who even know these existed

“So, where’s your LGBT fiction?”

It’s no big secret that a large portion of the LGBT fiction market is online. Many books aren’t even available in print, which I know frustrates some readers (and authors!) who would like to find books in bookstores, libraries, etc. And heck, some people just like paperbacks.

But they aren’t in bookstores. Not in significant numbers, anyway. Even as larger publishers branch out into LGBT, they’re sticking to ebooks.

After talking to publishers, agents, authors, and booksellers over the years, I’ve come to understand one of the primary reasons for this is, quite simply, that queer lit doesn’t sell in bookstores.

With that in mind, I went on a mission this week. I visited five bookstores around Seattle and Portland - Powell’s, Half Price Books, and Barnes & Noble - and I asked the same question: “Where would I find the LGBT fiction?”

Y’all.

Y’ALL.

This is the LGBT Fiction and Non-Fiction section at a Barnes & Noble. The entire section.

But you know what’s extra aggravating?

This is where I found it:

I mean, great. Glad it’s near LGBT & Gender Identity (Though it’s literally the bottom shelf. The top three are Native American and African American non-fiction, which apparently are part of Cultural Studies but don’t warrant a sign despite occupying ¾ of the space…? IDK.)

Signage weirdness notwithstanding, look what section I’m in. I mean, if you’re looking for LGBT Fiction, you’d expect to look…in the….fiction section, right?

No. It’s in the non-fiction section. This is the view of the fiction section from the LGBT section:

Those are Graphic Novels, followed by SFF, followed by Romance. So if you’re in the mood for Gay Romance, you’re not even in the right ZIP code if you start perusing the romance section.

And if I wander over to the fiction section and look toward the LGBT section…

That far wall? The shelf with the LGBT books is perpendicular to that.

See what I’m getting at? There are literally only three ways someone will find the LGBT fiction section at Barnes & Noble:

1. Ask. Which is fabulous for people who are closeted, kids who aren’t comfortable asking, and people who don’t even know the genre exists.

2. Stumble across it. Which you’re totally going to do if you’re looking for a novel because you’d absolutely wander out of the fiction section to find one.

3. Already know where it is.

Can’t imagine why LGBT fiction doesn’t sell.

At Powell’s, the situation wasn’t any better. Powell’s is enormous. It’s multi-level with color-coded rooms because it’s just….huge. I made a valiant attempt to find the LGBT Fiction on my own, but after a full hour of browsing, including scouring all the rooms containing fiction, I finally had to go ask.

There was a reason I couldn’t find it - it wasn’t in any of the rooms dominated by fiction.

It was in the room with all the history books, tucked back behind Military History. Because God knows that’s where I go looking when I want some LGBT fiction.

To their credit, Powell’s had an impressively large section, and it was decorated with a gigantic rainbow sign….but what good does that do anyone if they can’t find the section?

Finally, Half Price Books. Behold, the entire Gay & Lesbian Fiction section:

And yep, that’s the non-fiction section. The Gender Studies and Anthropology section. All the non-queer fiction was downstairs. Not even on the same floor.

So…you know…I think I might’ve figured out why LGBT Fiction “doesn’t sell very well in print,” and what a shock….it’s not because people don’t want to read it.

I seriously have no chill when it comes to liking something. When I like a song, I listen to it like 100 times on repeat. When I like a tv show, i spent the whole day watching it. When i like a person (mostly someone who doesn’t even know i exist), i search the whole internet for them, make them my lock screen and home screen background and declare that they are the most perfect person on earth.
There’s just all or nothing for me.

*buying harry’s rolling stone issue*

cashier: i heard he like put out solo stuff.

me: haha yeah! it’s pretty good.

cashier: maybe i’ll have to take him seriously.

me: *internally* bitch, you best respect my mother fucking man. do you even know who you’re talking to? that man is the sunshine of my existence. you don’t deserve his silky smooth voice in your life. how dare you? who do you even think you are. you got my eye twitching. my palms are sweating. you’re lucky we’re in a public place or i’d whoop your little ass.

me: haha yeah.

  • them: *fangirling on hollywood actors, kpop stars, any famous guys who look good*
  • me : wtf u slutz they wouldn't even know u exist
  • me(internally): *fangirling on anime character who never existed, plays otome games until i collapse, imagines myself with my anime husbandos on a high school setting, licks my husbandos abs with my phone screen, dreams of reverse harem like in otome games*

enjoying dark themes in media ≠ supporting dark themes in real life

engineering school gothic
  • you are in three classes that use bernoulli’s equation. none of the equations are the same. your teachers do not know who bernoulli is. did bernoulli even exist?
  • there is a problem set. it is not on the syllabus. the first question is a blank page. you look through the whole set. it is all blank, except for the last page. you think it says “run”. you do not know. it is not written in binary.
  • this is an ethics class. you are not sure why you are here. you do not need ethics. you have never needed ethics. “it’s a joke class,” whispers an upperclassman. you do not understand why it is funny.
  • abet. the name echoes through the halls of the mechanical engineering building. no one knows what it means.
  • you are studying the tacoma narrows bridge for the fifth time. your differential equations professor tells you it is not an example of resonance. your engineering professor tells you it is. you are not sure who to trust.
  • there are six bernoullis. only four of them are related. they all look the same.
  • the environmental science majors have to take a class to learn excel. you do not understand. you have always known excel, haven’t you? you do not remember learning it.
  • you solve a triple integral and stop, confused. it has become a ricotti equation. you have forgotten ohm’s law.
  • euler has done everything. there is a portrait of euler in the english building. when you look into its eyes, something disturbs you on a visceral level.
  • you know so many languages: java, javascript, doubt, python, c++, R, matlab, uncertainty, ruby, html, confusion, terror,
  • your professor cancels class. you suspect a trick. when you arrive to the classroom, your entire class is there, watching the empty space where the professor should be. no one speaks. no one leaves.
  • the problem set is optional. the problem set is not optional. the problem set is about schrodinger’s law.
  • three different people have explained mechatronics to you. nobody knows what it is.
  • your friend says they have essays to write. essays? you cannot remember what a word document looks like. you have not written a paragraph in two years. words are abstract concepts without meaning.
  • “you’re an engineer?” someone asks. “you must be smart.” you begin to laugh. you have them all fooled. you cannot stop laughing.
  • no one is sure what systems engineering is. the lights in the systems building are always on. you have never seen someone come out.
  • your professors all do research. there are bloodstains on their lecture notes. you do not ask what they research. the last person to ask vanished at the start of the semester. your computer science professor hasn’t stopped smiling since.
  • when you attend career fairs, you are surrounded by students you have never seen and companies you have never heard of. “we’re an innovative start-up,” someone says. “we’re an innovative start-up,” you hear echoed down the hall three weeks later. the words have not stopped. you cannot sleep. you are an innovative start-up. 
2

inspired by the time i randomly ran into goro at the subway bread store?? ? they r gay bcuz i said so (anyways im sleep deprived don’t judge me)

youtube

holy fuck

When I was younger, my mother told me that each person has a cup of love; we empty it out and fill it up as we give and receive love. I often spilled mine over the shoelaces of boys with dimples I easily adore, over the ankles of goddesses who don’t even know my existence. As I grew up a little, I learned to keep my love in vials so that they won’t spill on the floor when I chase ex-girlfriends or strangers who merely looked at my direction. Still, I easily made these vials into gifts and hand them out to anyone who shows but a little attention.
As I grew a lot older, I eventually stopped chasing boys with plastic smiles and girls with paper hearts. I learned not to depend on other people’s affection and I filled my own cup. I guess I got tired of running after people who don’t even look behind their backs.
When I met you, you asked how did I become one strong, independent woman and I told you about the cup of love and that I only learned it from years and years of receiving leftovers when I endowed every single drop I had, so I had to fill mine. I do not deserve leftovers, you said. You will pour out the entire measure of your cup to mine so I would never fill empty again, you said.
But I never told you that although I used to always, always empty out my contents to the wrong people, my cup was still overflowing because my mother never failed to refill that which I spilled on other’s feet. By doing this, she patiently taught me how to look for people who could reciprocate what I give and when I can’t find them, I had to be the one to fill my own. That’s why when she died, I never really felt dried up even though the source of the river which always replenished my cup was gone. Because I became my own spring.
I always thought that your cracks and crevices only made you more beautiful for they were proof of how you weathered your storms. I must’ve forgotten the lessons my mother taught me because I failed to see that those cracks were not artifacts on a museum gallery–those crevices eventually became a trench making it impossible for my spring to fill. I tried to fix you. But I should have believed you when you told me that you destroy the people you love, because that was precisely what you did to me.
—  How can I fill my own when you took my entire cup, you f*cking thief? // kabalintunaan

anonymous asked:

How realistic is it for the retired agent/spy/assassin to come back and kick just as much butt as they did years before? Does such training come back to you easily if you haven't used it in a long while or will you be rusty enough to get killed?

Parts of this are realistic, others not so much.

If you’ve spent enough time training techniques, this stuff gets baked into the way you move. It’s not, “oh, I’ll do this to someone;” it’s just there. Training can also affect how you look at the world; this is true as a general statement on life, but it also applies here. Again, as with muscle memory, this is always there, always affecting how you view your surroundings and the people in them.

So, in that sense, yes. A veteran character coming back after years away from the job will still have their skills and training. Some of that will be rusty, but this stuff sticks with you. Especially if you were maintaining your training for years. That said, they’ll still get their teeth kicked in.

Ironically, one of the more realistic takes I’ve seen on this was in the middle seasons of 24. In the early seasons, the protagonist, Jack Bauer, is a federal counterterrorist agent. After the third season he’s basically on his own, and no longer a part of the agency that trained him. By the fifth season (about 3 years later) he’s at a point where he’s getting his ass handed to him by a security guard.

The problem is something we’ve explained, repeatedly. Hand to hand combat is not static. The training I got 20 years ago doesn’t apply now. It will work against untrained opponents. Basic physiology doesn’t change. However, going up against opponents who’ve been keeping their training up to date, (or are some of the people responsible for updating the techniques in the first place), is not going to end well.

Something I know we haven’t discussed on this subject is how this updating happens. It requires contact with people who are actually using their training practically. Seeing what people are doing isn’t something that you can do sitting on a mountain top. You need to actually be immersed in the community. You look for how people are adapting to the techniques you’re training others in, and look for ways to get around those counters.

In the case of law enforcement, one major source if intelligence to guide updates is watching what criminals are teaching each other in prison. Career criminals will look for ways to counter police hand to hand, and once they have that, will (usually) share it with people they work and/or socialize with.

A veteran coming in after years away may be able to execute their training perfectly, and still get taken down by a rookie who received their training last year, because they were trained to counter the veteran’s approach.

Updating is about looking for the things that are most prevalent, and finding ways to defend against them. It’s very likely your veteran will understand this concept. Whether that affects their behavior is more of a characterization question.

Incidentally, this doesn’t just apply to hand to hand, it’s also a relevant concept when you’re talking about things like tradecraft.

Tradecraft is the shorthand for techniques used in intelligence gathering. It’s (somewhat) all encompassing. So, anything from social engineering to dead drops or even the way you set up surveillance could be lumped in under this header.

Just like hand to hand training, this stuff does go out of date. Usually once someone’s actually exploited a method and gotten caught doing it. Though, sometimes it’s preventative.

The irony is, when it comes to being a spy, the biggest problem is being a veteran, not being out of practice. It’s being a veteran. When a spy starts their career, no one knows who they are, they have no reputation, they’ve never turned up in strange places, they’re just someone walking around, taking in the sights, maybe doing a job for some NGO.

Even if a spy is never caught, as they work, their name will start ending up on desks, in lists of witnesses, employees, or whatever. Once is not a pattern, but as their name keeps coming up over the years, it becomes easier to identify them. Potential enemies start keeping files, and gradually filling them with what they know. This means it is much harder for a veteran spy to operate in the field undetected, than it is for a rookie.

There’s a similar issue for assassins. Either they’re a complete ghost, no one knows who they are, and may not even believe they ever existed, or (more likely), if they were working for a government (or any other large, overt organization, like a corporation), they’re in the same boat as a veteran spy. People may not know your character is an assassin, but they will know that they worked for someone. Which in turn, will put them on guard, and make your character’s life much harder.

There are concepts a veteran will have internalized, which someone without training won’t understand or grasp. Thing that just don’t go out of style. For example, bullets will blow through most residential walls and furniture. So, if someone’s taking cover behind a couch, kitchen wall, or car door, it’s far more expedient to simply shoot through whatever’s in your way. Another concept is one I’ve mentioned recently, you reload when you have the time, not when you’ve run your gun dry.

Similarly, experience they’ve learned from may still be relevant. Being able to read someone’s intentions, know when they’re about to resort to violence, or simply knowing the value of good intelligence aren’t going to go away because your character spent the last five years pretending to be a well-adjusted human being.

-Starke

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Anyway...

You’re still a “good” bisexual if you ship Bellarke.

You’re still a “good” lesbian if you ship Bellarke.

You’re still a “good” POC if you ship Bellarke.

Don’t let people who don’t ship Bellarke try to tell you that you are in anyway less because of the fictional pairing that you choose to ship. 

'Dope' backing vocals/instrumental
BTS
'Dope' backing vocals/instrumental

BTS - ‘쩔어’ with the main vocals removed

0n-y0ur-left  asked:

The "Don't tell anyone you saw me crying" AU sounds super promising!

The best part of Steve’s day is, generally when he gets to go eat lunch in the abandoned teacher’s office on the third floor. It’s quiet up there, and it’s not so dusty now that one of the custodians noticed him hanging out there and comes around to clean it up every so often. So, all in all, not a bad place to quietly eat his lunch, do some homework, and maybe get a bit of drawing done, if he’s up to it.

Except today, apparently.

After the bell rings and fifth period starts, Steve makes his way up to the abandoned teacher’s lounge. He’s got a cheese sandwich, apple slices and a can of Diet Sprite that he’s excited to eat, and a drawing of one of his classmates — a guy who probably doesn’t even know Steve exists, let alone would want Steve drawing him, but that’s the one good thing about being invisible — that he’s excited to finish up. But when he gets to his abandoned teacher’s office, he hears someone…

Well, he hears someone crying.

Still, it’s his abandoned teacher’s office — he doesn’t have much else to take ownership of at this school, so he’ll take what he can get — so he enters anyway.

“What the hell?” Bucky Barnes says, furiously wiping off his face with the sleeve of his henley.

“Oh, uh,” Steve says, clutching the sketchbook that has an in-progress drawing of Bucky Freaking Barnes in it tight.

“Come to laugh at me?” Bucky asks with a rueful chuckle.

“What? No,” Steve says, maybe a little fiercer than he should.

“Then what?” Bucky asks.

“I eat lunch here every day,” Steve says, straightening up. He may only be five foot four and weigh the same as a wet dachshund, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t be intimidating!

He does wish that his beanie would quit sliding down his head and hiding his eyebrows. Having visible eyebrows would probably help the intimidating factor.

“You eat… here?” Bucky asks, looking around the dim room like he’s really seeing it for the first time. He grimaces.

Steve pushes his beanie back. “You’re here crying!” Steve argues.

“Yeah, but I’ve only been here a couple times. You’re here every day.”

Steve scoffs. “Are you trying to contest who of the two of us is less pathetic, because that’s probably a pretty easy fight.”

“What do you mean by that?” Bucky asks, voice getting louder.

“You have everything — friends, football, popularity. I just want to eat my cheese sandwich and listen to my iPod during lunchtime without having to confront crying jocks.”

Bucky stares at him for a moment, then his face screws up. “I’m s-s-sorry,” he says, starting to cry again.

“Oh jeez,” Steve says, shutting the door behind him and taking a few steps across the room, closer to the desk Bucky is sitting at. “Don’t… Cry, okay? I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“You didn’t… it’s not your fault,” Bucky says, burying his face in his hands.

Steve drops his backpack and kneels down, digging through it. After about forty seconds, he emerges victorious with a half-used pack of tissues. “Here,” he says, handing them out to Bucky.

Bucky looks up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. “Really?” he asks. Steve nods. Bucky reaches out and takes the tissues from him. “Thanks,” he says, pulling one free from the package and loudly blowing his nose.

“No problem,” Steve says, trying not to be grossed out, though he can’t help but cringe a little when Bucky looks back up with a line of snot dripping out of his nose. “You oughta…” he says, gesturing to his nose.

“Shit,” Bucky says, wiping his nose again.

“Then again, if you’re sporting snot, I’m sure the rest of the school will follow,” Steve says, hoping he doesn’t sound as bitter as he feels.

Bucky shakes his head. “You don’t get it,” he says. “I’m not… It’s not like that.”

“That’s not what it looks from the outside,” Steve says, quiet.

Bucky gives him a little half-smile. “I’m just gonna tell you this because I feel like this abandoned teacher’s lounge is a safe, trustworthy space, okay? And because I feel like you won’t blab to a bunch of people, but everyone fuckin’ hates me.”

“Really?” Steve asks, deadpan.

Bucky nods. “It’s… Well, they may not think they hate me, but they do.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s because you’re too beautiful. If you do, I may scream,” Steve says and is rewarded when Bucky laughs.

“You’re spitfire,” he says. “Anyhow, I’m gay, and they’d fuckin’ hate me if they knew.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’re gay?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods, mouth flattening. “It feels real weird to say it out loud,” he admits.

Steve’s mouth drops. “I’m the first person you’ve told?” he asks, surprised.

Bucky shrugs. “I don’t got anyone to tell. My old man’s a homophobic asswipe who’d kick my ass if he knew, and it’s not like I’m gonna tell the guys on the football team that I like guys. They’d take turns kickin’ my ass and leave me a bloody lump on the field.”

Swallowing hard, Steve takes a seat close to Bucky’s. “That’s… a lot,” he says.

“I know,” Bucky says. “Which is why I feel justified to stay in this abandoned teacher’s lounge and cry for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

There’s a long pause.

“Can I eat my sandwich while you do so?”

Bucky snorts. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s live it up. Cheese sandwiches and tears, quite the couple.”

Steve shrugs. “I’ve seen worse,” he says, pulling his sandwich from his backpack and splitting it in half. “Want some?” he asks, holding it out to Bucky.

“Sure,” Bucky says, grabbing the sandwich and taking a huge bite.

— —

“Hey,” Bucky says as the bell for sixth period rings.

“Yeah?” Steve says, packing his stuff up.

“Wanna do this again tomorrow? Maybe without the crying?”

Steve smiles. “Sure,” he says.

— —

In a week, Bucky is letting Steve draw him.

In a month, Steve is letting Bucky kiss him.

In a year, they walk around their college campus hand-in-hand.