#the petty hill I will die on: we are more literate as a society in 2020

[sixth-light]

I honestly think Andy (and Quyhn and Lykon) would have learned to read as soon as they realized reading and writing were a time consuming, portable activity. 6,000 years, the first of which she was canonically alone, would have been so boring and dull in between the battles and long term activities. I think all immortals eventually start picking up every hobby under the sun just for something to do with all that TIME. So i do think Andy is literate in almost every language she can speak

I am not the dictator of Old Guard literacy headcanons, you’re free to think whatever you want! But since you sent this to me I’m going to explain why this doesn’t ring true for me, and it’s because reading and writing as a portable leisure activity is, on the scale of the Old Guard’s lifetimes, relatively new. Writing - in most of its major forms - starts out as a way to record who owns things, becomes widely used for religious texts, and does not become widely popular as a way to record narratives or as a leisure activity until...like...well, the first novel is famously the Tale of Genji in eleventh-century Japan, the Four Great Novels in China are written from the 14th-16th centuries, Don Quixote is more or less the first European novel in the 17th century. Even the long narrative poems of the medieval period are not that long - and they’re still very much intended to be read aloud. 

This is because writing, as a permanent record in a portable fashion, is expensive to produce and carry around. Wood-block printing is invented in China fairly early on (~300 CE) but the blocks have to be re-carved frequently and that takes time. Basically everywhere west of India, all writing is done by hand by skilled craftspeople. In the Eastern Mediterranean they at least have papyrus which isn’t too expensive, but it doesn’t last all that long, certainly not if you’re carrying it around with you. In Europe, post-the split of the Roman Empire, it’s done on parchment which is made from animal skins and is therefore, you guessed it, expensive. Even after rag and wood-pulp paper comes to Europe, pre-movable type printing, a single book in Europe costs about as much as a house. (I read at least one fic where Crusader Nicolò is carrying around a gold-leaf Bible in his saddlebags and I did an absolute spit-take, that’s a RANSOM right there). Writing letters? Much more common earlier. Reading as, like, a hobby? Unless you’re rich and able to create a collection, not really a thing until well after 1150. 

In 2020 I think we overestimate how common books (even in scroll form) were historically because...look, my school library - for a small-ish high school - had six times as many books as the entire Vatican library during the medieval period. We are an incredibly literate society. We read and write all the time, every day, like I’m doing right now. For the vast majority of history entertainment did not come in the form of writing. It came in the form of songs and stories, told orally. Writing for a really long time is a practical tool of government and religion. And, again! People can imagine whatever backstories they want. But I personally find it really hard to believe that anybody in the Old Guard is into reading and writing as a major leisure activity before 1500-ish, depending on where they’re hanging out. Maybe a bit earlier if they’re spending a lot of time in East Asia. 

Unless we’re imagining them forming their own small writing group to keep themselves entertained, which 1) is hilarious and 2) would leave an amazing trail through history that would drive Copley nuts. 

#the old guard #books #writing #the petty hill I will die on: we are more literate as a society in 2020 #than we have EVER been #worldwide #if anybody says different they are wrong and I will fight them #avidreaderffn

[trippydooda]

another snippet of the Tangled AU thing, i’ll post a link for its AO3 page soon

Pairing: Kim Seokjin/Jeon Jungkook

Word Count: 2,291

Rating: T

Yoongi’s pub had quickly become a safe haven for the less than endowed in society, and that’s exactly where Jungkook is sitting at present, grinning wildly at a not grinning Yoongi behind the counter.

“One of these days you’ll rot in a cell forever,” Yoongi tells him, entirely fake intent behind the words.

Jungkook smiles against the rim of his mug and drinks down. “Hasn’t happened yet,” he counters.

“I wait with bated breath for when it does,” Yoongi retorts, swiftly turning on his heel.

Swirling around on his stool, Jungkook watches the pub with a strong familiarity and comfort of home. In one corner someone is playing an aggressive game of chess, in another group of people (including Taehyung, of course) are playing a game of poker. Taehyung cheats, everyone knows, but everyone is also too afraid to say anything about lest they invoke the wrath of Jimin, who when Jungkook looks is sprawled across a chair, no doubt trying to sleep. A wasted effort to be sure.

The only two who were missing was Namjoon and Hoseok, who had been out running errands since their faces weren’t as hated as the Terrible Trio. The two of them had made a silent agreement to wear masks whenever they did business with the Trio, and it would have been a good idea all around if it wasn’t already miserably too late for the other three to even try. Besides, Hoseok took more enjoyment enacting acts of violence against the castle guard and having them not have any clue who was doing it.

Jungkook sits back, resting an elbow on the edge of the bar. He’s smiling, Yoongi makes some rude remark about keeping his bar clean thank you, but Jungkook just laughs under his breath.

This was his home.

                                         — — — — — — — 

Kim Seokjin doesn’t know what home means.

He reads books on it every day, the same ones he has read hundreds of times, and can only conclude where he is trapped is the closest thing to “home”. And that was the reality, Seokjin was trapped in this tower and doesn’t even know what it is to feel the grass between his toes. He has no idea what a breath of fresh air is truly like, and can only imagine it through dreams and hopes of one day being free.

His keeper is Yi Jihu, a younger man but still older than him who had found him as an infant, helpless and alone. Jihu is a nice man, Seokjin thinks, but has told him the horrors of the word below and although he doesn’t want to believe them, he has no point of reference to counter otherwise. It was his hair, he’s always told, people want his hair for intentions laced with malice. Seokjin tugs at his golden shoulder length hair, playing with it in between his fingers, and finds he resents it. 

One night he had tried to cut it, but Jihu had found him and ripped the scissors from his hair and bursting into an anger Seokjin had never seen before. His face turned red and the veins in his eyes popped as he shrieked and screamed at Seokjin, saying he would let him starve if he dared to cut his hair. He hasn’t questioned it since, hasn’t even bothered to try, knowing Jihu watches him constantly under the guise of concern, but Seokjin knows there’s something more sinister hidden underneath. 

It’s magic, Jihu had told him the first night he experienced it. Seokjin had been singing mindlessly, letting tunes flow off his tongue and not even knowing the words he sang. It was in the midst of this his brilliant golden hair had started to glow wildly, emitting flecks of what looked like stardust to him in abundance. Jihu had walked in then, holding it in his hands with the look of what Seokjin thought was like how mother looks at her child. He had brushed his cheek against it and sighed deeply, thanking Seokjin for finally giving him what he was hoping for all these years. Seokjin didn’t get it at the time, still doesn’t as much, but it made Jihu happy so it made Seokjin happy.

Seokjin isn’t happy though. At first he was, always happy to be around his books and his small sugar glider (who he named Cane as a pun to himself), and thought he never needed anything else. Anyone else. He had Jihu, he had food and a home, and there was nothing else he was missing. It was only when he first noticed the stars that he had seen the error in his ways. 

Up in the sky where Seokjin can’t reach, where he can’t even begin to understand the complexity of, sat balls of super heated light that looked down on him. He watches them every night until he falls asleep at the window, watches them while he sings tunes to no one, and watches them like they’re his salvation.

Kim Seokjin doesn’t know what home is, but when he looks at the stars he thinks he’s getting somewhat closer.

                                          — — — — — — — 

“This is the most idiotic thing you’ve ever proposed,” Namjoon says, “And that’s including robbing the brothel that was, if I need to remind you, full of palace soldiers.” 

Jungkook shrugs and grins. “It was funny seeing them realise we had the blackmail power to use against them.”

“That’s true,” Taehyung pipes from the chair.

Sighing, Namjoon runs a hand down his face. The pub had recently closed, and it was just the six of them sitting around trying to figure out how to make some quick cash. Boring breaking and entering had lost its luster, and it never made much money. You always had to do multiple robberies, and that made it easier to be caught and it just wasn’t fun anymore. Jungkook liked to raid, and come back with more than a leather cap and a few gold coins. He wanted bigger, badder, and harder to get. 

Enter his master plan to steal the crown that belonged to the “long lost” prince, if you believed the stories.

“We have Hoseok to lead us around and find the best way in,” Jungkook reasons when Namjoon continues to stare at him.

Hoseok squeaks, “That’s not a lot of pressure though.”

Jungkook shrugs again. “I’m just saying, imagine how rich we would be if we had that thing.” He smirks, showing a toothy smile, “We’d have the kingdom wrapped around our fingers.”

“You seem to be forgetting the part where you could get executed,” Namjoon grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m not, I swear,” Jungkook pouts, “Besides it wouldn’t even be on you if I died, it would totally be on Taehyung,” he finishes just as Taehying yells an indignant, “Hey!” And Jungkook is being hit in the shoulder by a blunt butter knife. 

The thing was, Jungkook harbours more than a little animosity towards the king and queen. Ever since he could wrap his head around thoughts beyond he was hungry and pillows were comfy, he had seen his fair share of turmoil surrounding the monarchy. It didn’t care about its citizens really, it only cared about the rich ones. They would try to guilt the citizens by saying the king and queen still mourn their lost son, but if Jungkook can get over his dead parents he thinks the goddamn leaders of a nation can get over their son.

It’s because of this that he wants to steal the crown. He wants to covet it and dangle it above the kingdom’s head, taunting and bribing for them to get it back. He wants to see them suffer like the poor and ill, wants them to know what it’s like to not be born into royalty or the aristocracy. Perhaps it’s a bit childish, perhaps he was just being petty, but it doesn’t change how he feels.

It turns out the best way to get into the castle is through the roof. Jungkook doesn’t pretend to understand, just scales the sides of the castle with a foolish grin and adrenaline pumping through his veins. He’s always loved climbing, always climbed trees and hills when he was younger, much to his caretaker’s dismay. 

Jungkook reaches the place where they will quite literally drop in before everyone else, because of course he does. He’s bouncing foot to foot, squeezing his hands into fists only to let them go in rapid succession. The whole gang decided to come this time, even Yoongi. He mentioned something about being bored out of his ever loving mind in the pub and was keen to see them all fuck up. It was an empty insult, because everyone knows he came because he was worried about Hoseok getting hurt again. Jungkook wishes they would just fuck already and get rid of the sexual tension he can practically smell every time they’re near each other. It literally makes him nauseated, and even more so when he sees them eye fucking each other. Absolutely ridiculous.

“I don’t like heights,” Taehyung idly comments, staring down into the throne room. It’s where the king and queen keep the crown, moping about it every time they held council. 

“I’ll go in then,” Jungkook says, already reaching for the rope Jimin is holding. 

Jimin keeps it taut against his hip, resisting Jungkook’s grip. “Shouldn’t I be the one to go? I’m the smallest,” he says, gnawing at the bottom of his lip.

The thing is, everyone else is always slightly wary about doing big heists. They’re always quiet as they prepare, quiet as they start, always hesitant. Jungkook, by contrast, welcomes the chaos that no doubt descends upon them. He relishes the fact that he’s in danger, that he could be thrown in prison forever, or even worse he could die. It was exhilarating, knowing he had control over what he could do. And that was the thing, it was all about control. All about the thrill.

So Jungkook forcefully yanks the rope from Jimin saying, “We can’t have anyone be scared or unsure about this, or we’re all fucked.” To that, everyone slowly nods. He’s right, he knows, and he knows everyone else sees it as well. It’s why, despite being the youngest, Jungkook is the leader. 

“Ah, bravery,” Yoongi muses with a chuckle, “A far better term for stupidity, is it not?”

Jungkook shoots him a look, lips thinning. “No one needs your poetry bullshit right now,” he retorts, but there’s no venom in it, not when he grins wildly right after. Yoongi grins right back, raising his hands in mock defeat.

“Don’t die,” is what he says next, and it’s the best evidence of concern Jungkook is going to get out of him.

Jungkook is let down slowly, needing both Namjoon and Taehyung to hold him steady. “You’re all muscle what the fuck,” is what Taehyung had muttered as they first dropped him through the glass ceiling. He dangles more or less stably as he’s brought closer to the crown perfectly sitting on a silk pillow, atop a pedestal adorned with so many jewels it makes Jungkook’s mouth water. If he could, he’d rip the damn thing out and keep it for himself it was so pretty. It’d be like a trophy, since he really has no plan on what to actually do with the crown once he gets it. He’ll figure it out.

A sweat has built up on the nape of his neck when he first grabs the rim of the crown in front of him. He holds it close to his chest, looking up at where Jimin is peering down at him and grins. He motions to be let up when one of the guards sneezes, turning his attention back down.

“Hay fever?” He casually asks, and can feel the grip on the rope stiffening. 

“Like a bitch,” the guard says, and Jungkook can tell he’s wiping his nose from where he stares at his back. It takes a moment for the guard to realise where the comment came from, and turns to Jungkook with eyes blown wide. “What the fu—”

“Sorry, got to go,” Jungkook interrupts with the most shit eating grin. He can feel himself be pulled up only slightly, and he’s pretty sure the assholes are considering letting him go altogether. 

As he’s being hoisted up there is nothing short of chaos that erupts. He can’t tell if he’s hearing his friends curse or the plethora of guards below him, but it doesn’t matter when he feels an arrows slice his cheek. Still clutching the crown with one arm, he instinctively jolts a hand to where he’s no doubt bleeding, sending an incredulous glare at the trembling guard who no doubt tried to kill him. So rude.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” is what Jungkook is greeted with when he finally clambers onto the roof. “Can you not be a cocky bastard for one minute of your life?” It’s Yoongi snarling at him, but it’s clear he’s afraid. Poor bugger shouldn’t have come along.

“I have to agree,” Taehyung adds, dropping the rope right as Jungkook stands. He points an accusatory finger at him, “If we all die I am so haunting you in the afterlife.”

Wriggling out of the rope tied around his waist, Jungkook grins. “Fair enough.”

                                               — — — — — — — 

He finishes singing for Jihu as the sun starts to set. 

“Beautiful, as always,” Jihu says to Seokjin, sliding an affectionate thumb across his cheek.

Seokjin smiles, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Cane wriggles in his lap, and he softly pets his head. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

Jihu kisses the top of his head as he stands, brushing off his knees. He had been kneeling in front of Seokjin as he sang atop of a terribly worn down wooden stool. It had been like this ever since Seokjin can remember, singing for Jihu before bed. He’s always thought the dynamic was supposed to be the other way around, but it always made Jihu happy so he never questioned it. It got old after maybe twenty years when Seokjin realised he doesn’t get much in return. Sometimes a nice muffin, but he hardly considers it compensation.

It started to get old when Seokjin’s back hurt from sitting too long, his hair sometimes not wanting to glow how Jihu wanted it to. 

It started to get old when Jihu would strike him for not wanting to do it, and then immediately cradle him and telling him he was sorry.

It started to get old when Seokjin realised he was alone.

He always has Cane, who scurries up his arm to rest in the crook of his neck, but sometimes he wasn’t enough. It wasn’t Cane’s fault of course, and he usually was enough to keep Seokjin sane. But the thing was, Jihu would be gone sometimes for weeks at a time, and instead of welcoming Seokjin into his arms when he returned, he would always drag him to the wooden stool and practically beg Seokjin to sing for him, bags latent and obvious under his eyes.

Seokjin has never denied him in those times either. The pain on Jihu’s face made his heart hurt, and he would stop whatever he was doing to help. Perhaps he was chasing a feeling that maybe Jihu would show him true love, and not just something he has to covet. Seokjin frowns at the familiar sentiment that crawls upon behind him. It’s been getting harder to ignore as of late, and when he tries to be more affectionate with Jihu, he’s pushed away. Seokjin only matters when he sings.

Sometimes he wishes he would fall ill and lose his voice forever. What was the point of being able to sing if he could never share it with the world? He’s always told how cold and unforgiving the outside world is, but when he looks out his window into the endless woods with its singing birds and beautiful elk, he thinks maybe Jihu is wrong. He thinks maybe if he was just given the chance he would be able to think for his own.

He thinks many things, but never voices them.

He belatedly realises Jihu is trying to talk to him when he blinks up to an impatient face. “Sorry?” He asks.

“I said,” Jihu says, “It’s time for you to sleep now. I have to leave early tomorrow and I need to know you’re safe in your bed before I sleep.”

Seokjin rubs his lips together. He has grown accustomed to Jihu treating him like a child despite his age, but there are moments where it infuriates him. Surely they should be equals now. Surely Seokjin isn’t the stumbling infant he once was. In any case, he nods. “Of course,” he replies, standing delicately. 

Jihu watches him, a shadowed figure as Seokjin crawls into bed and holds his blankets close to his face. He hides it enough to know when Jihu leaves, obviously convinced he’s asleep already. The sigh that Jihu always lets out as he leaves has not made Seokjin find comfort since he was a small child, and so when he hears Jihu’s bedroom door close, he promptly sits up. Cane comes over to sit atop his head as he does what he’s done as a ritual for years now. 

He props himself up, crawls into the expansive window sill he has, and stares at the stars. He stares at the stars and definitely doesn’t cry. 

#Jinkook #that's the pairing name i'm going with k #Jinkook fic #BTS fic #i should probably mention this is a slow burn #like trying to make a fire with two sticks sort of slow burn

[jewrocker]

Mueller is “Moses” and Republicans are Building a Golden Calf

One of the biggest pet peeves I have is “silence.” Not silence in the everyday sense of the word - I love me some quiet time - but silence in a ‘non-responsive’ sense.  One of the worst things you can do is ignore me.   Especially when it comes to texting.  

If I send a text and you ignore it, it will send me into a tizzy.  Especially if I send multiple ones w/ no reply and I know you’ve seen them.  Then, it’s on.  Call me an asshole to my face, no problem.  Tell me to fuck off and die, totally fine.  But ignore me and we’re done.  Because, to me, non-responsiveness is the most disrespectful thing we can do to each other.  It’s basically saying to someone, “You don’t matter to me.”

IMO, Republicans are freaking out over the Mueller investigation, not just because of the fear it will lead to their Clown Prince of Darkness proven to be a Russian asset, but also because the silence is killing them. 

Imagine knocking on a door for a year, knowing full well somebody’s home, and still getting no answer.  That would drive even the most patient, mature individual crazy, let alone a room full of whiny, infantile, power-hungry sycophants. 

Now imagine we live in a Sixty-Second News Cycle Society, one that sees virtually all, young and old, suffering from a massive combination of instant-gratification-syndrome-and-severe-ADHD, constantly hitting ‘refresh’ on our Twitter feeds to see this minute’s “Breaking News.”  The thought of our “knocks” being ignored for a year, when we’re used to having everything NOW, is multiplied a thousand times.  A million if you’re the treason-treading Trump lackeys whose main goal remains putting an end to this ‘witch hunt” since the moment it began.

Do not think for a minute these crying babies on The Hill aren’t pissed at Mueller for, what looks to be in their eyes, as a complete rebuke of their scarily awesome powers.  Why else do you think they threatened Rosenstein and the entire DOJ with impeachment?  As we see on an almost daily basis, they hate being stonewalled more than anyone, because they’re the lawmakers.  They are The Law.  And these mortal “Gods” walking amongst us hate being told they can’t have what they want when they want it.  To the point, they’ve already shown they’re happily willing to risk publicly revealing the names of sensitive assets, even if it means their certain demise, long as the DOJ ‘PAYS ATTENTION TO THEM!!!” Unfortunately for them, Mueller, and his team, are the ultimate stonewallers.

Keep in mind, for over a year now, while every-single news outlet -be it print, T.V., or online - has spent virtually every minute of every day speculating about collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia, floating theory after theory, hypothetical after hypothetical, and every Republican on The Hill, including the president, screaming bloody murder, Mueller hasn’t uttered a single word.  Not a crumb.  That’s gotta piss ‘em off something fierce.  Lord knows, it pisses me off and I support the thing fully. (The special counsel’s spokesperson surprisingly broke their silence and responded to an article by Buzzfeed on Michael Cohen, but that’s been it.)

We’re not used to this type of silence. Heck, even Watergate had Deep Throat. You’d think Mueller’s team would have at least one guy talking to a friend in the press, or the SDNY, or his/her significant other who then shares it w/ Buzzfeed.  Nope.  

In an age where a two-bit indie film director can’t keep his script a secret for more than a day, the dozens of individuals working behind the scenes to save our Democracy literally have the entire civilized world chomping at the bit to get just a shred of info as to what they’re thinking, and still, nothing.  Nothing but indictments, that is.  That’s it. No one knows when they’re coming, or who they’re targeting, but they seem to be coming a bit more frequently these days, and with a bit more gravitas.  That’s why Trump is now stacking the deck with enablers and protectors like Benckowski, and of course, Kavanaugh.  He knows his time is running out, and when it finally comes, he’ll simply pull the pin in the DOJ grenade and stand back to watch the fun.

Nonetheless, til that time, which could literally be any day now, as Tom Petty said, “The Waiting is the hardest part.”  Nowhere is that statement more evident than in our Republican-controlled, lunatic asylum Congress.  The waiting is killing them.  If one were to liken it to a movie, it would be the Ten Commandments.  

Mueller is Moses, who upon being summoned, disappears for days on end without telling anyone where he’s going or when he’s coming back.  His absence, and, more to the point, his silence, sends the Israelites into a frenzy.  Without knowing when, if ever, he’s going to return, the faithless, leaderless bunch of former slaves need only a slight push to send them over the edge.  That push comes in the form of “Dathan” deftly played by Edward G. Robinson, who, as one of the earliest Republicans, plays on the tribes’ fears  and insecurities, and convinces them that “Moses has abandoned you!” 

Next thing you know, there’s fights, orgies, debauchery, and the building of a golden calf.  Kind of like a party at Kanye’s house.  Well, while Mueller takes his time on the mountain, doing what needs to be done to save our tribe, most of us know we need to keep the faith until his eventual return, and we’re fine with that.  As for the rest, they are easily distracted by shiny objects like ‘fake news’, like ‘witch hunts’, like congressional hearings that lead nowhere, and ‘deep state texts’, of course eagerly put forth by ‘Dathan Nunes’ and his sodomites. But, when Moses finally does return, they will know the full weight of his wrath.  And their shiny, pretentious calf, complete w/ gold leaf imported from Trump Tower itself, will be turned to dust by the greatest weapon known to man - Truth. 

#RESIST