty looks and made nasty comments.
Because so many jokes involve misogyny, tired stereotypes, and a complete lack of respect for women and girls.
Because jobs that are traditionally seen as “women’s work” are paid much less (childcare, cleaning, catering).
Because there is a pay gap between men and women (in the UK, women earn on average £5k less).
Because when I’m assertive, I’m a bitch. A man is just assertive.
Because when I’m emotional I’m PMSing, I’m irrational, I’m hysterical. A man is passionate.
Because when women are victims of domestic violence people say, ‘if they stay, they deserve it’.
Because a man being called a girl is supposed to be an insult.
Because men get attacked for dressing like women.
Because I read an article today about teenage mothers and how they “lack self-respect”.
Because I know people who have been fired for taking time off after a miscarriage.
Because going on maternity leave can cost you your job.
Because every time I tag a post on here with ‘feminism’, a man reblogs it and tries to tear it apart.
Because in many countries girls do not have the same access to education that boys do.
Because I get compliments that end with “… For a girl” (I can run fast for a girl, I can punch hard for a girl, I’m smart for a girl…)
Because the way the media portray women is hugely skewed from reality.
Because women are expected to shave and wax and exfoliate and put on make up and dye their hair and style their hair and never look tired or old or fat and smell like a fresh garden of flowers and smile and giggle.
Because a fat woman is disgusting but a fat man enjoys his food.
Because I should be happy with being able to vote and work and wear trousers and ignore the inequality I experience in my life and that occurs the world over.

Because this list is never ending.
Because feminism is a dirty word.

Because women do not have the same right and privileges available to them as men.

And because I continue to get questions like this.

fenton-st  asked:

i think its cool how slash fandoms help so many lgbt+ ladies figure themselves out. im genderfluid and the first time i really knew i wished i was a boy was bc of slash fanfics on livejournal... anyway thats why i hate it when people make fun of teen girls writing gay stuff because it's "shallow" or uses cliches or bishifies spongebob characters or w/e

YEAH EXACTLY!! There’s very little in mainstream media that actually caters specifically to female sexuality, and even the stuff that tries to always does it in a way that is ultimately either trying to control it or cater to it in a way that doesn’t intimidate the mainstream hetero male audience. Dirty fanfiction was pretty much the first place where I encountered other girls unashamedly exploring their own desires and sexuality. There’s even less to cater to the extensive rainbow of LGBT+ desires outside of straight up pornography (which, of course, adds to the reputation of anything but heterosexuality being obligatorily sexual and adult).

It’s also really important because it’s through fanworks that minority fans can finally see themselves represented in media they otherwise enjoy. There’s a reason “Mary Sues” came into existence - girls were desperate to see themselves as the hero, and to experience what boys are able to through characters like Batman (who, by all accounts, is a complete mary sue when you think about it). Likewise, in recent years there’s been an increase in the public availability (perhaps not in the existence of, as perhaps it was hidden before) of fanart and fanfiction that uses headcanons to make characters LGBT+, or different races, or differently abled, and again that’s fans seeing a lack of representation and using their own creativity to remedy it. It’s wonderful and positive and it makes me so happy, and I hope that media creators take note of it (as I believe they have been) and realise that the audience is out there and starving to see themselves finally portrayed with real understanding.

Flood my Mornings: Fernacre

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.
  • Previous installment: Victories (Jamie finally gets out of the hospital).


[August, 1950]

Sassenach,  please may I take this damned thing off? It’s tickling my nose something fierce…and not being able to see where we’re going doesna make the urge to vomit any less acute.” 

His wife—or the voice of his wife to his left—came back with a bright, “No, you may not!” 

Sass—” Jamie felt his stomach lurch and he clamped his mouth shut to focus on breathing through his tickled nose, damned be his wife for it.

“You won’t have to wear it long,” she assured him, reaching over to rub his shoulder. “We’re almost there, I promise. I just don’t want the surprise to be ruined!”

“What if ye go ahead and tell me now,” he wheedled, groaning and gripping the sides of his seat tighter as they thudded across a pothole in the road, “and I’ll promise to be verra enthusiastic indeed in my reaction?”

“You can be as enthusiastic as you want… when we get there!

Jamie bit back his response and concentrated on commiserating with the singer from the Record Mrs. Byrd had played ad nauseum yesterday: 

Sometimes I live in the country
Sometimes I live in town
Sometimes I have a great notion
To jump into the river and drown

It was Friday: nearly a full week had gone by without any of the Frasers being ill, getting hospitalized, missing work, or otherwise being struck by the fates. Jamie, supported when needed by Mrs. Byrd (who came for a part of each day to clean, cook, and tend the house), had minded Brianna for the entirety of the week, and would gladly have done so again today, except that his wife (wearing sand-colored trousers, and a shirt of garish plaid) had woken him that morning saying that she had “a surprise!” for him. 

It was her day off from the hospital, and consequently, would normally have been Penelope’s as well, except Claire had arranged otherwise. With plans for Brianna to stay at home with Mrs. Byrd, they had loaded themselves (Jamie wearing the prescribed blue jeans) into that venerable lady’s Van—no, no, CAR: the small ones are Cars—and off they’d jolted down the roads away from the city to God knew where. 

For the first twenty minutes, it had been the normal business of fixing his eye on a point straight ahead and endeavoring all his energy on trying not to be sick. Then, she’d tossed him a red handkerchief and blithely told him to blindfold himself. It must be her latent training from the English army, he’d thought wryly, to think it all fine and natural for “a surprise!” to necessitate treating the beneficiary like a damned abductee. 

She was right, though, that they hadn’t long to go. Not five minutes later, Jamie felt the Car slowing to a halt. 

“No, no, don’t take the blindfold off!” she said sharply as he reached up to do just that. “Sit right there, alright?” There came the sound of Claire’s door opening, then closing with a slam, followed by his own opening. Claire grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the Car to his feet. “Now, put these on—”

“Oh for God’s SAKE, Sass—” 

But she was already clamping something soft over each ear. Apparently it was some sort of ear-hat meant to squeeze his brains out through his eye sockets. 

“Now take my hand and come with me,” came her muffled voice. 

This is the woman God has given ye, Jamie, jailer though she may be. 

Blind and now deaf, Jamie obeyed, and allowed her to lead him across a graveled path that crunched under his feet. He tried an experimental sniff for clues, but damn it all, he was still unable to smell much of anything upon the air due to the lingering sniffle from his illness. He sighed and relaxed his shoulders. Whither thou goest, I shall go, mo nighean donn. 

“Alright!” she said finally, stopping so suddenly that he ran into her and nearly toppled. She whipped off the ear stoppers, then the blindfold, such that his senses were overwhelmed by the inrush of sound and light. 

“THERE!” she was saying excitedly, flushed and beaming, her arm sweeping wide to indicate the scene. 

Jamie was standing in the middle of a broad annex, surrounded by a half dozen huge, white barns. Horses—dozens of them—were visible all around, ridden by youngsters, led by grooms, trotting about in paddocks, leaping over white rails in larger pens, and even more tasks that Jamie could not properly place. The whole place was positively abuzz with activity, and all of it having to do with huge, magnificent horses

Fernacre belongs to Marian Harper and her husband, Tom,” Claire was explaining rapidly as she led him forward toward one of the barns. “Marian from the hospital, you remember? They do a bit of everything here: boarding, lessons for children, jumping training and competitions; anything the well-to-do of Boston care to do with their prize horses, they can do it here!” 

She stopped in the entryway to one of the barns, which alone housed ten beautiful beasts. “They do also cater to less competitive folk who just want to enjoy being on horseback now and again, so, I thought we could spend the day riding! That is—only if you want to…” she added hastily when he did not at once respond, her smile faltering, “I thought—something outdoors might be—you know, after being cooped up in hospital and being so miserable with the flu, and—”

He grabbed her around the legs, just under the buttocks, and hoisted her—shrieking—into the air. He twirled them around a few times until they were both laughing foolishly. She was clutching the back of his neck as if for dear life but was beaming down at him with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Like it?” 

He let her slide slowly down his body, then, though only far enough that her mouth was within reach. He kissed her, long and thoroughly, not caring about the giggles and looks they were getting from passing folk. 

From the way her chest was heaving when he at last released her, Jamie gathered that his reaction had indeed been satisfactorily enthusiastic

Jamie pulled Cornflower’s reins sharply to whirl around, both of them heaving, but so very alive as they surveyed the scene from the crest of the hill.

He and Claire had ridden for hours and hours up and down the wooded trails surrounding Fernacre, enjoying the glorious day and a wee picnic by a shaded brook. In addition to the outing itself, Claire had gifted him with a fine pair of heeled leather boots and a broad hat, so he looked “like a proper Kansas Cow Boy!” He did indeed feel like such a being: exotic and strange, to him…and wonderful. 

Claire had turned back a quarter of an hour ago, tired and needing water. Small wonder, as her mount had not taken to her as readily as Cornflower had submitted to Jamie; in fact, Claire had had twice the work as himself, by nature of the beast constantly needing to be redirected from its whims. Claire had encouraged Jamie to stay out as long as he wished, though. He’d meant at first to demur and accompany her back to the barns; but when the wooded path had opened up just that moment onto an open, hilly pasture, Claire had given him a grin and a “Go on, then, Fraser,” and he’d been carried on a wind out and away into the sea of grass.

He couldn’t even express how good it felt to ride again. His every muscle tingled with life, ached with the magnificence of heavy use. His chest felt broad and completely full with air for the first time in ages. He’d last been on a horse on the ride from Lallybroch to Craigh na Dun, but there had been no happiness in that ride. Years before that—after the confines of life in the cave— there had been the Rising, during which he’d plodded from battle to battle on Donas; but the last time he’d ridden for pleasure? Jamie honestly couldn’t recall it. This, though…this was joy. Feeling the wind in his hair as he pushed the horse to her breaking point, riding not in pursuit, nor in flight, or of necessity, just because he wished to. 

He felt utterly renewed; and it wasn’t just from the illness or the shock of hospitalization. Being outdoors and riding was healing something deep within Jamie; something he couldn’t quiet express. He felt right. He felt…known.  

Jamie leaned down and whispered to the mare, “What say you, lass? Can we beat yon flock of starlings to the other end of the pasture?”

Cornflower snorted in a “ye’ll be doubting me then, wee fool?” kind of way, and was flying down the hill in a moment, both of them pounding for the horizon.

By the time he reached the stables once more, Claire’s headstrong mare had already been rubbed down and deposited back in her stall. Not seeing his headstrong wife about, Jamie led Cornflower into the cool dark of the stable block and began removing her gear, waving off the lad who had scurried forward to do so.

It was a well-appointed barn, with (to Jamie’s eye) luxurious finishes, a dozen-odd occupied stalls on one side, and a large indoor paddock on the other. Standing in the paddock were two men, one of whom Jamie recognized as Marian’s husband, Tom. Claire had pointed him out across the way earlier that morning, though since he had been occupied at the time, they’d not had the chance to be introduced. 

Evidently, it was a very busy day for Tom, for he was occupied once more, seemingly negotiating the purchase of the chestnut-brown yearling being ridden around the enclosure by a man with sandy-blond hair. The latter was yelling loudly across his shoulder as he rode, rather forcefully extolling the many qualities and impeccable pedigree of the animal.  

Something about this exchange was wearing on Tom, for he raised his hands suddenly and shook his head, snapping, “For God’s sake, relax, O’Neill, I get it: he’s a good horse.” 

“So shall we decide on—” 

Tom was already heading toward the gate. “Give me a few minutes to smoke and think on it, for chrissake.” 

Shaking his head and muttering to himself, Tom made his way toward the barn door located directly next to the stall where Jamie stood grooming Cornflower. With an enormously weary sigh, Tom leaned his back against the door frame, lit a Cigarette from a box in his breast pocket, and took in a deep drag.

Jamie gave the man a minute or two in peace, looked once more across to the chestnut mount, made up his mind, and finally said aloud, “Begging your pardon, but ye willna be wanting that one, Mr. Harper.”

Tom jumped and dropped his cigarette. “Oh, er—I—I’m sorry…Have we met?” The man looked genuinely embarrassed at the thought of not recalling their acquaintance. 

“Not properly, no: James Fraser, sir,” Jamie said hastily, suppressing the lifelong instinct to bow and opting instead for a cordial incline of the head. “Claire Beauchamp is my wife.”

Comprehension dawned over the man’s kind features. “Good Lord, of course! The Great Scot who came back from the dead!” He came forward eagerly to clasp Jamie’s hand. “Wonderful to meet you, really! Did Corny treat you well?” he said, with a nod at the mare.

“Aye, she did, that,” Jamie said, rubbing Corny on the nose. “And you’ve a verra fine establishment, here, Mr. Harper.”

“Please, call me Tom. And it’s seen finer days, I’ll tell you that much,” he said with a grimace and another pull on the cigarette, which he had frugally retrieved from the ground. “Ridiculously short-staffed with all-time high in demand for boarders and lessons. Don’t have an effing moment to take a shit in peace, s’cuse my French.”

Jamie smiled, and after giving Tom leave to call him by his own first name, said, “Ye do seem that wee bit harried, if you dinna mind my remarking upon it.”

Tom laughed mirthlessly. “Harried and in need of a stiff drink.” The man suddenly furrowed his brows. “What did you mean, ‘I won’t be wanting that one’? Did you mean the thoroughbred, there?”

Jamie nodded. “I dinna think he’d do ye much good, if it’s breeding or strenuous sporting you have in mind for him, down the road.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “No? He’s of prime stock from a top competitor of mine…” 

“Aye, he’s a bonnie lad, to be sure, verra well-built and wi’ a lovely coat and teeth, to be sure.”

“So…?” Tom said invitingly, but with a pointed look that suggested Jamie get to the point.

Jamie closed Cornflower’s stall and walked over to the paddock fence where the blond man stood with his horse, impatient.  “If I may?” Jamie said to the man. 

Reluctantly, the seller brought the mount over to Jamie and Tom. Jamie entered the enclosure and jumped smoothly up into the saddle, taking the beast a circuit or two at a moderate trot. All the while, he spoke low in Gaelic to the creature. Oh, and you’re a bonnie one, lad, and sweet to be sure. Dinna pay heed to the words I’ll speak against ye. You’re a worthy beast, no matter what, aye? 

He stopped once more in front of the two men, and gestured for Tom to come closer. “Hear how heavily he’s breathing? No yearling should be snorting and heaving like that after a naught but wee jaunt around the paddock. I wager he’ll have a weak heart or some other ailment, despite his fine build.”

“Well, son of a gun,” Tom said as Jamie dismounted, nodding as he examined the horse again. “I’m so plumb worn-out I didn’t even notice, but I think you might be right!” 

The seller looked livid and as though he’d like to strangle Jamie with his bare hands. He also was not nearly quick enough to offer a rebuttal. 

This was not lost on Tom, either, who turned to the seller with a smug, “Well, you heard the man, Fred. Come back next week with some better investments for me, huh?”

Tom turned away from the enraged O’Neill and looked at Jamie as though he were the aforementioned stiff drink. “Could I convince you to check out the rest of the herd with me, Jamie? If I’ve purchased any more weak links in my exhaustion haze these last few weeks, I’d like to know about them head-on!”

“Tell me truly: did ye plan it, Sassenach?”

“Hmm?” she said, looking up from the road. “Plan what? The trip to the barns? Of course I did! We didn’t end up here by accident, did we?” 

“No, not that. Did ye have it settled wi’ Tom that he should take pity on me and give me a job?”

She looked genuinely affronted. “No! Jamie, no, I swear!” she said, turning to look him in the eye for a moment. “I’ll admit that I did have it in the back of my mind that Fernacre and working with the horses might be to your liking, but I didn’t mention the notion to Marian, let alone Tom!” She gave him a sudden beaming smile. “That was completely on your own merit, my love!” 

Tom hadn’t been exaggerating about his dire lack of staff. In the past three weeks, he’d had two key employees resign for family reasons. After seeing firsthand the extent of Jamie’s knowledge and experience with horse, he’d offered him a job on the spot…and after a quick conference with Claire, who was glowing with the news, Jamie had accepted. 

“You’re no’ ashamed, then, to tell folk you’re marrit to a stable boy?” He tried to say it with the air of making a joke, though he did genuinely wish to be assured of the answer.

“Stable boy, pah! My husband is a chief manager at one of Boston’s most sought-after equestrian clubs! That’s no small potatoes, darling!”

Jamie laughed, taken aback by the strange expression.

“But even if you were a stable boy,” she said fondly, reaching over and taking his hand. “I married you the first time thinking you were nothing more than a stable boy and an outlaw, didn’t I?”

Jamie squeezed her hand. “Ye didna have much choice in the matter, as I recall,” he teased.

“Ha!” she said, raising an eyebrow, “believe you me, if I’d really, truly not wanted to marry you, I would’ve put my foot down.”

“Well,” Jamie said, reaching across to squeeze her knee, now, “when I’m feeling down on myself in future, I’ll always remember how ye chose marriage to me over going to prison. ‘Tis verra flattering to a person’s manly sensibilities.”

She rolled her eyes and snorted in good humor. 

“But truly, love, are you excited about this?” she asked a minute later. “I don’t mean to make you feel anything more than you do, but–”

“Aye. Truly, I feel most pleased about it, mo chridhe.” 

He did. This kind of work (supporting Tom in overseeing the care and procurement of the Fernacre stock as a whole) was precisely of the honest, simple, and peaceful sort he and Claire had discussed that first morning of their honeymoon. He felt confident that he could both enjoy and be proud of it, and if it helped support his family as well, it was heaven-sent. 

On top of all these considerations, he felt a thrill of true joy at the thought of teaching his precious Brianna to ride at Fernacre, in a few years’ time. Still more, he dreamed of perhaps having her spend afternoons with him there regularly, once she was old enough not to need constant supervision. To think of his nighean ruiadh growing strong and capable as the years passed, there with him in the open air, in his world…

 “Aye,” he said again, with the depth of all this feeling thick in his throat, “’Tis…more than perfect.”

“Good!” Claire said, not bothering to keep the excited triumph from her voice. A few minute later, she made an on odd noise of realization. “You know what this means, though?”

“What’s that, then?”

She ground the VanCAR— to a halt at a traffic signal and turned to him with a mischievous gleam of barely-suppressed (and not a little vindictive) glee in her whisky eyes. 

“It means that you, my love, are going to have to learn to DRIVE!”

Keep Reading with the next chapter

[Song: Goodnight Irene, The Weavers]

time-space-sound  asked:

Hello, I'm currently a college student and I was wondering if you had any advice for getting into the animation industry or tips for things I should be doing now to get my foot in the door. How was your journey to becoming a professional storyboard artist?

Hallo! Sorry it took me so long to reply. I started a draft and then realized it was too much for one post. Then work of course got in the way.

To be honest, my journey isn’t the best example for how to get into the industry. I was lucky enough to have just enough skill to show up on my college storyboard professor’s radar when he happened to need someone for a project. Everyone at LMU (Loyola Marymount) knew that he hired people from his class, I just didn’t expect to be hired while TAKING his class. He had me come in for a week of freelance on an episode of YJ, I didn’t completely suck, and he brought me in when he had a slot available on another project. To be honest, I don’t actually have a portfolio currently because I’ve just been rolled onto new projects at WB this entire time.

Still, don’t let that story discourage you. I know a lot of successful professionals who’ve gotten in through a variety of ways. (All of you guys should chime in btw: meowmixeightysix chrispalmerart chriscopelandart chrissydelk jenbendraws potatofarmgirl jeandrawsstuff e1n kikimanrique, dimisfit, tannertrue, jakecastorena, etc) 

To avoid writing an entire course on how to get into the industry, I’ll try to simplify it to a couple things. Friends and colleagues please feel free to add onto this or correct me.

Have a portfolio(s) ready NOW

Don’t be like me. Start working on putting together samples of boards you feel best show your skills. I’m not sure what year you are currently, but you should have something you feel comfortable posting online/sending to studios by the end of this term. Once you get something together you can always update it with better samples as you complete them. Creating a portfolio website is the easiest way to get your work out there for people to see. I know whenever I recommend someone to a director for a position they like to get a link that they can look at instantly. I like to recommend e1n‘s portfolio site because it’s easy to view and looks snazzy.

For now you should try to include these for your portfolio:

  • Resume with current contact info
  • 2-3 short stories or sequences (include an acting scene, gag scene, and/or action sequence)
  • Some figure drawing examples

When I say short sequences, I mean keep it to 1-2 minutes AT MOST. If you have an animatic (a quicktime) put together for any of them include them on the portfolio site. Or you can put up PDF/JPEG pages that someone can easily tab through. Some people do it 1 panel per image or 3 panels per page.

Also keep in mind that the portfolio should cater to the type of show you’re applying for. If you’re trying to get onto an action-adventure project, having an action sequence will help. If you’re applying for something like Looney Tunes, having a sequence that shows you know comedy and that you can act helps.


The best way for people to hear about you is to get your name out there. A lot of people I know get into the industry because they know someone at a studio who can get directors/producers to view their portfolios. Posting your stuff online is one way to do this ( meowmixeightysix got hired through deviantART because someone with hiring power was following her) as well as going to networking events like CTN in Burbank, CA. The nice thing about CTN is that it’s less about catering to fans (like SDCC) and more about networking with professionals. They will have lectures on different topics, portfolio reviews, and more. Getting professionals to review your portfolio will really help you find areas to improve on.

You can also network by taking classes outside of your college. If you’re in the LA area, Concept Design Academy is worth looking into. A lot of currently-working professionals teach the classes that both amateurs and professionals take. It’s a great way to meet people who are already working and to learn from them. The guy who hired me used to teach there as well. They’re actually about to open their fall enrollment so if you’re able to, you should jump on it. They have weekend classes. You can also take classes at the Animation Guild.

As for how to get your portfolio to studios outside of your network, I’m actually the worst person to ask. Again, I was brought in without a portfolio because of my professor who became my director. I suggest maybe start by looking up studios near you and keeping an eye out for job openings. For someone new to the industry, you can apply to storyboard positions or storyboard revisionist/clean-up artist positions. When I was brought in, I started as a revisionist then was bumped up to boards when they thought I was ready. Starting out revising is a great way to learn different styles of story-telling and draftsmanship. You’ll pick up different tricks just by being exposed to different board artists’ work.

I hope this helps for now. Keep asking other professionals for tips! There’s not just ONE way to get into the industry.

And good luck!

ok but i just realised how tragic it is that young justice had everything a/rrow doesn’t: from interesting, well developed story lines to diversity like i’ve rarely seen among comic-related media and definitely a near universal praise & acclaim. yet young justice is the show that gets cancelled after 2 seasons and a/rrow is going to start a 5th

Big in Japan: Frozen

The film’s popularity has coincided with public outcry over sexism in Japan, where unlike in America, Disney marketing played up the movie’s empowerment message.

saw this article today – thought it was interesting that Disney intentionally marketed it differently to Japanese audiences. 

Disney marketed Frozen in the US and Europe by playing up Olaf the Snowman—and omitting the whole musical thing—likely in a bid to appeal to boys, knowing that girls would see it regardless. …

But Disney took a totally different tack in Japan, highlighting the girl-power themes in its promotions, says Tami Ihara, head marketing director at Disney (Japan).

“Unlike in the United States and other nations, we deviated from the strategy of catering to families and specifically targeted Japanese women,” Ihara told the Japan Times(paywall), “who have the power to spur consumption and create a fad.”

It’s an intriguing ploy. After all, Japan’s not exactly the land of female empowerment. On the contrary, in fact. Even though Japanese girls are among the best-educated in the world (paywall), women earn 30% less than their male counterparts. Female labor force participation is 63%, much lower than in other rich countries, and when women leave the workforce, the difficulty of affording childcare and finding a job after a few years off mean they seldom return.

I’m not sure I have anything definitive to say about this, just that it’s interesting, indicates that they do put a lot of thought into stuff like this (it’s not accidental how it does or doesn’t happen), and I also have to raise my eyebrows at the statement since it implies making marketing not about the sisters less “catering to families” like …??

The article does have some interesting notes on sexism in Japanese politics etc., too, which is worth reading about just to inform yourself. Even if I think it’s a stretch to tie any of it to Frozen, haha.

Rape Culture in India Meets Desis at a White College

I’m not even sure how to trigger warn this frankly. Discussion of rape culture and sexual violence in India.

So, yesterday evening, I attended a movie screening and discussion hosted by south asian men about rape culture in india at my school. I honestly had mixed feelings about it since I expected it to depict indian men as barbaric and backwards, but I wanted to prove myself wrong and be optimistic. I wanted to be hopeful that it would be somewhat less catering to the white male gaze.

So much for my high standards. The video was reeked of colonialism and the white male gaze. And then during the discussion, a white woman who clearly said she “I have never studied Indian culture, but I visited there once, and was unaware of Indian culture until this video” led the conversation on tackling sexual violence in the South Asian community.

OK. Y'all mother fuckers couldn’t get a single south asian, even a POC, to speak about sexual violence? Really? Are you fucking serious? And the comments from the audience oozed of colonialist thinking, such as “Pakistan is backwards like this, too,” and “Indians need to develop their thought process a bit better” FROM OTHER SOUTH ASIAN STUDENTS.

Yes, India has a fucked up rape culture. I will never deny that. But let’s talk about street harassment and sexual violence and their global existence. I am so tired of listening to indian men and other men of color be consistently depicted as rapists, pedophiles, pathetic horny bastards, sexless or sexful partners. 

And I get angry and cry. I cry because I know that mainstream feminism continues to portray south asian men as filthy, dirty, pathetic, horny, sexually incompetent, barbaric, backwards, and worthy of nothing but hatred and demise until they conform to whiteness, which is exactly what caused them to become so torn in the first place. 

If you really want to talk about ending rape culture in India, let’s talk about how Indian men were taught to rape as a war tactic pre and post partition, how sexual violence from british white men infiltrated villages and tore them apart, how the British changed the dowry system, how history books depict the British as saving India without a regard to India’s abundant history, how the British forced alcohol into Punjab, and how the rest of South Asia and its diaspora feel this shit every day and no one gives a fucking damn about it. 

People, especially other men of color who don’t get shit and think that their little degree from a fancy ass white school will make their skin bleached into whiteness, ask me why I get so angry about these “little things.” Why I don’t I just let it go like the rest of the students here? Why do I “overreact?" 

I "overreact” because it’s taken me years to stop hating men from my own community and other men of color. Years of struggle and education and realization, and I refuse to watch by as our bodies are depicted as meaningless bodies to be saved by white people and their dominating gaze. 

/end rant 

twinmills  asked:

"Ahh, it is finally getting warmer outside! Personally I prefer spring over summer because the royal picnics my family holds are the most splendid of all!" -from Prince!Zander because I'M BACK BITCH

Ryan looked over at the other and smiled, reaching out to take his hand after seeing that nobody was around to really pay attention. “I prefer winter over spring because there’s ice skating and less spoiled prince’s to cater too.” He teased, gently squeezing his hand to let him know he was kidding. “But I suppose the warm weather is worth it.”

@twinmills HELL YEAH

Thoughts on Rin's character development from S1 to S2

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how fans of Free! perceive Rin’s development from S1 to S2. I am a huge Harurin/Rinharu/Sharkbait fan, and most of the blogs I follow also favor that ship, but I do follow Makoharu fans to see other perspectives as well. I enjoy most of their posts, but sometimes I see really mindless comments questioning Rin’s behavior in S2 as being too ‘nice’, or rehashing opinions they held during S1 about him being a jerk/mean etc.

I didn’t understand those opinions when S1 was airing, and it baffles me that they’re still spewing that nonsense even now. Some go as far as to insult Director Utsumi because she likes Rin so much, questioning her skill as a Director and level of professionalism. That pisses me off royally since the show wouldn’t be what it is without her, and there are so few women directors to begin with, much less directors who cater to a woman’s gaze rather than the ubiquitous male gaze, particularly in anime.

For those who think that Rin’s current behaviour, friendliness, general amazingness is hard to believe, then can we please remind ourselves of what he was like in elementary school? He was full of energy and drive, someone with a dream who gathered others to him and inspired them to swim in the relay. Even if you didn’t read High Speed, viewers were struck in E10 by how charismatic he was which made his broodiness as a teenager all the more surprising.

You would think that since Tumblr users are known for dealing with depression and loneliness that people would be more sympathetic to Rin’s behaviour as a teenager, but evidently not. Rin fans even had to start up Rin Defense Squads to address the unbelievable hate directed toward his character. Honestly, I think that if Makoharu fans didn’t feel so protective of their ship (this also makes me question why they feel so defensive about their ship, which is another matter altogether), the hate wouldn’t have been nearly so vicious.

The fact of the matter is Rin MADE SEASON 1. Without him, we wouldn’t have a story. He was the agent of change for the main plot point - Haru realizing he values swimming with his friends and finally opening up as a person.

Yes Rin was angsty, but as others pointed out in other posts, he was still thinking of his friends: During the beach training episode when he worries about Makoto and his fear of swimming, or when he recommends to Nitori that he focus on endurance swimming since that’s where his strength lies. Or when he calls Rei out in E11 to explain what happened in Australia, and apologizes for asking him to come out so late! 

Yes he freaked out and kicked a garbage can in E12, but as Mamoru said in an interview, Rin was completely dejected; lost all hope. If it weren’t for Rei’s big heart and Haru reaching out to him, he would have remained a depressed shell of himself :(

So please, accept the fact that Rin is not an asshole and was never meant to be one. Even if you ship Makoharu, based on his previous behavior as an elementary school student, you can clearly see that Rin’s character in S2 is 100% on point. Even the main writer for the show said that it was difficult to write Rin in S1, but it is much easier in S2. Why is that? Because S2 Rin is finally his true self.

I for one am not AT ALL surprised by his charisma, leadership, and general awesomeness during the past 3 episodes. We saw glimpses of it during the Fr!Fr! shorts and drama tracks. I can’t wait to see his character continue to develop, and I hope others can also enjoy it as well!

Okay so this is REALLY IMPORTANT and I need everyone who considers themselves a Mash/Mabastian fan to read this. I always thought this ship fandom to be the calm and rational one, we were always the ones to see all sides and react reasonably to spoilers and scripts and have hardly ever reacted to anything with hate. But right now? I can honestly say that I am, for the first time, so incredibly ashamed of this fandom, and if this brought any negative consequences to our show or our ship, it’ll technically be all our own fault for helping fuel it.

Keep reading

Liam vs. The Media (aka when Liam's balls hit the fucking floor)


There was quite a Twitter war tonight between Liam

and nearly everyone all because of some silly tweet that really was harmless. 

Let’s do this.

Liam tweeted this above to one of the people in the “Duck Dynasty” clan. If you didn’t already know the whole family has come under attack recently for voicing their opinion on the Gay community. Liam however was not referring to that but to how the whole family sticks together and produces good television. He clarifies this but not before Tyler Oakley gets his opinion in on the topic, wrongly so. 

He thought that Liam was referring to the “Duck Dyanty’s” views on the gay community.

he was not

Of course having all the traction that Tyler Oakley does for being a fangirl to 1D and interviewing them even, he doesn’t give Liam the benefit of the doubt at all in this situation, so ready to write him off wrongly as a homophobic person. Some (including Liam and many others) would consider this not a true fan…

Liam then gets to defend himself. I agree with him 100% on this.

Tyler then responds, quite all-knowing if I might add. 

Meanwhile, the ever credible Perez Hilton decides he wants some more followers and chimes in. He is irrelevant in this.

After all this nonsense Liam gets real pissed.

(bottom to top)

Liam then googles himself, which in my mind is one of the worst things he could do at this point for himself. 

Liam responds to Tyler who took his tweet the wrong way.

If there is any doubt that Liam is talking about anyone other than journalists/bloggers (ouch) no anymore.

Once again he clarifies and continues his rant.

This is the tweet everyone is mostly freaking out over at this point but I don’t think his management is wrong in yelling at him, to some extent. Let me make this perfectly clear. His management team’s job is to make their clients (1D) not sound like dumbness, offend people, or to prevent something that could end up hurting their clients. What Liam did, although I agree in part, isn’t going to sit right with everyone and may give One Direction a bad rep for a while, not rightfully so but none the less. Management trying to prevent that or make or less extreme is not a violation or stupid. One Direction also, though less so recently, still caters to younger fans so having some sense of censorship is not a bad idea.

Liam then ends his part in this with this tweet. Ever so quotable but still rings true.

Tyler also tweets again, after leaving many fans at the edge of there seats, in a kind way. Admitting your wrong is a big deal and I commend him for that. Throwing in a bit about an awesome cause to isn’t too bad either.

I hope everything is clear now and if you have anymore questions please direct them my way before making a rash decision like a certain fanboy we all know. Have a good rest of the night everyone Xox