#Not a lot of people on hear realize that my activism extends beyond attempting to get a few people to listen to trans men when we speak

[artificialqueens]

Paper Boats, Pining, and the Sublime (Sashea) - Estuary

Summary: Sasha loves spending nights out with her best friend, Shea. Tonight is no exception. She wishes she could stop overthinking.

A/N: This is my first fic. It’s a a fluffy, pining piece and I hope y'all like it.

        Laughing loudly with little concern for slumbering tenants in nearby apartments, Sasha Velour and Shea Couleé meandered through dimly lit streets, part walking, part skipping, and part stumbling.

        "You’re sure that you know where we’re going? We’re nearing city limits,“ Sasha asked as Shea paused to ponder whether to make a right.

        "Yeah! But you have to promise you won’t bully me once I explain why we went there.” Shea replied, turning back from her decision-making to smile at Sasha.

        "You know I can’t bully you, Shea,“ Sasha hiccupped, remnants of drinking slurring her speech, "You would destroy me.”

        "You’re right bitch, but I’m still making you promise.“

        "Cross my heart.”

        Sasha knew there was another reason she couldn’t really bully Shea, one outside of Shea’s potential retaliation roasts. A reason related to how Sasha could find no real flaw in Shea. A reason that could not be acknowledged nor acted upon lest Sasha risk her friendship for rejection. A reason that was Sasha’s crippling, painful, constant love for Shea Coulée.

        Sasha was rational, she prided herself on it. She knew Shea wouldn’t want to date someone like her. Someone overly serious, anxious, and academic.

        Shea dated uber confident, runway-walking, impeccably styled women. Intimidatingly stunning women. 5-feet-long-legs women. The kind of women you could hear approach you on the street just from the sound of their clicking stilettos on cement.

        It wasn’t unusual that an amateur street photographer would ask to take Shea and her supermodel of the week’s photo. To ask to document them in all their glamour and elegance.

        When Shea and Sasha went out for Friday night drinks, it needn’t be said that there were no photo proposals.

        It was simple, really. It wasn’t that being a bald, unibrowed, peculiarly-dressed woman was bad. Sasha liked how she looked. It’s just that Shea didn’t like that. Shea didn’t want someone who looked like a statement. And she certainly didn’t want a pseudo-intellectual with a penchant for doubling down on and over-explaining said statement all the time. So there wasn’t any need to make a move. Any proposition would be laughable at best and friendship-destroying at worst.

        Despite all of that heart-crushing rationality, Sasha did allow herself some small indulgences. For instance, Sasha allowed prolonged mutual eye contact, as long as she looked away first. She could rest her head on Shea’s shoulder during a movie, as long as Shea was appropriately preoccupied with the film. On a few rare occasions, Sasha placed a delicate kiss on Shea’s hand in a show of silly, exaggerated cordiality.

        Nonetheless, Sasha’s general rule of thumb was that as soon as any of her actions couldn’t be waved away with the excuse of being an ‘affectionate friend’, it had to stop.

        She didn’t need to think about how the glittery, red mark of her lipstick on the back of Shea’s hand made her chest feel fuzzy and warm.

        Shea suddenly tossed her hair and announced: “Oh my god, my hands are so cold."

        "I told you that you should bring your gloves.” Sasha chastised, remembering her text message warning.

        "Girl, don’t look smug over my pain.“

        And before Sasha could begin to think about what she was doing, she reached out and grabbed Shea’s right hand with her left and earnestly shoved their joined hands into her jacket pocket.

        "T-to warm you.” Sasha stammered. Fuck. Sasha didn’t stutter. More importantly, Sasha didn’t grab her friend’s hands given the slightest opportunity and shove them into her pocket like some kind of middle schooler. Shea had to see Sasha’s inner turmoil.

        Shea smiled—is she smiling? Sasha’s frantic mind paused to wonder—and simply squeezed Sasha’s hand. They walked on, and as Shea chattered about the ins and outs of her most recent collection, Sasha became increasingly aware of how Shea’s hand stayed firmly wound with her own. By the third minute of Sasha’s internal count, she swore that her left hand was dripping with sweat. Shea’s hand had to feel warm now, if not a little gross. The cold air had to be preferable to Sasha’s clammy fingers. But Shea did not let go.

        Sasha never held hands like this. Typically whenever she held hands, the sweaty palms belonging to her and whatever partner she had at the time would clasp much like two business people finalizing a deal. It was practically an extended handshake. It held all the intimacy of accidentally brushing hands with a cashier. In private, Sasha didn’t hold hands much at all.

        But not right now.

        Deep within the pocket of Sasha’s fleece, each of her and Shea’s fingers carefully interlaced, weaving together. It felt as if she each needed as much hand-to-hand contact as possible. Like Sasha needed it to breathe. Like Shea was rooting Sasha other to the ground. Like if the moment Shea’s finger slipped from Sasha’s hand, she would vanish, gone like a puff of smoke.

        "Sasha!“ Shea gasped, shaking Sasha from her introspection. "We’re here.”

        Sasha looked up, suddenly noticing the transition from concrete sidewalk to a grassy slope. Further beyond, the grass hill transitioned into a sandy bank where the water of a slow-moving river gently lapped.

         "Shea, it’s lovely.“

        "I’m glad you like it. This place means a lot to me. When I was young, I’d race like, little paper boats here with my friends. When I got older, I’d come just to sit, like the river could drown out my thoughts. Emo shit.” Shea gave a small smile at the last part of her admission.

        "I wouldn’t bully you for emo shit, Shea. I’ve been there,“ Sasha promised, recalling Shea’s earlier worries. Sasha grinned, imagining an elementary-school Shea, tottering by the banks of the river, which then morphed into an older, rebellious, sadder Shea. It contrasted so strangely with the vibrant, glamorous woman she was now. Glancing at Shea now, with her plum-colored smile and twinkling eyes, impeccable style and life, it became all the more challenging to see her as an angsty teen upset with the situation she seemed to always make the best of.

        "I have something for us to do. While we’re here, just if you feel like it.” Shea reached for her purse, fumbling with the zipper as the long, lacquered nails of her left hand clacked against the metal fastening. Shea finally tugged open the bag after a long struggle of attempting to hold the purse steady and yank the zipper open with only one hand. Sasha warmed internally upon realizing that Shea’s right hand remained interwoven in Sasha’s own, regardless of temperature or how much easier it would be to open a purse with two free hands.

        "Girl, I know it’s kind of childish, but I brought,“ Shea paused and unearthed two sheets of lined paper, folded into quarters.

        "Binder paper?”

        "No! Well, yeah, but I thought we could make boats and sail them. I have markers too.“

        There is quite a lot of debate on what it feels like to die. Sasha had read much of it in fascination in a philosophical tangent. A specific side of the discussion assumes that it would be quite painful. Regardless of how correct that position really was, when noted bad bitch Shea Couleé eagerly held up two pieces of lovingly creased binder paper, Sasha felt for a split second that she was in so much pain that she had to be dying. The cavity in her chest could not fit her heart as it swelled and grew. Shea Couleé, the pinnacle of presentation, confidence, was nervously presenting her friend with a child’s crafting activity that she had grown up with. Sasha’s face lit up as her chest tightened, her free hand took one of the papers as her head pounded. As Shea’s beautiful hand slipped from her own to hand her markers from her purse, Sasha’s throat closed up, gummy with her overwhelming love. Sasha felt like her hands were full of sand, desperately trying to keep it from seeping through the cracks in her fingers. Like love was seeping through the cracks of herself. Sasha couldn’t allow that.

        After guiding Sasha through the basics of boat-folding, Shea insisted that she keep her design a secret to "prevent copying,” and turned away, covering the Sasha-facing side of her boat with her hand. Shea focused so intensely on coloring designs that Sasha was free to semi-covertly steal glances at her friend and shove her rising emotions down her throat with little fear of being caught.

        Shea had taken her to her teenage refuge. Shea had invited her to take part in an activity fondly embedded in her childhood. Shea held Sasha’s hand. And Shea had not let go.

        It felt like she couldn’t breathe. As she admired Shea’s furrowed brow, her unwavering gaze, the faintest hints of smile lines, Sasha felt like she had to look away. It was too much.

        Sasha remembered a word she learned in an Art History class. Sublime. Something sublime is not merely beautiful. It is not gorgeous. It is so stunningly magnificent that it terrifies you. It shakes you to your core. It scares you because you cannot even begin to comprehend how wonderful and immense and powerful it is. The depth and power of the ocean were sublime. The Grand Canyon was sublime. And above everything, Shea was sublime. She was so powerful and intelligent, beautiful, and deeply sweet that nothing else in Sasha’s life would ever compare.

        "Shea?“

        Turning, Shea responded, "Yeah? I finished my boat–"

        "Shea, I have to say this now. And if it ruins our friendship, I’m so sorry.” Sasha stated quickly, loathing how the slight quiver in her voice made her sound childlike.

        Leaning forward, eyebrows raised, Shea just stared.

        "Shea, I’m so… scared.”

        Shea’s eyebrows raised even higher than before. That’s not how I should have phrased it, Sasha winced at her own words. She slowly met Shea’s gaze, took a deep breath, and then continued:

        “Every time I’m with you, I’m terrified. I don’t know if anyone feels like this, or if anyone is supposed to feel like the way I do when I’m around you. I love you so much because you are so impossibly wonderful.

        And upon saying this, Sasha felt her words speed up and begin emerging of their own voalition, becoming more and more certain as they materialized in the night air.

         "You are like, the, the incomparable expanse of the universe, and when I’m next to you, it’s like I’m sitting next to all the stars in the sky, and I’m so scared. But I never want to be brave again if it means I’ll be without you. I love you because you’re so confident, and I love you because you’re kind, and I’m in love with you because you love a river and paper boats, and you share all of that with me.“

        Sasha closed her eyes and exhaled very deeply, trying not to focus on the deafening silence after her mammoth, rambling, declaration of love. But as her breath left her mouth, it caught on someone else’s lips. Lips that then pressed against her own, firmly, insistently. Lips belonging to one Shea Couleé.

        Sasha’s hands eagerly fumbled for Shea’s waist and pulled her closer, reveling in the kiss and cursing her fingers for obviously trembling.

        The kiss felt so good.

        So much of Sasha’s life lived under the contradiction of celebrating her style and uniqueness but still internally feeling that it made her unworthy of love. So she had to shove it down. To repress it and restrain it. But in one swift movement of her lips, Shea took the crumbling remains of the wall holding back Sasha’s love and obliterated it. Sasha’s love just burst, expanded, surrounded. Sasha wanted to just bask in all of it and to bask in how Shea felt the same way.

        "Look down,” Shea whispered against Sasha’s lips. Despite feeling slightly reluctant to stop kissing so soon, Sasha followed Shea’s instruction. Her eyes widened as she saw a paper boat placed on her lap. The paper boat had a pink heart on the side and large, bold blue letters that said: I love you.

        "Really?“ Sasha gasped, holding Shea’s waist even tighter.

        "Obviously.”

        "Shea, it was rhetorical,“ Sasha gently stroked Shea’s long, thick hair off of her face. "But, you brought me here… with the paper… to tell me you l–”

        "Yes, now shut up you goddamn egg,“ Shea laughed, hushing Sasha with another kiss, pushing her back against the slope of the hill, cradling her head.

        Now, it’s almost always true that parties involved in an event or occurrence are typically biased when referencing the incident. It is absolutely true that Sasha is biased when looking back on this particular event. But when describing that kiss on the hill, Sasha would say that it was positively sublime.

#rpdr fanfiction #sasha velour #shea coulee #sashea #fluff #pining #lesbian au #estuary #concrit welcome

[percival-queen]

An officer lies face-down at the table, asleep. Beside her, a long list written neatly in black pen. The lamp is still on, although it’s now far past the curfew for lights-out.

But perhaps the strangest thing of all, a stone covering seems to be growing slowly upward in a ridge-like pattern, covering her sleeping figure.

...

...Nng. Where...

...?

This is...

“[Oh, good. You’re asleep.]”

Wh— how— wait—

“[...I’m afraid even with my higher powers, your mortal body won’t last long under my protection. We’ll have to keep this brief.]”

...Okay. What’s the situation?

“[You tried to break the rules again. You were making a list. Of your possessions.]”

...Ohh. I recall that now.

“[...]”

...Sorry.

“[Your apology is accepted. More importantly, I was able to take you over before anything was attempted. And in the meantime, I’ve had... a lot of time to think. I believe I may owe you an apology as well.]”

...Oh? Ah... That’s all right.

“[I understand that it’s disconcerting for you to face me. I have dictated your actions much more than most Epithets. Which... may not have been a wise move on my part. Seeing how Sundial and Goldbricker treat their hosts has led me to realize how often I’ve pushed you to my ends at your own expense.]”

But... I don’t wish anything for myself. You chose me because I was more or less of a ‘blank slate,’ correct? Using me as much as possible would seem the logical thing to do. Not to mention, I enjoy my job. I highly doubt I’d be better off without your influence... if past events have taught anything.

“[That may be true, but it is no excuse for the fact that I’ve neglected your own needs to serve my own. I did the same to my prior host, and he...]”

“[...he didn’t last very long.]”

...Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, but I still don’t think you’re responsible for my own actions. Not... those ones, anyhow. You’d never command me to waste a life.

“[But I may have been keeping you out of harm’s way without ever addressing the cause. Human minds are all sorts of flawed, Percival King.]”

...

“[...I want to lay down a few new rules.]”

Understood. Orders?

“[Rule one: Stop trying to see the whole picture. It’s occurred to me that I can see things from a much higher perspective than you. From now on, I only wish you to make the next right move, one after another.]”

I think I understand what you mean, but it isn’t a wise strategy to play chess one move at a time. What seems like the right move at a moment may end in disaster.

“[But you aren’t the chess-master, are you? You’re just a piece on the board. You’ve always been aware of that. So don’t worry about the other pieces. Do your job as a knight. Protect who you can; those who are out of your range aren’t your responsibility. This includes your concerns over any other Epithets. That is my domain, not yours.]”

...Okay.

“[Rule two: Let yourself seek joy.]”

...Excuse me?

“[You have a habit of viewing yourself as worthless... that may be partially my fault. You also have a steadily-growing habit of denying yourself any semblance of happiness that... may also be partially my fault.]”

...It’s not as if I avoid happiness on purpose. Not many things bring me... ‘warm, fuzzy feelings,’ so to speak. And unfortunately, the things that do are a bit contradictory to your other commands.

“[You rely too much on the flecks of Goldbricker that run through your veins— or your soul, as the case may be. Goldbricker’s host— Ramsey— has flaws of his own, where the human mind is concerned. He is deficient in joy, as someone may be deficient in an essential vitamin... Goldbricker alleviates this deficiency.]”

...How does this relate to me?

“[Goldbricker is not your Epithet. They have embedded pieces of themself into me, and you by extension, but these pieces aren’t enough to have the same effect. Moreover... you cannot hear Goldbricker’s voice regularly urging you to perform activities which make you happy.]”

...I’m happy when I protect people. 

“[You are. You need to get back to working full-time. Your soul is not one that finds joy in idling very much.]”

“[However. You also cannot sacrifice your body for that purpose. Overworking only makes you a less effective vessel— and it has detriments to your brain as well. You must be actively aware of your own health, mental and physical. As you stated, I will not allow you to waste a life, including yours. To die protecting another is acceptable, but actively seeking self-destruction is not. Understood?]”

Understood, but... how does this relate to ‘letting myself find joy?’

“[If you continue living only to serve my purpose, you’ll have very little incentive to keep going. I’d have to take almost full control of you to keep you in check. ...For a long time, I did. I thought that was the right thing to do. But even now, I can feel your heartbeat slowing down under my control. At this very moment, I’m using electricity to keep it pumping.]”

...Oh.

But... barring my job, I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for... joy, or happiness, or any of that. Not... in any way that doesn’t require other people, and that... hardly seems fair.

“[Others are a blessing, but it’s true you mustn’t rely on them. Do you recall in primary school, when you played dodgeball during Physical Education?]”

Oh, gracious, I’d forgotten about that. I was terrible at the game, but I did enjoy it greatly... heh. You were probably the one nudging me to always act as a human shield for the best throwers on the team, weren’t you?

“[Yes. My protective nature extends to even inconsequential games of make-believe... although I’ll stand by the claim that those games were good training for you. Yet, even more importantly than that, I notice that you’re smiling.]”

O-oh. Sorr—

“[Do not apologize. My very point is that there are things which make you smile. Yet you’ve discarded nearly all of them from your life because they seemed unproductive.]”

...

What are you suggesting? That I... play games? Surely there are better uses of my time.

“[...]”

Okay— er— point taken. But that still seems like... well, something of a childish solution, does it not?

“[You’re a capable individual. I’m sure you will find other ways to allow yourself joy without sacrificing your purpose... But yes, I think ‘childish’ activities are not beyond the realm of being useful. Perhaps you should remember that you were generally much more content as a child.]”

I... suppose so.

“[Our time in this space wears thin. I must return you to the driver’s seat now, before your body collapses. Remember both of the rules I’ve laid out.]”

...I understand. Thank you.

“[...and, Percival?]”

Yes...?

“[I’ve... enjoyed talking to you. I was never able to speak to my previous host in this manner. ...I consider myself blessed among Epithets to have this opportunity.]”

...Thank you. I think.

...

#[ soulbond AU ] #[ within the tower walls ] #[ please; call me Percy - ic ] #[ please; call me Parapet - ic ] #[ I'm afraid my stamina is rather low - ic musings ] #[ third person prose - ficlet ]

[davalynbaker]

Thirsty as F*ck [Season 1, Ep. 4]

Congratulations, you made it to the end of 2020. And in doing that, you’ve accomplished something that took a lot of willpower and strength to get through—Pat yourselves on the back. And get into this episode.

Now realizing that this entire decade seems to be strife with chaos, ignore that first paragraph. I was so ignorant. And oh, so naive.

This episode is written by Laura Kittrell and directed by Kevin Bray.

The episode opens with Lawrence jogging to “Conflict of a Man” by Erimaj. We get some great scenic shots of South LA that are beyond stunning. As he finishes his jog and heads back home, he passes the stained couch from the previous episode sitting on the curb. Surprisingly, no one has picked it up yet, and it’s there as a harsh but real reminder that their relationship has so much work that they have to accomplish. I’m not sure why they threw out the couch before they purchased another one, but he goes in, and there’s a broken lawn chair in its place. Inside, Issa is taking a shower, but she gets a glimpse of sweaty Lawrence from his jog that initiates awkward shower sex. Shout out to one of the many appearances of Jay Ellis’ little booty.

Whoever tried to sell us on the appeal of shower sex needs to atone for their sins.

Giving in, Issa and Lawrence go shopping for a new couch. You can see from their interactions - compared to the first episode. They are very much revisiting their honeymoon phase. While they are in post-let’s-work-it-out bliss, they watch a married couple fight about lotion dispensers.

Best line of the episode, a disgruntled wife says dryly to her husband: “I hate you.”

Later that day, Molly is on her date with super hot doc, Brandon Bell [Troy Fairbanks, if you watch Dear White People], and they’re having typical date conversations. It gets weird when Molly tells him that he needs to be considerate and let her know where he’s headed via text. We later learn that this is date three so there hasn’t been anything explicitly hinting at them being legitimate. They were still having a “get to know you” conversation, so needing to know someone’s whereabouts is strange, but Dr. Hottie definitely could have made that vocal, too. Anyway, Molly is just going through the dating process. It’s not that deep. Hot men come and go.

The next day she walks past a loud-ass Da Da, noting that “black people stay loud.”

It’s me. I’m black people.

On Issa’s end, she gets a surprise visit from Daniel at work. He is consistently overstepping his boundaries. Literal Kill Bill sirens go off in my head at the very notion of someone showing up at my job without announcement. He apologizes for what happened that night in the car. If you need me to refresh your memories, Issa kissed Daniel after “breaking up” with Lawrence, and she told Daniel she wasn’t sure if she was ready to pursue anything serious. Daniel immediately shuts that down and says that she would be nothing more than a booty call.

It was awkward. It was sad. You know the story.

Issa takes this moment to tell him that she’s back with Lawrence now, and they shuffle through the rest of their conversation in a series of strange little moments. Molly rightfully criticizes her for even entertaining the idea of flirting with Daniel, and Issa agrees, saying that she is now “Bloop-bloop”-ing with Lawrence. ***Bloop-blooping is signifying the elevation of them trying to work through their relationship.

Lawrence goes to work and gets assigned to a section he has no experience in by his boss. Also, something that was very triggering to hear, “You’re smart. You’ll catch on.” Being forced to take on other jobs you lack training on is so common that I knew there was a collective sigh when Lawrence’s boss said that to him. Of course, Lawrence can’t quit the job out of frustration because he needs the money! He’s been depending on Issa for too long. Sometimes, you just have to suck it up and become a corporate servant. And for Lawrence, who has spent well over a year being jobless because pride would not let him give in to a job, it’s pretty damn ironic that he’s now at a job doing every single thing he said he never would do. Welcome to adulthood.

As Freida and Issa bond after work, she suggests that Issa use Daniel for their kids’ career day. Issa texts Daniel instead of telling Freida that she isn’t comfortable doing that? Before I knew what was going to happen in the show, I knew what was going to happen in the show.

Does that make sense?

Molly is now on a date with Jidenna, and they bond over microaggressions and white folks at work. He cheers her up with a round of “black tax” jokes, then the two dance to “Girl,” and the romance begins to bloom between them.

After Issa’s after-work session and bonding with Freida (and her text to Daniel), she comes home to Lawrence, who asks her about work, but she casually forgets to mention that Daniel is coming to the career day they’ve planned for the kids. Alright, so Issa actively possesses guilt about Daniel. She hasn’t told Lawrence about the kiss, and now she’s purposely keeping secrets about Daniel from him. It is fascinating to witness Issa plant these seeds of being a dishonest spouse. What is the point of telling Lawrence you want to make it work when you’re still going to lie to him? Even worse, the next day, Lawrence is not telling Issa about Tasha. Is it common for couples to keep things like this from each other? I feel as though if it’s harmless, then mentioning them should not be an issue.

Nevertheless, Lawrence sits with Tasha and enjoys the praises she gives him up which. At this point, Issa is trying her best to help with his confidence, so I don’t know why he feels like he still needs to hold on to Tasha for this. Because let’s be honest, that’s the only reason he’s holding on to Tasha.

After Molly’s date with Jidenna, she tells her boss that she doesn’t feel comfortable talking to Da Da about her behavior. So the boss decides to do it. Molly later sees all the partners ganging up on Da Da in the conference room, and it’s not looking good. Molly’s conversation with Da Da earlier about assimilating to fit in with the white people has come full circle, but Molly feels more sympathetic than vindicated. Da Da is learning about corporate white folks the hard way. We’ve all been there.

It’s career day, and Daniel is sharing his garbage-ass beats with the kids. After some fun and conversations about his job, he tells the kids how amazing Issa is, and they joke that he has a crush on her. Kids have the best intuition, so they are picking up on the chemistry stirring between the two. After the successful career day, Daniel extends an invitation to a studio session, and Issa doesn’t say yes or no. Because why? She likes making bad decisions.

Now that her head is rightly all messed up about Daniel, she fantasizes about him in the staff mirror. As we all know, it’s her subconscious telling her about her lingering feelings for Daniel. They never really left, and she’s starting to lean in too closely to the chaos. Daniel mentioned earlier that he worked on some beats for Ty Dolla $ign, so of course, Ty Dolla $ign makes an appearance in this fantasy. Lawrence interjects, asking her what she’s doing, but it’s revealed to actually be Molly.

Being the voice of reason.

Again.

Her attempts to keep Issa grounded are not going well.

And to the surprise of no one, the kids at school find Issa’s “Broken Pussy” video and laugh about it. Millennials. I think the most realistic thing about this show is the many L’s Millennials take. Nothing has felt more relatable.

#insecure #issa rae #yvonne orji #jay ellis #lisa joyce #jidenna #troy fairbanks #hbo: insecure #tv: insecure #kevin bray #laura kittrell

[rosemallowss]

Im so sad too with all that´s happening around TBWDOA, it was magical the first time that I listened it: so much life, love and humanity even in the darkest places of the world... I felt that the hope around it was more strong that any problematic subject... I know that maybe im being naive and self-blinded by my own privileges, but im so angry that the controversy destroyed what for my was so beautiful. I dont know if this is weird, but I wanted to talk with someone that maybe feels the same :(

Hey dude, I thought exactly the same thing. I actually still think it, but every time I see any trace of the show in my camera roll or the copy of the album, it’s so hard not to think about all the angry people. I think now that it’s been a few weeks however, I can fully hold a discussion about this musical without feeling guilty or sad. Despite what other people think, I really don’t believe that the writers has hostile intents at all. If you look at old posts like this:

You can tell just how passionate they were about this show. & plus, I realized recently that these guys tend to write shows about topics that are not normally talked about as well. Example: this show and ‘Talk To Me’– a show about a child who is on the Autism spectrum. I suppose you could kind of count their other show “With The Right Music” as kind of that? However I’m actually not totally clear on what that show is about since it wasn’t actually written to the end– though I think it is about a closeted teenager in high school. I suppose this counts because there aren’t that many musicals written about closeted teenagers. I truly don’t believe that they were trying to offend anyone– simply were just so so invested in trying to get a story out there, maybe one that was unfamiliar to them, and perhaps it was also bad timing that the full show was released? Or maybe they were just as naïve too when they wrote the show probably around 2015 (earlier?) I used to always get their attention (unintentionally I swear) on Twitter when I’d talk about the show. Those dudes were really kind. And they follow back a lot of their fans. So, perhaps it was just naïvety? I’m aware that they’re attempting to make it right, and they are probably at the moment in conversation with Afghan Americans. That’s important, and speaks more than words I think. I know Troy, Nikhil, Sittichai, and Jonathan have been under fire. Troy has gone silent and if I’m not mistaken I think Sittichai and Jonathan as well? Other actors in the show such as Osh (Zemar) and though a small appearance– Shiv Pai (future Paiman’s son) have gotten no such comments I realize. Maybe the show was bad timing. Perhaps it would’ve had a more positive outcome in terms of rising popularity had it been talked about in a past tense; in a sense that “this practice doesn’t happen anymore” so that the setting is not modern day, but instead sometime in the late 1900s?Would that have made the show less controversial? Maybe? But we can never be sure. Would it have been less controversial if they minimized the extend of the abuse? Or removed that altogether and made it that it was simply two boys falling in love in rural Afghanistan who were coming terms with the fact that they were feeling this feeling with each other? well, yeah, because it would just be a love story in a different setting, and we’d probably see Feda and Paiman exploring the marketplace as well. If this was the case, I’d assume the conflict of the story would be homophobia from parents/internalized homophobia itself, or struggling to understand themselves. Another conflict could be something that many teenagers experience as well, such as fear of the future. Maybe arranged marriage could still be a conflict, and since Feda’s name literally means “sacrifice” he’d probably still have to die in the end. Perhaps they could have rewritten the show like that and the show would have little to no controversy? The music is incredible, and it could even portray the beauty of Afghanistan through their amazing way of writing music. I’m just brainstorming and rambling here, sorry! when it comes to this show it seems as though that I always just vomit out more words than anyone cares to hear. Let’s address why it was controversial as well though... Many were repulsed by the idea of s-x trafficking as a musical, and even more outraged with the musical being about Afghanistan. It showed negative parts of the country, and that would add on to people’s perception and dislike toward Afghans, which if you live in America you are aware of the racists’ stereotypes and disdain toward Afghans. (If you are naïve like me, you probably did not catch that as well. I truly forgot that there were people who perceived Afghans in a negative light. I was awed by the diversity in the show and so focused on that) I believe that they also have said how gay men are usually perceived as pedophiles as well and this show did not help to minimize that harmful stereotypes. I’m obviously kind of dumb because I didn’t realize that stereotype.

However it is true, because realized I often see this trope in fiction books about “creepy uncles preying on their nephews”. Though people don’t agree with the fact that it is a musical, I always saw it as a different way of storytelling. There’s a book called The Kite Runner that talks about the same topic in this musical by the way. I didn’t know this but my friends have had to read that book as an assignment in their English class. I thought, well, TBWDOA, it just tells the story through songs. So all in all, these were many of the points people made, and you cannot be upset with them for being angry. When I first listened to the show, I was aware it was controversial, but I thought the controversy would be something that can be discussed and debated while being enjoyed. Similar to how Hamilton is often debated for glorifying the founding fathers while still being a good show. However, when I replied to one comment because I thought that this was how it was going to go, I was bombarded with several other comments, I was called pedophilic and was told that because I was not Afghan that I should not speak and when someone said that, I realized “okay, I was wrong to think that this was an issue that could be debated!” I did not realize how much deeper it would be. As a result, I was flooded with comments from instagram and twitter and it was STRESSFUL and overwhelming that I just couldn’t sleep and had to take a break! However someone told me that even the most controversial, flawed works of art should be appreciated or discussed. It’s up for debate if that’s true. The show is incredible in portraying the strength of the human spirit— “find your voice, even if it’s weak, using it can make a difference that will lead to a greater change.” It showed a boy who used something that was SUPPOSED to degrade and silence him as a tool to lift him up and strengthen him– that was an incredible theme. He found power in the resources he could. Dancing was supposed to be something he could not decide, but he made it his own, would not let it weaken him, and used it as a tool to push him toward more positive hopes. There’s something so powerful about people taking back the thing that was supposed to weaken them, and twisting in into something that gives them strength. Though just because the music embodies the main characters incredibly and the message is empowering, we cannot ignore that perhaps, yes the show was quite insensitive to many Afghan Americans. It might take me several months before I can listen to any song from this show again though. But the show has such a special place in my heart, for making me fall in love with music theory and musical instruments all over again, for pulling my heart strings with incredible themes/life lessons, and the show embodying that theme in a heartbreaking final song, and then lastly providing a beautiful love story. Am I insensitive for saying that? I really don’t want to be, but a story like this has never made me feel like that before. I was intrigued by Islamic wedding customs and researched into that. I fell in love with the purpose of whirling dervishes, and fascinated by how beautiful that was. I watched videos about them, i read about them. Feda talked about an old Afghan poet in the show and god, for hours I looked up that poet and read the translated English phrases (didn’t finish however). I was taken by the beautiful geography of Afghanistan. I researched beyond the show to look at Afghan culture and I appreciated that. I understood that, of course this wasn’t a common practice that is active in Afghanistan. But I’m aware now that so many people will not see it that way at all. They saw the show as indulging the idea that this practice is apart of their culture which is not true, and the original theater did not market that well at all.. I want to hope that this was just really bad timing, that this show was misinterpreted, and in the future will be enjoyed and discussed rather than torn apart. I never like being on the controversial side of things, but, gosh, I don’t know.

But, I know exactly how you feel. And I welcome any asks/my messages are open for discussion about this show now.

#the boy who danced on air #feda #paiman #tbwdoa #city boys

[eternaljouska]

Redamancy, Chapter 1 - Lee Jihoon

Pairing: Husband!JihoonxReader

Genre: Angst, the tiniest amount of Fluff (later? maybe?)

Chapter: ONE | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | end | epilogue |

Word Count: 2.2k

Note: This is my first fic on tumblr as an attempt to be a more active user (I usually just read and send anonymous rant on how i love other people’s writings, hehe) I am not a medical student, but I did some tiny research, so… Alright, hope you enjoy.

–

“Hello, what is it?” Jihoon snaps into his phone. He was jotting down possible lyrics to the very lacking melody he created yesterday when his phone rang for the third time. He grabbed his phone aggressively and sighed. It was Y/n, his wife of eight years. Last night scene was replaying in his mind, getting him more agitated by the second as the continuous ringing robbed him of his ideas.

“Hey, I was wondering. Could you pick up Jaemin and Jimin from school?” Hearing your timid voice, he sighs once again, trying to control his irritation.

“Y/n. I am at work now.”

“I know. But since you use my car, I can’t go. School’s over in twenty-five.”

“Shit,” He mutters under his breath. You are right. His car broke down since a couple of days ago, and it seems to rather enjoy its stay at the repair shop. And you have let him used yours since the only places you frequent are the school and the grocery shop.

He sighs, again.

When he borrowed the car last weekends, it hadn’t occurred to him that he would need to send or pick his kids up from school. He realized it only this morning. This morning he went to work later than intended since he had to do the former task. But it’s not much of a problem because the school is in the same direction as the company’s building. And the boys were beyond delighted. As wonderful it feels to see their gleaming faces when they see him, he can’t go.

He really can’t leave his job; he needs at least five demos by the weekend. It’s been a week since he’s given the task, but so far he has two. And his mind definitely won’t cooperate after your fight last night. It is stuck repeating your arguments instead of generating beautiful lyrics as it usually does. He didn’t even remember what the fight was about. Maybe it was him staying up late in the studio for days. Or maybe it was him apparently neglecting his family’s needs, which he thought as ridiculous. It doesn’t matter. He is always at the wrong, and that is why he was mad out of his mind.

He is still mad out of his mind.

That is why throughout this conversation you keep your voice small. You are afraid to tick him off. You are afraid he would choose not to go home, again, letting out his frustration towards working and staying up all night in his studio.  That is why, when he didn’t say anything after his expletive, you offer, “If- if you’re busy, I think I can take the cab. That would be okay, I guess. Sorry to interrupt.” And with that, you end the call.

You take a long breath as you look at the watch on your wrist. After you dialed for a cab, you call your youngest son’s teacher to inform her that you’re probably going to be late. It would take you ten to fifteen minutes if you drive yourself, but just in case the cab is taking too long, you told Jimin’s teacher anyway.

Jaemin is seven years old, and Jimin is five. Both of them were newly admitted to their respective school this year. The kindergarten and the elementary school are from the same institution, therefore, they’re located next to each other. You were worried because they would have a different schedule, but you’ve managed pretty well. Usually, you will be at school at least ten minutes before the kindergarten’s bell rings, and you and Jimin will wait for Jaemin together.

Through the call, you told Jimin’s teacher, Mrs. Seo, who was also Jaemin’s teacher when he was in kindergarten, to accompany Jimin until you arrive. She agrees, and she even volunteers to tell Jaemin’s homeroom teacher that Jaemin can wait for you in the kindergarten with her and his brother, that way he won’t be confused as to why he can’t find you waiting in the parking lot.

The cab is quick to arrive at your house, almost but not quite five minutes. And the traffic is also good since it’s not lunch time yet. One or two cars drive above the speed limit, but you pay no heed to that, rather conversing about your sons with the driver. That’s it until a loud honk suddenly cut into your storytelling. It is followed with a screech, a crash, an excruciating scratch of iron and asphalt, two other or three thumps, and then silence.

Jihoon has his head on his palms, his headphone hanging around his neck. He is frustrated because he couldn’t get anything done for almost two hours. He is so ready to throw everything that is on his desk right now but decides to go take something out of the vending machine. He’s about to open the door when it is burst open, revealing the red face of one of his members, Seungkwan.

“Hyung! Why don’t you pick up your phone?” He half yells, his head fuming.

“It’s on silence. What’s so important?”

“The school tried to call you, but there’s no response. So they called me. They were asking about Y/n. They said Y/n told Mrs. Seo that she’s gonna be late but they’ve been waiting for like an hour, she didn’t show up.”

Seungkwan’s daughter, Sunye, is a year older than Jimin, she is in the same kindergarten as him. Knowing that Seungkwan is related to both of you, Mrs. Seo probably checked in with Sunye’s teacher and told her about the waiting situation that occurred.

“Shit! I shouldn’t have put my phone on silence. Sorry. She told me she was gonna take a cab to pick them up. Where are they now?” Jihoon says, walking back to look for his phone under all the scattered papers on his desk.

“It’s okay. They’re at my house. Did you get a message from Y/n?”

Jihoon frowns when he sees his notifications. “No, but I had a few missed calls from an unknown number.”

“Maybe that’s the cab. Maybe the car broke down or something.”

“Shh, I’m calling them.”

The person picks up on the second ring and with a relieved sigh, “Thank goodness, Mr. Lee, we’ve been trying to reach you. You’re the only emergency contact of Mrs. Lee.”

“Wha- Emergency contact, what?”

The lines between Jihoon’s eyebrows are getting deeper while Seungkwan grows one of his own, looking and mouthing his curiosity of what’s happening to the older man.

Jihoon holds his forefinger out to Seungkwan and asks to his phone, “Who is this?”

“This is Seoul National University Hospital. Your wife has been admitted to the ER about an hour ago due to a car accident.”

As soon as Jihoon heard the word accident, he immediately hangs up the phone. He doesn’t need to hear more. The gears in his head are not moving quickly enough for him to remember where he has placed his car key. “Key, key, key, where the fuck is my car key?! Fuck!”

Jihoon finally goes with his initial plan of throwing away everything that is on his desk while Seungkwan is just standing in the doorway, utterly bewildered. “Hyung, what happened?”

He ignores the other man and when at last he found what he’s searching for, he shouts, “Move. I said move!” He shoves Seungkwan out of his way and runs to the garage, the younger one following close behind, starting to understand the urgency.

“Hyung, did something happen to her? Hyung, where are you going?”

“The fuck, Seungkwan. Can you fucking shut up for once?” Jihoon replies once both of them are inside the elevator. He punches the button like a mad man while muttering a few more expletives.

“You can’t drive in this state. Give me your key.” Seungkwan says, extending his hand, palm up. He knows there is no controlling Jihoon, yet he tries to sound strict and not to cower in fear because of his bandmate’s lash out.

“The fuck? She’s in the ER, do you hear me? Fuck! Why is this elevator so fucking slow?!” He punches the elevator door a few times until it dings and shows the basement of the building.

“Hyung! Give me the key! I’ll drive.”

Seungkwan kept on thanking the God above until he arrived at the hospital for the traffic was not too bad, lest his ears would’ve been burned from the ever-flowing river of curses that is Jihoon’s mouth. They are stuck in another slow elevator, with Jihoon pounding on its door, again. Seungkwan has a hard time staying calm. He is worried beyond anything. He is worried about you, his best friend. And he is worried about Jihoon. He never saw him like this, ever. And he is scared, not for himself, but for Jihoon.

When the elevator finally lets them out, Jihoon runs to the receptionist’s desk, Seungkwan catching up behind him. Jihoon starts talking a million words an hour, and the receptionist, the person who was on the call with him, only says that you’re still in the ER with the doctor’s team. He walks towards the ER with ragged breath while Seungkwan stays behind to ask a few more questions. He found out that the other man was dead on the way to the ER, and the cab driver suffers from a few major and some minor injuries; he didn’t get everything she said but she mentioned about partial airbags malfunctioning or something. The receptionist told him about the police, too. They might want to speak with Jihoon. But as he tears himself away from the receptionist’s desk to follow where Jihoon went, he knows that there’s no way that will happen any time soon.

“Hyung,” He calls for Jihoon ever so softly. The older man is slumped down near the ER doors, his whole body visibly trembling and his teeth chattering as if he is cold to the bone.

He sobs, “It’s my fault. I- I was too caught up. I- She- Seungkwan, she-“

By the time he heard Jihoon said his name, Seungkwan’s already crouching by his side, holding him by the shoulders. “Shh, no, it’s not your fault. Shh.”

“But it is!” He shouts, earning a few glances from the people nearby. “It is my fault! I fucking used her car, but I made her pick up the kids anyway. I was selfish. I was petty. I was fucking useless!” His eyes are bloodshot, and it costs Seungkwan everything to hold Jihoon still in his arms.

“Hyung! Calm down.”

“How can I fucking calm down, Seungkwan? Tell me how, when the doctor- no, the doctor’s team was still in there even after an hour of being admitted. Tell me how, when the last thing I did to her was curse! I cursed! You know the last thing I said on our phone call just a few hours ago? Shit! Shit! That was it. That could be the last thing she heard from me, Seungkwan, I- I am the worst. I didn’t deserve her.”

“No, hyung-“ Seungkwan was going to rebut his friend’s words when the doors to the ER open and a doctor calls Jihoon’s name.

“Mr. Lee,” He begins, standing in front of Jihoon who tries to peek inside the room instead of making eye contact with the doctor as he rises to his feet. “We just finished with a few diagnostic tests to identify the injuries. We are going to tend to her head injury first and then her fractured left shoulder and arm.”

“How bad is the head injury? How long after the surgery would she wake up?” Seungkwan pipes in when Jihoon only stays silent for a few seconds too long.

“I am afraid to say that the head injury is rather severe. It, will take some time for her to wake up.”

“What? What do you mean some time?” Jihoon asks unbelievingly, his voice is low and chilling. Jihoon is the receding seawater before a tsunami. And Seungkwan feels the calm water washes over his back, sending shivers down his spine.

“It could be days or weeks. It could also be months. I am saying that you cannot predict a head injury.”

And the first wave strikes.

“How can you not?! It’s your job! It’s your fucking job!”

Seungkwan almost loses his grips around Jihoon, and he really doesn’t want to worsen the worse by asking, but he shoots the question nonetheless, “Are you saying that she’s in a coma?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Jihoon shrieks and launches himself at the doctor, catching the attention of the security who is talking with the receptionist. “Hyung! Calm. Down. Hyung!” Seungkwan is struggling to restrain Jihoon from attacking the doctor until the security comes to his aid.

“We’re sorry, Mr. Lee. We will try as hard as we can.” The doctor is silent for a moment before he continues, “There’s something else that I need to tell you. Due to the damage to her brain, when she wakes up, she might temporarily not remember a few things. We are very sorry, Mr. Lee.” With this, the doctor nods sympathetically and leaves.

Those words are arrows aiming at every cell of his body. And as Jihoon recalls the memory of you from last night, crying, he surrenders to gravity and along with a whimper, he collapses into the earthquake of his own making.

–

Thank you for reading~

Every chapter will be around 2K (I think), so I don’t know how long this series gonna be. But, we’ll see. Teehee.

#jihoon #lee jihoon #woozi #seventeen #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenario #jihoon imagines #jihoon scenario #jihoon angst #jihoon fluff #seventeen angst #jihoon seventeen #woozi seventeen #kpop imagine #kpop scenario #woozi imagine #woozi scenario #woozi angst #woozi fluff

[rayadraws]

Raya-san, do you have any OPM OCs?

Ohh!Hm, well, I don’t have any that I have like... fleshed out, regularly draw or RP with or anything like that... I have a few that I’ve made up for my fics where I needed a certain perspective or some such? These are the ones that spring to mind...

I will put this under a Read More, on account of the quotes making the post a bit long...

The oldest one I have, I guess, is from The unwilling patient (2016) where we study Genos’ body through the eyes of a young cyberneticist working for the HA, tasked to repair Genos after he’s injured:

By all accounts, he should have felt beyond excited. As far as he knew, no one had ever been given the same opportunity - the same honour. This would be a true testament to his skills. He'd be able to say, afterwards, that "ah, yes, that is the result of my work! Look at him go, how I fixed him!" Something to put in his resume, for sure. Something to brag about later. He should have been ecstatic.

The truth, however, was that he only felt very, very nervous. Primarily thanks to a pair of gold-on-black eyes that shone with an absolute fury. Directed straight at him.

A few months later I made a follow-up to that one, where the guy is fleshed out a little more and we learn that his name is Sato Ichigo (and that he has a girlfriend who tells him to tone down the fanboy:ing). That piece is titled Ten Visits and is about Genos visiting Ichigo for repairs that he doesn’t want to bother Kuseno with, gradually forming a sort of friendship (which was Kuseno’s plan all along, heh) as well as seeing Genos/Saitama’s relationship through an outsider’s view, which is one of my favourite things to write...

If Ichigo had been braver, he might have asked Doctor Kuseno if maybe he could come for a visit to see his lab and his work, one day. But that felt too large a request, especially knowing how the old man preferred to work in the shadows.

Instead, he diligently took to pestering Genos a while later, when he was still waking up and too out of it to put up much of a fight.

"Will you take me to see him?"

"Ngh."

"Come on!"

"Muh..."

"Pretty please?"

The cyborg was still on the table, blinking at the harsh lights above him and looking rather lost. Saitama hovered nearby, watching everything but not in the almost hostile way he had when they first came in. If anything, he looked intrigued by Genos' confusion.

"I'm not usually there when he wakes up from bigger repairs like this. I guess I get why now... he probably doesn't want me to see him in this state" he said in an amused tone, poking a soft cheek and chuckling as the other tried to swat his hand away, metal palm not quite hitting the mark as he waved it almost 20 cm too far to the side. "Is he even really awake?" "Yes. His brain is fully active. It's just his body that's rebooting and calibrating. It's taking longer than usual because I had to disable so many functions when I worked on it today." "'seno id-on" "What?" the other two said together as Genos attempted to speak. He took a moment to give them each a half-hearted glare before taking a deeper breath and trying again. "Kus...eno. De-ion." "Kuseno's decision?" Saitama offered, used to trying to make sense of his disciple in various states of disrepair... and abilities to speak coherently. "Yes." "If the kid can visit him?"

"Yes."

"But you will ask him for me, right?" Ichigo replied immediately. "Please? I mean... The more I learn about his work, the better I can help you, too? You'll at least ask, right?"

"Man, you really dig the old man, huh?" Saitama offered when Genos remained quiet.

"I, yes, I do! I mean, just look at Genos! He's amazing!"

"Sensei... amazing" Genos murmured, but said sensei just jabbed at his cheek again in response to that. This time the cyborg managed to grab the offending index finger, but instead of pushing it away, he continued to hold the hand close to his face. The show of affection was not lost on the cybernetician.

"Sap" he teased, smiling.

The next one after THAT was in a piece called Left in the past, where Saitama and Genos chance upon Genos’ cousin from his childhood. Saitama is surprised that Genos apparently cut all ties to him years ago despite losing the rest of his family, but eventually learns why.

"Man, those girls really love you huh" he asks ruefully after they barely escape another round of fans begging for his autograph. "They do!" Saitama answers for him, giving Genos a mild shove, Kaito laughing at his flustered expression. "Do they know it's a lost cause?" Kaito continues and Genos' somewhat pleased expression immediately turns sour. "Enough from you" he mutters darkly at the other who smirks back challengingly. "Well, he's right, isn't he?" Saitama chuckles. "Demon Cyborg is definitely married to his job!" Kaito laughs with him, but Genos is quiet for the rest of the walk home.

A honourable mention for the Crazy cat lady monster in Catnos, because I actually quite dig her (and I very lowkey want to make some sort of follow up where like, Saitama is like “ok but I wanna try being a kitty too” and they find her again, so I can write about Saitama’s turn to be a cat...)

 ”Life is simpler as a cat, is it not? Eat, sleep, play. Not so many responsibilities, not so many worries. Well, if you can forget them, at least. But you still remember, don’t you, little kitty?”

 ”Meow…”

 ”So do I, so do I. I remember them all. All the people who mistreated me, who were cruel to me. Cats are better than people. Cats are never intentionally cruel to anyone…”

 Genos blinked up at the monster, but it paid him no mind as it continued.

 ”It was just me. Me and the cats against everyone. And I wished it was just me and the cats, and no one else at all. And then… it was. Such a thrill it was, to have that power…”

 Like a striking snake the hand suddenly struck out and grabbed Genos by the scruff of the neck. He yowled loudly, twisting and struggling to get away, fighting for his life as he was lifted high into the air, but it seemed impossible to escape the monster’s grip on him.

 ”Easy, easy…” the monster murmured. It was looking straight at him now, pale eyes unreadable, illuminated by the moon and a flickering street light. ”Now you can’t hurt me either. All I wanted was to be alone, but you couldn’t even let me have that? So mean… you’re better off as a cat…”

 Genos hissed as he dangled in the air, willing the monster to extend its other hand so that he could bite it, scratch it, anything.

 ”See? If you weren’t so mean, I wouldn’t have had to change you. If you’d just left me alone… But there’s no place for me in this world, is there? Not as a human, not like this…”

There’s the baby girl that I have actually drawn, here, although I don’t have a name for her or anything... but it’s probably her in the oneshot titled Pop where Genos has his torso filled with popcorn kernels while he sleeps, although she’d be a bit older there...

 Genos awoke over an hour later, no thanks to himself - it was an alert that roused him, beeping and blinking at the edge of his vision.

 FOREIGN BODY DETECTED

 ”Whu-” he flailed an arm around, blinking the light from his eyes. He’d been attacked? Why hadn’t his proximity sensors awoken him, what could possibly-

 A chubby face looked down at him from where he laid, breaking into a wide smile when she realized he was awake.

 ”Daddy!”

 ”H-honey? You’re up?”

 ”Yeah!” the little one proclaimed proudly, and reached her hand forward, towards his chest - why was his shirt pulled so high? He got his answer immediately as his daughter resolutely pushed something into his exposed vent, giggling in absolute glee as it disappeared into his body with a low rattle.

 ”What are you-...” carefully Genos pulled himself into a sitting position, pulling his shirt down as he did so - only to hear a strange, clinking noise, like pebbles in a can. A lot of pebbles. From inside his torso.

AND the very last one is... well, for ages I’ve had this idea of a group of little old ladies that live in City Z, not the abandoned parts like Sai but not too far from him, probably? They’ve lived there their whole lives and they’re not going to move now just because weird critters have started showing up more often. Fierce little ladies that spend a good portion of their day fighting with that bald man over the sales and scaring wolf level threats away with their purses and canes. I lowkey want to write about Genos and Saitama’s struggles with them, haha.

Bonus: One day Kuseno visits and the ladies see him and they are blown away and demand Genos introduce them to him and Genos is just suffering (and like Saitama, he’s used to just... fighting and arguing with them, normally, so it’s all very weird to him!)

Me, before answering this: alas I don’t really have any OCs, do I?

Me, after answering this: oh

[thepilotanon]

Prelude xviii

...for the tender touch {masterlist}

WHOO!! I’ve been so, so busy with the holidays and working a whole bunch. I want to thank everyone who is being patient with me, and hope this chapter will be rewarding to some of you! Somethings are boiling down for our space prince, but also jumping off the charts? Let me know what you think, and hope you enjoy!!

warning: slight nsfw, intimate discussion and slavery.

It felt like skin was on fire and blood was boiling through the veins.

Bodies colliding and mouths fusing together, the unknown heat erupting under the layers of clothes to the point that hands became claws; the sound of seams tearing and buttons dropping on the floor, making her gasp at the sudden grope to her breasts. She couldn’t hold back the alien noise of a moan beyond pain from her throat when he bent down and sunk his teeth into her neck. A rush of adrenaline sparked inside her as her hands fumbled with the latch of his belt resting evilly above his pelvis, hiding what she wanted underneath the fabric of his pants. It took her a moment to realize that her own trousers were missing. How did that happen? She didn’t know, or could find a mind to care at the moment...

Boots skid across the polished floors when he pushed her against the wall and lifted her by holding onto the back of her thighs. Pressing their hips together, he did a rough grind against her, the hard edge of the belt rubbing against her clothed core and caused her to shiver with a whine. Holding his head still to direct him back into a sloppy kiss, she didn’t hold back to suck on his tongue and bite his bottom lip on the way of pulling back. This caused him to groan and drop his voice low as possible as he sharply bit her jaw.

“Gonna fuck you so hard against the wall, everyone is going to hear you cry for me,” he told her, his fingers sliding into her undergarments. “You won’t be able to walk, not when I’m done with you, sweetie.”

“Please,” she whined pathetically, her hands gripping the collar of his uniform desperately. “Please, please...I need -”

“I know you need me,” he purred darkly, his index and middle finger rubbing hard circles against the sensitive nub within the most private part of her body. With the jerk of his hips, thanks to the frantic unbuttoning, he was able to drop his trousers to expose his own lack of underwear, allowing his member to spring free to plunge roughly into -

Nova erupted a snap from the loud, projected images being exploited to her within the training facility by a standing officer at the end of the frontline Phasma was currently assessing one-by-one. The young woman with dark hair and a few beauty marks along her cheekbones released a sudden gasp of pain from the Force-user’s assault, her eyes growing wide with shock and grasping the back of her neck from the tingling sensation from the pinch on her nerves. Biting her lip once she saw Phasma freeze and send a daring stare her way, the officer cleared her throat and resumed her position, her eyes darting left and right until coming to see Nova’s intended stare and crossed arms directed right at her.

The officer lost the staring contest, looking down to her feet as she waited for her turn by the Captain, her cheeks burning red. Turning around and extended her arms when directed by the silver-armored ‘trooper, Phasma eventually finished her evaluation and approved the lineup to be dismissed and escorted out of the training area. As it was the last line of officers to be checked by the Captain for the time being, both Nova and Phasma were found to have a small break for once since their line-after-line of different officers and cadets.

As Phasma approached the quiet apprentice, Nova noticed the small tilt of the shiny helmet. “You were staring pretty intensely to quite a few officers, Nova,” she pointed out to the other woman present in the expanded room. “Did you catch something wrong with them?”

Nova blinked a few times, processing the idea of what would be defined as wrong to Phasma. “I don’t think it’s wrong, but it is not something I’m quite fond of witnessing myself, if that’s appropriate,” she tried, and Phasma gave her a single nod.

“Of what?”

Nova’s face twisted to somewhat of disgust and irritation. “Being physical with another person that is not sparring. The annoying buzzing of hormones within their minds are disgusting,” she eventually blurted. “Involving rather animalistic behaviors of attempting to breed so forcefully? Are populations within the First Order that low that many available young adults are so desperate to procreate?”

“Breed - oh. No, no, it’s not like that,” Phasma groaned, her hand coming to rest on the other’s shoulder and squeezing tightly. “They’re - the officers are…”

Nova waited patiently while the Captain struggled to find the correct words, her helmet visor shifting between her, up, down and then around the training facility in hopes of finding the right vocabulary. Hearing her usually very, very quiet thoughts on what she was attempting to convey to her, Nova’s lips twitched a bit as she raised a hand and waved towards Phasma.

“No, Phasma, I certainly know how sex works between two people. My owners and other older slaves made sure I learned early on in life,” Nova said, hearing the other’s mental sigh of relief. “What I don’t understand is their seeming excitement to breed - especially for the ones who are able to carry offspring - it does not make sense to me.”

Phasma was still for a moment, just like when Nova first saw her or whenever she was focused on her team’s performance during training and sparring. As moments ticked by, she watched as the Captain released a breath, her limbs from within the armor relaxing. “Oh,” she responded with another sigh. “That’s good to know. Saves a whole lot of trouble for my end; I’m not used to these types of conversations… Not like I constantly do with others.”

“But, I still don’t understand.”

“Right,” Phasma nodded, gesturing with one armor-clad hand for the two to go towards the empty rows of benches provided to the room. Nova willingly followed her and sat casually at her side, waiting.

“You saw their projected thoughts, and some of them have been quite explicit for you to become annoyed, and confused,” the Captain recited, and Nova eventually nodded in agreement. “Being physically intimate is usually something pleasurable for someone or a pairing, and sex one of the common activities they can do, but it does not end with them breeding… I suppose with the annual physical and medicated shots, some of the officers and ‘troopers are probably excited to be active in it again without consequence.”

The young woman frowned a bit deeper and tilt her head. “What does a medical examination and vaccinations do that makes someone to want to become physical sexually?” she asked. “How does it not allow them to breed?”

“One of the vaccinations the First Order requires everyone to have is contraceptive,” Phasma explained, seeing through her visor of Nova’s changed expression to more confusion. “The First Order came to a rule of reducing the chance of unwanted pregnancies and births years ago, and formed a yearly cycled shot that prevents either gender, or others, to produce offsprings to tie back to them. In short, it restricts females from getting pregnant, and males to get others pregnant. No breeding, just pleasure.”

Nova frowned and Phasma was quick to notice this. “This would happen between consenting individuals who both want to be pleased sexually,” she clarified with a sigh.

“So, it’s not prostitution?” Nova asked. “I know what that is, when one is paying the other for service that can leave them both satisfied…”

“No, it’s part of being in a romantic relationships...mostly. Or, it’s just a mutual agreement with no strings attached,” the Captain explained further, a sort of amused tone in her usual strict and direct voice.

“Do you do that?”

Watching Phasma remove her helmet, Nova didn’t miss how the Captain had a sort of smirk on her pale lips while pushing her pale blonde hair away. Wiping her chin before answering, Phasma seemed to have thought it over rather carefully. “Yes, whenever there is a chance for me to relax from my duties, I have a partner who I share intimate, physical moments with; I trust them with my needs, as they also trust me with theirs, although we don’t particularly need to worry about keeping up to the medbay protocol of contraceptives.”

“So, you do not think of those particular images and thoughts, like some of the others do?” Nova tilt her head when the Captain bit back a laugh, seeing her shake her head.

“I just happen to have my thoughts set on more important matters, is all. My job comes first to me, then does my own pleasure. I do enjoy the times I’m able to spend with a partner or even by myself.”

Nova slowly nodded, her gaze looking away from her companion and down to her hands resting on her lap. Phasma seemed to notice her curious-yet-unsure behavior, cautiously raising a gloved hand to rest on Nova’s shoulder, making her blink and look back to meet her blue eyes.

“You’re thinking of something negative?” Phasma guessed in a rather mute tone, yet Nova knew that there was a hint of concern. That little bit was enough to make Nova give her a tiny smile, yet her eyes were still empty.

“Where I came from, slaves could have been used for Masters’ pleasures, if that’s what they’re...made or used for. They probably have protection from conceiving or impregnating, I’m not sure,” Nova explained. “Although, anything else doesn’t apply. When the time comes for the owner to...make arrangements for their slaves to produce more for the planet’s system for profits and income, slaves don’t really get a choice. They either comply or die, there’s no such thing as pleasure for them; it’s rather unknown to me to know the feelings you’re speaking of.”

“It isn’t for everyone, Nova, and that is perfectly okay,” Phasma informed her. “Just know that it has to have all consent from both or more parties. You have to allow someone to touch you the way you want now, no one has possession over you.”

Feeling the squeeze on her shoulder, Nova looked to see Phasma giving her a careful look. Nova could see and hear the faint whispers of Phasma regarding Kylo’s name and image by her much smaller height, nothing unusual or romantic between the two in the image, yet there was comfort in Phasma’s thoughts. Nova’s eyes went wide as she looked back down, yet Phasma didn’t find any rudeness in her acquaintance’s behavior. Instead, Phasma placed her helmet back on and stood up.

“Alright, now it’s your turn for evaluation, little one,” the Captain said in her usual, authoritative tone. “Stand straight, now, and hold out your arms. You’re also due for vaccinations and a physical for this cycle. I have yet to fail to turn someone in as scheduled, and I’m not about to start now. Don’t think about trying to hide off somewhere, you know I’ll have the droids find you for me.”

Nova couldn’t help but smile at the idea, hopping to her feet and ready to be examined by the Captain before her first physical.

“Mm, no, try moving a little bit to the left,” Nova mumbled cautiously, trying to tilt the large, oval mirror a bit while BB-9E bleeped in response and rolled in the direction. In its extended rod-limb, a smaller handheld mirror flickered in the reflection of the other, showing the backside of Nova’s skin. “And tilt it up a little...there, hold it there, please.”

BB-9E beeped in understanding and held the mirror as Nova fixed her piece of mirror to eye the circular bruises the size of a credit coin peppered along her right backside. The injections for the vaccinations and immunizations didn’t hurt, yet she was advised by the medbay staff that bruising can occur and should check them for any unusual discoloring. A part of Nova wasn’t too sure what kind of discoloring she should look out for (being that she never really had vaccinations in her lifetime until now), but Phasma made certain that BB-9E specifically would alert her for anything she should check with the medbay nurses. Despite being only an astromech droid, it seems that Nova is discovering that this particular droid does a whole lot more than just manage small repairs and join in TIE Freighters with pilots.

Nova counted seven circular bruises below the line of her scar, along with five more above, closer to her neck. They looked normal to her, nothing out of the ordinary of her own body healing itself…

However, it was what the medbay doctor told her before being allowed to leave. As regulations for all the other patients old enough, the doctors listed off the possibilities of needing to return to the ward as they attempt to promote ‘safe sex’, as Phasma explained for the apprentice to understand.

Wearing the sports bra that went behind her neck and ran thinly across her back torso, leaving more of her skin exposed than normal. Her whole backside to low on her hips (where her silk undergarments were expensive and soft), her belly and a hint of the valley between her breasts were also exposed. On normal circumstances, Nova wouldn’t mind lacking coverage within her slightly chilled quarters but today...she wasn’t in the best of moods to see herself.

Reaching behind, her fingertips brushed the bottom edge of the large, obvious diagonal scar and the other little, faint ones that followed it. How many times she had to endure stitches and patches of cloth stuck to her skin from injury or attacks, she lost count; any further of dealing with bruises, slivers and illnesses, Nova was now starting to feel it all coming to weigh down on her shoulders. The weight of her self-consciousness starting to pick at her mind as she dropped the mirror she was holding to the plushed rug with muted eyes while biting her bottom lip.

Images of how clean, flawless from scars and marks of skin being held and admired erupted into her thoughts. How the officers’ thoughts of being ogled at and praised for having such pretty hair, eyes, skin, clothes...being looked at like those fancy, rich attendees to the arena with their beauty and high lives when she didn’t.

“Thank you, Niney,” she said after a minute of staring at nothing ahead. “I’ll check how they are in the next cycle. You can leave now.”

BB-9E whirred a moment before placing the small mirror up to the table nearby before rolling off to let itself out of her quarters, leaving her be as she groped the flesh of her backside.

‘That’s just how it is,’ she told herself simply, swallowing down her negative emotions. ‘That’s just how my body is. Let the past die, it won’t...it won’t mean anything anymore. It’s just skin, no matter how torn up and unusual to the sight.’

Fingerprints that weren’t her own lightly touched her shoulders, making her blink out of her trance. Turning her chin to steal a glance to see Kylo watch his thumb trace the curve of her shoulder before lightly pushing the loose strands on the back of her neck before bending further down to press his lips against the back of her neck. Nova felt her chest tighten at the tickle of his breath against her skin, willingly leaning forward as his left arm carefully snaked around her waist, his palm against the soft skin of her belly. Biting her lip, she did her best to hold back her frustrated tears at her negative thoughts towards herself, feeling Kylo kiss behind her ear.

“I-I didn’t...I didn’t hear you come in,” she mumbled, feeling a bit flustered.

Kylo nuzzled her head gently. “The droid left when I entered,” he responded, his arm around her tightening just a bit as his mouth dropped to the side where the small, few bruises from the vaccinations were. His breath was hot against her skin, making her close her eyes at the contrast to her chilly room when he pressed a small kiss to one of the purple spots. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your appointment, I was training with Snoke until he sent me to the medbay. I just got done…”

“Oh.” Nova swallowed, feeling her chest flutter when he gave her shoulder another kiss, the pressure light on the bruise so it wouldn’t hurt or make her uncomfortable. Sitting up straighter, she tilt her head back to an angle and Kylo was quick to trail the light, butterfly kisses to the skin there, trailing to her jaw.

“Your thoughts were a bit loud, Nova,” Kylo murmured against her skin. “As soon as I got into the hall, within your shield, you were doubting yourself in appearance.”

“I’m sorry,” she frowned, feeling a small sliver the shame within her chest. Kylo’s lips pressed a firm kiss under her ear, humming against her.

“Don’t apologize,” he hushed her softly, carefully turning her chin to look at him sideways. “However, I highly disagree with your thoughts.”

Kissing the corner of her mouth, Kylo dipped his head down to the tip of the distinct scar on her back, lightly sucking on the skin with his lips only to avoid irritating the bruises. To Nova, he felt big and warm, and she couldn’t resist but to close her eyes and melt a bit his way for more attention. His voice soaked down to her bones that she unconsciously reached a hand up to tangle in his hair, just to feel the texture to ease her body even more. “You are more of a vision than you think yourself to be, Nova,” he said as his mouth ran along the scar on her back. He stopped at some point before reaching her shoulder blades in order to kiss the tiny, almost-invisible nics and spots that also decorated her skin.

“You have the most desirable skin, strong muscles that shows how determined you are,” Kylo spoke as the blood began rushing in her veins, watching her with half-lidded eyes as she willingly leaned forward to give him more access to her exposed back while he bent more to balance himself with his free hand on the floor. “Every time I get the honor of touching you with my bare hands or my mouth, I end up craving more. Your skin puts me at ease from any stress of the day.”

Once he made it across the expanse of her back, his mouth glued to her scar to the other end by the curve of her hip bone, Nova turned around on her knees to face him. Kylo was fluid and gentle to lift his head into her awaiting hands and allowed her to pull him close enough to connect their mouths in a slow, burning and passionate kiss. Liquid heat boiled in their bellies as Kylo pressed his hand on her lower back to bring her closer and have her hands hold on to him tight. Nova’s gentle nip to his lip and how Kylo’s tongue only gently caressed across her own was enough make her start to realize she was struggling to breathe, and Kylo was gentle enough to move along to trail kisses down her cheek to her jaw and neck.

Kylo gently cradled the back of her head, angling her head just right for him to lightly scrap his teeth against her neck, making her sigh deeply and unbend a leg from underneath to try and wrap around his hip. Prompting himself to lift her body and gently lay her down on the small rug underneath them, keeping his body carefully hovering over her to feel the heat radiating off his body in the chilly room. His hands caressing her sides and the curve of her outer thighs, Kylo reached back up and caught her mouth in a soft, promising kiss that made Nova’s fingers begin to feel tingly.

“Listen to me, my darling,” he whispered against her lips, his nose brushing along the curve of her face before suckling on her pulse. She couldn’t help but release a soft sigh when he carefully bit the skin, her legs wrapped around him with a sort of curious eagerness and tug at his roots for him to groan in return.

A heavy breath against her neck. ‘A work of art…’

Nova’s eyes broke open in a pleasured haze at the soft, gentle voice being whispered to her within the Force. Hearing Kylo, seeing and feeling him overtake her senses in reality and beyond of what she knew of her abilities made her feel all sorts of new sensations under her skin and along every cell and vein in her body that made her toes curl and shiver delightfully. Bumping noses rather affectionately, she couldn’t resist her big smile at seeing Kylo’s smirk before catching her in a quick kiss before returning to his plan of affectionate attack.

‘Radiant, beautiful,’ Kylo continued while his lips trailed soft, gentle kisses along her collarbone and down her sternum. One hand holding her wrist of the hand tangled in his hair while the other trailed down her spine, feeling every sort of scar tissue on his fingertips while lightly nipping the soft skin of her abdomen. ‘Absolutely perfect in every way.’

Nova had to take a deep breath, leaning her head back on the plushed rug and closing her eyes to focus on the feel of his warm body pressed against her and his soft lips kissing her skin. The strands of his hair tickling her the closer he got to the hem of her underwear caused her to gently run her thumb over the curve of his ear hidden, earning another small, hidden smile from him.

‘Every inch of you, every mark,’ Kylo breathed deeper, making Nova bite her lip, ‘so alluring and addicting…’

Lifting both of her thighs over his shoulders, Nova projected her desire and need for him to keep going, how her heart was beating against her chest with new adrenaline that she’s never experienced before and wanted - needed more. Being handled this way as a delicate, yet wanted being was enough to make her feel dizzy.

“No,” Kylo spoke against her pelvic bone, making her shake with need in places she never knew existed inside her body. “I don’t want you, Nova, I need you. Without you, I wouldn’t be experiencing what I’m feeling...I can not see myself being without you. I need you.”

A noise slipped from her lips, peeking at him to see the hot, flaming fire within Kylo’s dark eyes. She felt intoxicated by him, willingly allowing him to take control and continue to make her feel good. “I need you, too,” she slurred, her fingers slipping down his face, letting him tangle their hands to kiss each of her knuckles, refusing to break eye contact with her.

Kissing the back of her hand with purpose, Kylo trailed a pathway around her belly with little nips and gently suckles. His hands massaging the outside of her thighs with the most careful treatment and delicate touches that was reserved for royalty: respected, well-loved, worshipped as fine jewels or silks. Nova closed her eyes once more and bit her lip when she felt him lick by her belly button, caught between liking and questioning the sensation that made her cheeks burn.

Words bubbled in Nova’s mind, muddled with the wall she had protecting them both from the invisible, outside world. Kylo’s warmth was becoming intoxicating and overpowering her at this point, feeling an unusual chill in the back of her spine with how slow his fingers trailed before cupping under her knees to spread her legs further apart. His mouth a feather-touch to her lower belly before finally sucking the small dip of skin between her pelvis and thigh, making her jump in surprise.

Her fingers digging into the rug underneath her, Kylo’s nose nudging so close to her most intimate part that she felt like she was so close to passing out…

Kylo pressed his lips to the ghastly carved ‘X’ on her inner thigh, the kiss so gentle and meaningful that made Nova let out a frightened shout with what emerged in her thoughts.

Forceful green eyes with dirty blond hair. A hand around her throat while the other grabbed at the fresh scar still pulsing blood in a sort of dominated attitude that brought sudden tears to her eyes.

She felt overpowered, unable to do anything to protect herself from the man she knew she killed. The possible outcome what would happen, if she didn’t use the Force. The way her life was suppose to be without her mysterious abilities hidden away inside her. The brute reality that Nova didn’t want.

Nova became frightened…

Propping herself on her elbows as quick as she could, feeling out of breath, Nova came face-to-face with her beloved as his eyes were just as round as her own. Her bottom lip on the verge of piercing from being bitten between her teeth, her sobs stuck in her throat as Kylo swallowed and carefully put her legs off his shoulders and sit up. Breaking eye contact, Nova was forced to watch Kylo push his hair away from his face and recollect himself better, taking calming breaths.

“K-Kylo,” Nova stuttered, feeling a tear slip down her cheek. “Kylo, I-I - I don’t know w-what -”

Kylo cautiously held her face with both hands, brushing the tear away with the most gentle stroke. “Shhh,” he urged her, a hint of desperation in his eyes that made her hiccup. Leaning forward, he kissed the middle of her sweaty forehead. “You’re alright. You’re safe here, I’ll stop.”

“N-no, it’s not - I didn’t want -!”

“I’ll be in my quarters when you’re ready for bed,” he told her softly, nowhere near the deep, seductive tone he had before, the voice that was making her melt into something else. “I need to bathe, but you take all the time you need and I’ll be ready for us to sleep.”

Watching him stand to his feet, Nova was too stunned of herself to say anything more as Kylo left through the steel chamber doors. Sitting up straight, she eyed the soft blemishes and wet spots on her body made from Kylo’s mouth, her hand shakingly reaching to touch a spot on her hip bone. Her eyes and hands moving to her thigh, grasping the healed patch of her ‘X’ shaped scar, Nova’s mouth went to a fine line as hot tears slipped down her face while her thumb dug into her flesh. She huffed, yet couldn’t bring herself to react to how the chilly temperature in her quarters were cooling the sweat on her skin. She couldn’t find herself to react anymore…

She wanted Kylo back. She wanted him back to tell him that she didn’t want him to stop, that the way he was handling her with such care and desire made her feel good in ways she never thought was possible. The memory of the deceased slave who attempted to harm her was only a split second of her fear, only to focus solely on Kylo’s touch; his hands and kisses and just him reminding her that she no longer had to be afraid of anymore. As much as she was nervous and scared for Kylo to pamper her scarred skin and be so willing to take it further, Nova just wanted him to keep treating her nicely and make her feel good for once in her life…

To feel worth of the attention from someone she really adored and loved.

And now, holding her ghastly thigh with adrenaline boiling in her body in newly discovered places, Nova couldn’t hold back her frustrated growl and curled more into herself.

Remembering Phasma’s words, Nova felt herself become more irritated with herself than against Kylo:

‘You have to allow someone to touch you the way you want now, no one has possession over you.’

As she really knew her beloved’s intention - treating her as she is worthy for her own opinion, yet her frightening past seemed to make him resistant in pushing further, and it hurt Nova in more ways than one could describe.

Fun fact: I personally feel like Phasma doesn’t really care of the gender of her lover, yet takes precautions of safety. Physical intimacy wouldn’t be her upmost goal.

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Remember, if you would like to be tagged for future chapters, please don’t hesitate to message me! I’d be more than happy to add you. Thank you for reading and I hope to hear from you!

#pilotanonwrites #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #preludekylofic #reader insert #oc/reader insert

[kcwcommentary]

VLD1x04 – “Some Assembly Required”

1x04 – “Some Assembly Required”

This is probably my least favorite episode out of the first two seasons of the show, and I don’t like saying this, but it’s because of Allura. I really don’t like her arrogance and lack of empathy in this episode. I don’t like how the narrative tries to retcon it being her plan all along to unite the Paladins through their annoyance/anger against her. It’s not that that isn’t a viable plot – it’s certainly been done in other stories – it’s that this show makes it a whiplash heel-turn at the end. If the narrative of this episode had been openly setting that up so that we viewers knew she was doing that while the Paladins themselves didn’t, it would be totally different. The suddenness of her change from being overly demanding to pointing out how the team unified as a result of her being their common (temporary) antagonist is just too narratively dissonant.

This episode isn’t anywhere near all-bad though. It gives us Shiro doing pushups in his spare time.

Allura’s first rant is that they didn’t all get to the bridge fast enough for her fake red alert. Unless she has had a meeting with the team before hand to tell them that she needs for them to be ready to go on a moment’s notice, then it’s unrealistic and unfair to then complain that they weren’t ready and waiting on their own. Realistically, there are always degrees of alert status. And no one, for their own psychological health and well-being, can remain at red alert constantly. Now, if Allura had this expectation but was eventually called out on it by another/other character(s), or if the narrative resulted in her realizing on her own that this doesn’t work, then that would be a different story. As is, the narrative is written as if she were right when she’s not.

“Coran and I have been up for hours,” Allura declares. Congratulations. You’re not currently in an active combat situation, so there is this thing called duty shifts. Maybe this is a manifestation of unrealistic American society that perpetuates the idea that a person is supposed to be working constantly to the point of absolute exhaustion, but this is not sustainable. At the very least, unless it had been established among the crew that they needed to be on duty at a certain time, complaining that they were sleeping is just wrong.

Hunk tries to call Allura out and get her to recognize the significant change the Paladins have gone through from being students on Earth to being combat pilots in a universe-spanning war. Of course, Allura doesn’t even slightly try to empathize with them.

“Negative, Number 5. I have you ranked by height,” says Coran. I think this might be one of my favorite Coran jokes. I don’t remember us ever hearing him call any of the other Paladins by number though.

The sequence of the Paladins transitioning to their Lions makes the process look ridiculous. Allura was complaining about the amount of time it took the Paladins to get to the bridge, well then what about the amount of time it takes for them to get from there to their Lions? That route/journey through the ship to get to each respective Lion is way too long and is indicative of poor engineering/ship design. Realistically, fighter pilots would be on duty near their craft, not on the bridge. And of course, this show has to make another, this time extended in duration, fat joke about Hunk.

Forming Voltron is put in terms of ill-defined feeling-like-a-team, and not a mechanical process. If that is indeed how Alfor designed and built these ships, then that is bad design. I get it, the show wants to be about teamwork and the Lions forming Voltron works as a symbol that the characters are functioning as a team. It might be written in poetics, but only being able to access higher functions of a computer system/weapon when you have well-running psychology is not realistic.

I like the call-back to “I’m a leg!” from the previous episode.

“Shiro’s the head!” Keith says aggressively. “All the time?” Hunk responds. It hurts to hear Keith being so supportive of Shiro and his position of leader, knowing that this show unceremoniously rips Shiro from that position and tosses him aside.

“Feel the bonds with your Lions. Now channel your energy into forming Voltron.” This non-defined “energy” is definitely in my list of disliked tropes in fiction. It is cheap writing wrapped in pretentiousness as if it’s profound.

Allura’s callous decision to attack the Lions without prepping them for such an assignment is bad leadership. “…and inspiring you! I believe in you, Paladins. Let fear be your guide,” she says. This is ridiculous. This isn’t how you get people to trust in you and your leadership. She’s blatantly proclaiming, all with a smile on her face and a laugh in her voice, that she wants them to feel afraid for their lives. That is a dangerously dissonant perspective for her to have. Again, if this episode was about her learning to not do these kinds of things, I could be okay with this, but the episode treats her behavior as if it’s right.

Meanwhile, Zarkon is a tyrant. Haggar is creepy. They’re cartoon villains.

The Paladins are taking a break, and Allura gets annoyed. Actual training requires breaks, but Allura acts like that’s an absurd idea. Unfortunately, the show tries to assert the idea that no one is allowed breaks through Shiro in this scene too. Ugh!

Second reference to Shiro as “the Champion.” I like that the show uses several episodes to build up to the reveal that Shiro had to fight gladiatorially to survive.

On to the training deck. First up, the protect your teammates from drone attacks. Given that Hunk is surprised that his suit can create a shield, clearly the team was not prepped for this exercise before-hand. This is not how training actually works (it’s almost like it’s become an unintentional theme with this episode). Then, the invisible maze. The maze sets up its being used in later episodes by Pidge as a defensive maneuver against attacking Galra sentries and to provide a cloaking system for the Green Lion (why she never installed a similar cloaking system on all of their Lions is baffling). I think there could have been so much more to the maze scene; it had the elements needed to actually put some character development in the episode.

Back in the Lions, nosedive. “This is an expert-level drill that you really shouldn’t attempt until you’ve been flying for years,” Coran says. If that truly is so, then, again, this is not how training works. Also, if Coran can remotely black out a Paladin’s helmet so they can’t see, then that system can be hacked; it’s a point of vulnerability for them if some outside influence can make them suddenly unable to see.

The animation sequence of Shiro and the Black Lion’s eyes and faces aligning was a really nice visual way of representing the psychic connection possible between a Lion and pilot.

Then we have the clear-your-mind scene that gives us holographic displays of what each Paladin is thinking about. This scene does some characterization work. Keith thinks most about his small home in the middle of nowhere back on Earth. Lance thinks about his family. Hunk thinks about food, which honestly is not characterization work but borders again on a fat joke. Pidge’s image of her and her brother, which at this point because of the dialog regarding that photo between Hunk and Pidge in the first episode we’re supposed to interpret as Pidge and a girlfriend, juxtaposed to Coran’s narration about not keeping secrets is sign that we’re supposed to realize what we think we know about that image isn’t correct. And Shiro is focused on the Galaxy Garrison and its space missions; his deep desire to be an explorer is so endearing! If this visualization training has been available this entire time, then this is precisely where the team’s training to form Voltron should have begun, and they shouldn’t have progressed to actually attempting to actively form Voltron until they were successful at this exercise. Working on this exercise first would have been realistic training.

“I’m just… I’m just tired, okay?” Pidge says (with really good voice acting!). And Shiro (unlike in the previous break scene) recognizes the appropriate need for a break. I so love the animation of Shiro sitting cross-legged on the floor with this look of adorable curiosity on his face about the beverage that Coran hands him. Even Coran in this scene recognizes the need for a break. But…

In walks ridiculous Allura who yells at them. That Allura was a dictator in that alternate reality in 3x04 “A Hole in the Sky” is entirely plausible given how she behaves here. Juxtaposed with Zarkon in this episode, she and he have a lot in common. If Allura had been like this for the whole show, I would not have been able to stand her.

Now to fighting the Gladiator. Shiro’s PTSD results in his going up against the Gladiator triggering traumatic memories of him fighting for his life against Galra sentries, distracting him and letting the Gladiator nearly get him. Keith comes to his defense (I love their friendship!). It’s nice that at least someone has enough interpersonal insight to be able to see that something happened to Shiro. But then Allura again. Ugh! “That combat simulator was set for a level fit for an Altean child,” she says. Several things, one, she failed to notice Shiro’s psychological distress, two, I don’t see her demonstrating she’s capable of hand-to-hand combat and thus in any way credible to critique others’ fighting skills, three, she’s being beyond arrogant here. These Paladins are humans, not Alteans, so even if that combat was what Altean children do then it still has nothing to do with what humans are capable of. A good leader would easily recognize this. And again, if this episode was about showing Allura having to grow as a leader through recognizing the capabilities and limits of this team and adjusting herself to better work with that, then the episode could have been good. But the episode never calls her out as wrong on any of this. As much as she complains that the Paladins aren’t working as a team, she herself never demonstrates herself as capable of being a team-player.

We get our first look at a Robeast in this episode. It’s just a bit, and it’s nice seeing the show being willing to pace itself with action from the antagonists given how out-of-control the show’s pacing is in the last two or three seasons of the show.

And finally, the food fight scene. “Do Earthlings ever stop complaining?” Allura asks. I don’t know about Earthlings, but Allura certainly doesn’t ever stop complaining. Shiro starts the process of calling her out on it, but unfortunately the narrative is written to make Allura right. Again, if this had been written so that we knew she was trying to get them to bond through their anger at her, then it would work better. Instead, the reveal is sudden and only here at the end, written almost more to excuse her behavior than to explain it. As is, it’s a failure of narrative structure and a disservice to Allura’s character.

#voltron legendary defender #voltron #vld #voltron criticism #vld criticism #voltron critical #vld critical #vld season 1 #vld 1x04 #commentary

[killingthebuddha]

“All of us become pilgrims at one time or another, even though we may not give ourselves the name.” –Richard Niebuhr

PJ, who presides over Dublin’s dusty shop Sweny’s, has read Joyce’s Ulysses 51 times in 6 different languages. Over a dark pint of Guinness, with the mist from the glass melting on his fingertips, PJ speaks about the lines from the book that are making his pulse race that minute. He doesn’t try to persuade you of their sacredness or its genius. He just smiles slightly, revealing coffee-stained and wayward teeth, and nods as he cites whole paragraphs. PJ loves Joyce. To PJ, Sweny’s, the shop where Leopold Bloom bought lemon soap for his wife Molly in Joyce’s epic, is an invaluable relic of Joyce’s Dublin, and he would do anything to protect its legacy. Even as rent steadily increases, PJ continues to sell bars of lemon soap in the chemist’s shop, now cluttered with old photographs, various editions of Ulysses, and hundreds of small glass bottles. PJ says with a wry smile, “the soap cleans the body while the book corrupts the mind.” 

Every year on June 16, the same date that marked Leopold Bloom’s walk around Dublin in 1904, a host of literary pilgrims visit the city to pay tribute to Joyce. Sweny’s was a sacred stop on the tour for people I met last Bloomsday, people who came from Australia, Japan, Bosnia, South Korea, the United States, Germany, Spain, Argentina, England, France, and Switzerland. 

In the Catholic tradition of pilgrimage, a location that is considered sacred is often referred to as a “thin place,” a place where the space between heaven and earth wanes, and becomes rarefied or thin. Such places typically mark the site of a saint’s ascension, a miraculous act, or some epiphanic moment. In other religions, places may be considered sacred because they have been saturated with meaning by God. What might a thin place be in a conversation about literary pilgrimage? Perhaps where the distance between an author’s imagination and a reader’s lived reality narrows and eventually collapses. And where the human being who generated meaning in the place—the author, the artist, the genius—begins to acquire divine status. Joyce certainly seems to assume deific qualities every year on Bloomsday as devotees travel to Dublin and re-enact the events from Bloom’s life, visit the places he walked, and read excerpts of Ulysses aloud.

In the home I grew up in, we consider all books sacred, and one of my family’s South Indian traditions has become practically reflexive for me. When someone accidentally drops a book or grazes one with a foot, we place our hand on the cover and gently touch our closed eyelids. We thus symbolically ask forgiveness for treating a book with inadvertent disregard. My parents instilled in me a deep appreciation for written words. Literary pilgrimage provides an opportunity to reflect on that appreciation, and on what happens when it extends beyond an individual gesture to a collective expression of reverence. Why do people become dedicated to one author, or one text? And how does that dedication evolve from fleeting infatuation to persistent devotion? 

Last summer, on a quest to reckon with these questions, I attended the Bloomsday festival, which is primarily organized by the James Joyce Center on Dublin’s North Great George’s Street. Deirdre Ellis-King, the chair of the board of the James Joyce Center, notes that the center is committed to providing “different points of entry” into the text, be it “music and song, drama, costume, or food.” The entry points Ellis-King referred to are visible throughout Dublin on Bloomsday. As I walked down North Great George’s Street, people were dressed for the trends of 1904—most men sported black top hats, and carried walking sticks, while women donned petticoats, lace gloves, and parasols. One man even tipped his hat, saluted me, and said with a melancholic tinge, “what a shame, poor fellow, Paddy Dignam,” referencing the character whose funeral in Ulysses occurs on June 16. 

When I arrived at Davy Byrne’s, a central pub in the novel, I witnessed a joyful uproar of Irish anthems and songs from the book. There were productions of Ulysses all over Dublin, from the Abbey’s adaptation of the entire epic to the Bewley Café’s staged reading of Molly Bloom’s monologue, and her famed finale, “and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.” There were pub crawls across Dublin, not to mention food tours that took visitors down Bloom’s bizarre trajectory of consumption, from kidneys for breakfast to gorgonzola sandwiches and burgundy for lunch. All these events were meant to challenge the notion that Ulysses ought to be abstruse and abstract for readers. Bloomsday participants come with varying levels of Ulysses knowledge, but even if you haven’t read the book, you can still down a pint or digest a kidney. 

Sam Slote, a professor at Trinity College Dublin, who has organized an academic symposium on Ulysses, cites Joyce’s remark, “If I can get to the heart of Dublin, I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world.” Slote comments that in order “to get to the heart of Dublin, Joyce represents the city in all its specificities.” In this way, he “gets to everywhere else and all their specificities.” Deirdre Ellis-King agrees, remarking that “Joyce and Dublin are synonymous, it’s any-man and every-man, you could be in any city in the world and enjoy the same kind of experiences of the streetscape.” Paradoxically, by being so precise, the text becomes universal. This stylistic technique is analogous to the character of Bloom. “It’s not that every man likes kidneys for breakfast, but every man has his particularities,” Slote says. It is in this way that Ulysses speaks to any reader, any person in motion, any pilgrim—not in the specifics of every human being, but in the specificity with which any human being can be represented. No one is special. Everyone is special. Stephen Dedalus, the other main character in the novel, has a line, “every life is many days, day after day.” This could be the motto for not only the epic, but also the festival commemorating June 16—any day, in any life, could be Bloomsday. The annual convergence of time and place restores significance to every ordinary and individual encounter, to every overlooked dollop of time. 

Jessica Yates, who oversees the Bloomsday festival and manages the James Joyce Center, tells me she “converted” to Joyce (her word) because of Bloomsday.  Unlike people who embark on a pilgrimage to honor the text they love, Yates casually went out to a pub on Bloomsday eleven years ago without any prior knowledge of Ulysses. It was there that she met “someone special,” and they set out on a project to read Ulysses before their first anniversary. She says with a trill of laughter, “I got so into Bloomsday.”      

She recommends I sit in on one of the storied reading circles at Sweny’s. I do, and am struck by the variety of voices present. Some readers sit with a cane or walker leaning against theirs chairs, and others sprint over to the shop after class. As Joycean phrases echo in the small confines of Sweny’s, I hear accents from Argentina, South Korea, and France. One Dubliner named Paddy has been attending the reading circle on and off for about a decade. Paddy wears long trousers, a light blue button down shirt, and round reading glasses. He seems serious, but he also has a toothy grin. While some wanderers came into the bookshop after one or two beers, Paddy arrives early, eager to pour over the text he deems so valuable. He has read the book in 6-month cycles about ten or eleven times—he can’t recall exactly. He views Ulysses as a vessel through which he can access his own ancestors, a thin place with miraculous possibility. He explains, “I am from Dublin. My parents, my grandparents too. I have no non-Irish connections. I think I am deeply of Dublin, and there are few books deeply of Dublin. Ulysses is one of them.” He explains why the book resonates with him emotionally by pointing to its melodic qualities: “There is a music in the language, a rhythm in the speech. I can hear my parents who are now dead, my grandparents who are now dead, I can hear them talking, when I read it, I can hear their voices.” 

Yet another regular at Sweny’s is Finon, a former student at Trinity College. He has been attending readings of Ulysses for four years, and he loves how Sweny’s regulars move “in a loop,” how the book itself is like a “carousel, no fun unless you get to do the whole thing.” “After all,” he chuckles, “if you haven’t finished, it’s not worth the money.” Like many sacred texts, Ulysses contains philosophical reflections, surprising imagery, and beautiful poetry. And like many religious holidays, which draw pilgrims from all over the world to a holy site, Bloomsday too, according to Finon, becomes a “spawning day,” to which “a lot of people return.” Both re-reading and pilgrimage are rituals of returning.

Attempts to disavow the sacred aspects of the festival sometimes sound inadvertently religious. When Finon describes the goal of Bloomsday, he seems a bit like a defensive missionary: “The attempt to popularize the text is really an attempt to create an invitation into it. I mean nobody’s looking to actively spread it onto people, but to keep it as welcoming as possible.” Similarly, Jessica Yates says she wants to get people excited about the text, but she insists, “I don’t want to impose it on everyone.” They are enthusiasts who hesitate to proselytize.

Indeed, Professor Slote of Trinity College Dublin notes with a hint of smug amusement that many people were asking him what he thought of Bloomsday from a scholarly perspective and he was “about to say something,” until he realized, “I’m not going to be this guy.” It would be understandable, from an academic standpoint, to scoff at some of what unfolds. For starters, many of the most devoted participants have never read the book. Take John, the James Joyce lookalike who has stood outside the James Joyce Center every June 16 for the last seven years. He carries a cane, and wears a black top hat, a suit, a healthy gray moustache and a tiny square beard. He peers through large circular spectacles, and takes photographs with tourists. Originally a hat-maker, John grew up in Dublin. He explains the mass of people at the James Joyce Center in an assured tone: “People don’t have to be readers to enjoy Bloomsday, people just like the association.” When I asked John what he thought when he read Ulysses for the first time, his eyes stretched open, and he raised his brows: “Read it? I wrote it!” I smiled, and he conceded, “I’m afraid I didn’t read it.”

For Joyce, a writer who said that if “Ulysses isn’t worth reading, then life isn’t worth living,” John’s confession could be considered blasphemous. But returning to Professor Slote’s less judgmental perspective, it’s unnecessary to “be that guy” who reads and analyzes Ulysses in order to have a genuine relationship with the text. Slote analogizes criticism of Bloomsday to what “we have in America—the [rhetoric of the] war against Christmas … the secularization of Bloomsday is not a bad thing.” 

Is Bloomsday a sign that the religion of Joyce is somehow being compromised, challenged, thinned out in the public’s touristic, commercial and dangerously superficial imagination? Or is Bloomsday’s existence reaffirming the sacredness of Ulysses to its readers? After all, not everyone who travels to Lourdes has read the Bible, and not everyone who journeys to Mecca has read the Qur’an. The mastery of a text is not necessary, or at the very least, not a prerequisite for meaningful motivations. Pilgrimage provides a different kind of proof of faith.

As Slote elaborates on not wanting to be the Grinch of Bloomsday, he says, Bloomsday “is not a bad thing—usually it falls on nice, sunny weather,” and it’s “a pleasant excuse to have a bit of a lark.” He concurs with the organizers of the Bloomsday festival that it’s good to get people interested, and even though he says “my job is generally not to think about popularizing Ulysses,” he believes offering various points of entry for readers is noble. He elaborates on Joyce’s mission with Ulysses: “While it is a book that is studied at universities, it’s not just for those people. It has a wider audience. The way culture has moved, these things tend to be more academicized, [and] something like [Bloomsday] is a good counterbalance.”

Leslie Daugherty, from the North Side of Dublin, plays Leopold Bloom in the James Joyce Center productions of Ulysses, and he agrees that the so-called “secularization” of Joyce is a good thing. He describes the text as “a fabulous read,” but takes issue with some of the academics who treat Ulysses with the wrong kind of “reverence,” effectively “making Ulysses unattainable.” He objects to the notion that Ulysses is for “the posh people,” and shook his head as he said, in a throaty voice, “No. Ulysses is for everyone who has a mind of his own.” 

 Marty, a man from Donegal, Ireland, who is a marketing and events coordinator at the James Joyce Center, first encountered Joyce when he read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and he says with a chuckle that “a lot of teenage Catholic dudes in Ireland identified with it.” He describes being deeply moved by the part where Stephen is called to the priesthood but says, instead, that he is an artist. The tensions between religious tradition, devotion, expectation, and the inclination towards the life of an artist resonate with Marty. 

Leopold Bloom, Ulysses, and Bloomsday itself are all fraught with similar tensions. Bloom is a man who loves his wife and preaches love but deceives her and behaves disloyally. Ulysses contains styles that contradict and challenge one another—clean prose, experimental stream-of-consciousness, advertisement jargon, and saccharine romantic-novel satire. Bloomsday has attendees who have read the text 51 times and people who have never heard of Joyce. The idea of “literary pilgrimage,” too, brims with ambiguity. Are books meant to be read, or to be revered? And does a book find its meaning in an isolated experience, or in a collective celebration? 

In 1996, Jonathan Franzen revised an essay initially published as “The Harper’s Essay” and retitled it “Why Bother.” In it, Franzen laments the demise of a reading-culture, and describes his “despair about the American novel.” He writes about one novel he read in reverent prose, marking his gratitude “that someone besides me had suffered from these ambiguities and had seen light on their far side—that Fox’s book had been published and preserved; that I could find company and consolation and hope in an object pulled almost at random from a bookshelf—felt akin to an instance of religious grace.” The experience of literature, of reading as an act of worship, is often seen as an individual one, as it is in this passage. Indeed, the collection for which Franzen revised his essay is called How to be Alone. 

 Yet Bloomsday’s beauty is in its social activity. As many literary pilgrims have pointed out, Joyce wanted his text to be democratic. The point of Bloomsday is for “any man and every man,” and the text is about bringing reverence to our everyday. Ulysses itself, in various bodily and granular descriptions elevates the profane to an esteemed status. For example, in one instance, Joyce satirically describes a man seated at the foot of a large tower as a “broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong-limbed, frank-eyed, red-haired, freely-freckled, shaggy-bearded, wide-mouthed, large-nosed, long-headed, deep-voiced, bare-kneed, brawny-handed, hair-legged, ruddy-faced, sinew-armed hero.” And just as Joyce plays with his characters, gifting them gallant qualities (albeit in a sardonic tone), so does Bloomsday toy with its visitors and their expectations, until people find communion in a collective, at times gimmicky, at times reverent experience. Ulysses motivates its readers enough that they want to change their physical circumstances, embark on an embodied passage, and develop another vantage-point—beyond the systems of logic and reason that we so often subscribe to. The book inspires people to find one another, to derive solace and soul, from an admittedly kooky community. This somewhat paradoxical combination of the sacred and the irreverent is what permeates Dublin on Bloomsday. There are pub crawls and exclamations of Joycean passages made shriller by grand glasses of Guinness. But there is also something reminiscent of what we see in churches and memorials—pilgrims, persons in motion—seeking answers, inspired by something that has no neat ending, maybe realizing as they wander, that they too, will never be complete. 

Despite all the ambiguity and insecurity that is present when one sets out on a pilgrimage, there is also a yearning. People embark on a pilgrimage in search of something, be it healing, obligation, or understanding. And whether it is religious or literary pilgrimage, we can discover havens in vagrancy the way we do in words. As Franzen puts it, “to write sentences of such authenticity that refuge can be taken in them: Isn’t this enough? Isn’t it a lot?” There are not often clear answers in literature, but when paragraphs protect you, it doesn’t so much matter, does it? There are not clear lines drawn between the drawbacks and merits of Bloomsday either. Tourist Destination or Holy Site? One could easily say that the merits of Bloomsday are inits campiness, its accessibility, and its rendering a “thin place” palpable to readers. Franzen ends his essay with the image of a character discovering in a broken ink bottle “both perdition and salvation.” He writes, at peace without real resolution, “The world was ending then, it’s ending still, and I’m happy to belong to it again.”

Finon, one of the regular members of the Sweny’s reading circle, also embraces contradiction in Bloomsday. He believes that the festival is meaningful, but remarks with a knowing smirk that “on Bloomsday people like to drink and eat strange meat … [but] no one’s really talking about metempsychosis” (a concept of great significance in the novel). Finon asks if I had read Station Island by Seamus Heaney when I press him on the benefits and caveats of literary pilgrimage. I answer that I have not. He is keen to explain, “it’s a poem about revisiting a Catholic pilgrimage site, a catholic shrine …based on the idea that St. Patrick had a vision of purgatory there.” Finon outlines the context of the poem. “He was revisiting the place as a secularized figure … returning to a place he no longer believed in.” This raises an interesting question within a framework of literary pilgrimage. Is it possible to have a jarring return to a place you have lost faith in if all you have lost faith in is the sanctity of the literature (and not, for instance, the existence of God?) 

In Heaney’s poem, various characters appear from disparate significant moments in the history of Ireland. And at the “dead center,” Finon narrates in a thrilled whisper, “he meets the ghost of the dead James Joyce.” Heaney doesn’t name him. He refers only to the storied image of Joyce that impersonators and photographers and readers and writers have memorialized for a century: a tall man with a cane, and the voice of a singer. Heaney writes that the figure held out his hand— “whether to guide or be guided I could not be certain,” because the man seemed blind. In this poem, an itinerant soul reckons with the loss of meaning in a formerly faithful location. That a hero of literature, a genius, artist, poet, is ambiguous in his leadership—that it is unclear whether he wants to lead or be led, demonstrates the deterioration and dismantling of Joyce as an idol, of Joyce as a God. Here Joyce’s hand is “fish-cold and bony,” and the onlooker knows him “in the flesh …wintered hard and sharp as a blackthorn bush.” This is a weathered, human being, a worn body, tired, old, nothing divine or eternal-seeming about him. 

In many ways, this encounter could represent the ultimate challenge, a revisiting and reckoning with the sacred ground on which a metaphorical shrine to Ulysses was erected. In Station Island the character of Joyce does not seem wholly self-assured. He says, “your obligation / is not discharged by any common rite. / What you do you must do on your own … You’ve listened long enough. Now strike your note.” In this imagination of Joyce, the source of Ulysses’s genius, is not, on the surface, a divine force, because he feels entirely human. Yet, isn’t there something god-like in the command to strike out alone, to stop “listening,” and to embrace a new “rite”?

Considering Joyce as a simultaneously godly and ghostly figure is pertinent to the paradoxes of Bloomsday. Finon notes some logical dilemmas he observed on June 16 every year: “It’s a strange map in itself. I came to the real pub where a fictional character didn’t set foot. I came to the place where nobody bought the bar of soap. (laughs) It’s quite odd.”

Nonetheless, it seems hard to contend with the fact that Ulysses renders Dublin “a thin place.” It is the destination for wandering minds and bodies to relish and find refuge in words that feel mimetic of reality: the ugly, disturbing, devastating, and remedial stories that make up most of our lives. Letting Bloomsday be a thin place extracts communal joy from that solitary act of reading (or even of not-reading!) which can at times be isolating, and that private worship of Joyce, which can at times be embarrassing. A shared human soul pieced together from infinitely complex and individual particularities. One may plumb the mundane for miracles. 

Niebuhr describes pilgrims as people “passing through territories not their own—seeking something we might call completion, or perhaps the word clarity will do as well.” I was passing through a territory not my own, and when I walked the streets of Dublin on Bloomsday, I felt both spiritual and giddy. 

My very first interview, in the early morning of June 16, 2018, was with a couple from Trieste, and it felt like a moment of grace. I saw them loitering by the James Joyce Statue on the main street of the north side of Dublin. They were smiling and taking photos. It turned out that the man had read Ulysses as a young academic forty years ago. He matter-of-factly stated, “It was the text that inspired me to become a professor of literature.” As he spoke, his wife started laughing. I turned to her quizzically. She said, “Oh I’m sorry, it’s just my husband is really downplaying what this book means to him.” I asked her what she meant. “Well, when my first son was born—when I went into labor, what does my husband take along to the hospital? The thick fat book—Ulysses! He read it to me for twelve hours.” I turned to the man, now in his late 70s, a small smile playing on his lips, while a plum flush spread across his cheeks in patches. “Well,” he stuttered, “it’s sizzling…and brilliant…and so human.” This man wanted the very first words his son heard to be those of Joyce. What better anecdote could I have to demonstrate worship of this text? Yet, when I asked if he believed visiting Dublin for Bloomsday would lead to a more intimate understanding of Ulysses, he said, as his forehead creased slightly, “that would be too much, too big a claim.” His wife nodded knowingly. He added, “We’re here for more profane reasons.” 

Literature enables both profane pleasure and reverence. On Bloomsday, no one has to choose. 

#IFTTT #WordPress

[holocron-inthe-restrictedsection]

A Parting of the Ways

An on-time Writing Wednesday for @finish-the-clone-wars‘ prompt, “Let Me Convince You”

Words: 2975 (this became a lot longer than I meant it to be)

Those who are disillusioned want no part in the systems they break from. Nevertheless, Sifo-Dyas tries to keep his old friend, Dooku, from leaving the Jedi Order.

.

Sifo-Dyas’s boots fell hard against the floor as he hurried towards the temporary living quarters in the Temple’s southern side. He ignored the stares of his fellow Jedi as he passed them, not caring if they gossiped about him now, not when one of his closest friends was about to make a terrible mistake…

His breath came in short gasps as he slowed to round a corner. Once again, Sifo-Dyas made a note that he needed to refocus on his physical training; his endurance seemed to be failing him more frequently. He had become lax in his training since his dismissal from the Council; that had to end now. But perhaps the shortness of breath was tied to the tight feeling in his chest, the worry clenched in his heart.  

He reached the door he sought and came to a stop, breathing heavily, raising a hand to activate the control panel –

The door slid open. On the other side of the threshold, Dooku stared back at him. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than ever, his normally well-groomed white hair disheveled. His worn traveling cloak draped around him, and a satchel – looking rather light – was clutched in his hand.

“Don’t.” It was all Sifo-Dyas could say.

(Read more below, or continue reading on AO3)

Dooku’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Who told you?”

“Yoda. You would have left without saying anything to me?”

Dooku gave an irritated shake of his head. “It would have been easier. You should not have come,” he said shortly, brushing past Sifo-Dyas. His robes rippled around him as he strode away from the room, his back straight and eyes forward.

Sifo-Dyas matched his pace. “Dooku, you mustn’t do this.”

His old friend didn’t look at him. “I have made my decision.”

“It’s an unwise one,” Sifo-Dyas admonished. “I understand your frustrations with the Council, and with the Republic as a whole – you know I understand. But to leave the Order –”

“I cannot abide by it anymore,” Dooku interrupted. “The corruption in the Senate has led to the deaths of too many good people.” Contempt colored his deep voice as his words became clipped. “Conflicts that should be resolved within a matter of days or weeks are lengthened by years so that individuals may profit at the expense of millions. And the Council refuses to take the necessary actions to bring about a single cohesive government – we’ve become so negligent that we are at the Senate’s beck and call, rather than focusing on the roots of the evils we encounter on almost every mission. We –” He broke off with a scoff. “I’m repeating myself. You know my thoughts. You agree with many of them.”

Sifo-Dyas glanced at him uneasily as they walked, uncomfortably aware of the Jedi passing by. Anger radiated from Dooku like a reactor core, causing some of their more sensitive peers to turn and appraise them.

The smaller corridor they’d traveled down opened up into the central hall that ran through the heart of the Temple. The distant curved ceiling rose so far above their heads that it felt as though they’d stepped outside, sleek pillars rising on either side of them as tall as trees. Sculptures flanked various doorways, smooth stone capturing the essence of ancient Jedi Masters. Bright sunlight shone through the numerous windows, bathing them in warmth. The entrance courtyard lay honeycombed in pylons at the far end of the hall, and it was for that entrance that Dooku marched.

“I agree in principle, yes, my friend,” Sifo-Dyas admitted, his voice low and rushed, “but when it comes to the reality of the matter… the sort of revival that you and I want for the Republic is one that will take time to create. We cannot just raze the current system. Palpatine seems like a good man. He may be able to reign in the Senators, instill a new expectation of what the Senate should be – ”

“Or he may end up being just another politician, and everything he has said to me about rebuilding the Republic is nothing more than empty words. And even if he isn’t, there is no guarantee he will be able to overhaul the current practices. And beings will continue to suffer.”

“Which is where our duty lies.” The’d arrived at the courtyard pylons, the capital sprawling beyond them. Sifo-Dyas halted and seized Dooku’s arm. The move was sudden enough that the older man was caught off guard and spun around to face him.

“As Jedi, we serve the Republic as a whole.” Sifo-Dyas met the stern man’s gaze and realized he was losing him. “I understand the appeal of leaving as a statement of disapproval of the politics of it all – but think of the people you have helped. Would you turn your back on them? On all the people you could help by continuing to serve? Countless missions, hundreds, thousands of beings across the galaxy who are alive and prospering because of you.”

Dooku wrenched his arm away. “And how many more are dead because of my actions?”

Sifo-Dyas hesitated, hearing something strange in Dooku’s voice. The other man’s dark eyes seemed distant, haunted, remembering something…

“Galidraan?”

The flinch was almost imperceptible, but Sifo-Dyas saw it.

Dooku said, mostly to himself, “It was a massacre.”

“You were deceived,” Sifo-Dyas responded gently. He remembered when Dooku had returned from the battle on Galidraan twelve years ago. Gaunt and silent, horror etched on his face, Dooku had retreated for weeks as he took leave to a secluded Temple in the outer rim to mediate. Sifo-Dyas had learned the details from Yoda when he joined the Council few years later. “It is in the past.”

“The Council took the governor at his word. We did not investigate the validity of his claims. And we killed more than three hundred True Mandalorians because of it.” The haunted look was replaced by something hard. “The Council did not learn from it,” Dooku said harshly. “They continue to take governments and leaders at their word, congratulating themselves on maintaining order without ever acknowledging their shortcomings.” Dooku’s expression softened fractionally. “It was their greatest mistake to remove you from their ranks, my old friend. You, at least, attempted to bring sense to their sessions.”

“Many of the younger members –”

“Will inevitably fall into the same false sense of security that has plagued us for decades.” Dooku’s tone was dismissive.

Sifo-Dyas shook his head insistently. “You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know they won’t. Even now, they won’t admit that the Order has grown arrogant, and that in their arrogance, new threats have risen from the darkness.”

Sifo-Dyas hesitated, sensing the grief welling within his friend as his gaze swept the vast expanse of the central south hall. The sunlight was beginning to fade, even though dusk was still several hours away. In the distance, he heard the low rumble of thunder.

“Qui-Gon consulted with me before he returned to Naboo,” Dooku said slowly. “He knew that his attacker was a Sith lord. But when he brought the evidence before the Council, they dismissed the idea. They said the Sith could not have returned without alerting the Order. But he knew. Qui-Gon was never wrong about such things. And still they sent him away with no support. They sent him to his death.” Ire coated his words. “And still they do not announce the return of the Sith.”

Sifo-Dyas tried to speak, but words failed him. Yes, the Council had not informed the Order, had not made public the knowledge that it had been a Sith that murdered the good-humored Jedi. But even as excuses and reasons came to mind, he knew that uttering them would mean nothing. Dooku needed a reason to stay…

“They’ve knighted his apprentice, Kenobi.”

“Qui-Gon spoke highly of him. I’m sure he will be a great Jedi.”

“He is young, and has much to learn. He could use your guidance.” From a pocket in his robes, Sifo-Dyas pulled out a curved lightsaber hilt and extended it. ‘Leave this life behind, he wants to,’ Yoda had said. ‘But a part of him, his lightsaber is. Leave behind a part of himself, he cannot.’

Dooku’s expression darkened as he gazed at his weapon. “My old Master does not want to let me go. But he fails to realize that he is one of the primary reasons I cannot stay.” His eyes refocused on Sifo-Dyas. “I have faith that Qui-Gon completed Obi-Wan’s training. There is nothing now that I could impart to the boy.” The finality in his voice left no room for argument.

They stood in silence as massive dark clouds continued to roll across the sky, streaks of lightning beginning to flash over the Senate building in the distance. As Sifo-Dyas studied the venerated Jedi Master, he realized that there was no changing his mind. He supposed that he should have expected this; after their innumerable conversations over the years, both men had grown disheartened by the continued corruption in the Senate and the Council’s response to it. It had only been a matter of time before this happened.

“Is there nothing I can say?” Sifo-Dyas asked softly.

Dooku exhaled sharply, and suddenly the anger was gone, replaced by a weariness so deep-set that it seemed to be all that was left in him.

“I wish it hadn’t come to this, my friend.” His eyes closed briefly. “But I cannot bear it any longer.”

For a moment, Sifo-Dyas said nothing, then pressed the lightsaber into Dooku’s hands. “Then you must at least take this with you. Not to entice you to use it, or to return to us. But to remember what you have dedicated your life to. For those whose lives you have impacted. It is not something to forget, but you must not dwell on the past if you are to move forward.”

Dooku’s fingers closed around the hilt, gazing down at it pensively. Then, carefully, he clipped it back onto his belt. “Would you consider leaving as well? You share my feelings on many of these matters.”

Sifo-Dyas’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of leaving. What would he be, if not a Jedi? What would he do, if not providing what aid he could?

Together, they closed the distance of the courtyard and stepped out onto the entrance. The vast expanse of stone jutted out before them, leading towards the broad steps leading down to the rest of the Temple Court, the edge of the Temple District. Massive statues of the Four Warriors and Two Sages lined the steps, seeming to beckon to the Jedi. Sifo-Dyas turned his head to gaze at the engravings on the frontmost pylons; the Four Masters, the founders of the Temple, stood guard.

“I can’t,” he said finally. “Especially with what is coming. I must prepare, even if the Council does not see the necessity of it yet.”

Dooku shook his head. “Even after everything, you remain loyal to them.” Some strange note entered his voice as he said, “I hope to never see your army, Sifo-Dyas.”

Sifo-Dyas forced a weak smile. His recent conversation with Lama Su playing in the back of his mind. “You may get your wish. I’ve been informed that I am expected to provide a – ah, template –  to serve as the basis for the army. I have to decide on an individual who is not only fit to be a formidable soldier, but is willing to have themselves cloned a million times over.”

Dooku’s eyes wandered over the descending steps of the Temple as he thought. “Should I think of such an individual, I will be sure to inform you. Have you told anyone else?”

“You are the only other soul who knows of the army, Dooku. I will not bring it up to the Council again…until there is more tangible evidence for its creation.”

“And in that, I wish you well. Should you ever need me, you will find me on Serreno.”

“You’re reclaiming your family’s estate,” Sifo-Dyas guessed.

The other man nodded. “With the wealth and prestige that it entails, I hope to do more than I ever could as a servant of the Republic.”

Sifo-Dyas paused, a heavy feeling settling into his heart. “I suppose, if we are to meet again, I’ll be expected to use your family’s title, won’t I? Count Dooku.”

Dooku mulled it over a moment, then laid a hand on Sifo-Dyas’s shoulder. “Never you, my friend.”

They lapsed back into silence. Sifo-Dyas thought of a hundred things he could say, should say, but none of the words wanted to form. So he distracted himself, wondering if he should accompany his friend to the nearest spaceport, or return inside. Likewise, Dooku was hesitating, contemplating the statues and spires of the Temple, his hand unconsciously brushing against his lightsaber.

Finally, he seemed ready; his gaze refocused. Sifo-Dyas brought his own hands up to clasp Dooku’s shoulders.

“Goodbye, my old friend,” Dooku said solemnly.

“May the Force be with you always, brother.” Sifo-Dyas couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye.

With a final nod, Dooku broke away, his eyes fixated on the city. He descended the steps without a backwards glance.

Rain began to trickle down from the clouds above, splotching the ground until soon it was impossible to tell one raindrop from the next. Dooku did not stop walking, did not return to the Temple for shelter; he merely raised the hood of his dark cloak and continued forward.

And Sifo-Dyas did not go back inside. Instead, he sat on the top step, watching the dark figure growing smaller and smaller.

Sifo-Dyas watched him go, something twinging in his gut, telling him that this was wrong. But what could he do? It was Dooku’s choice; Sifo-Dyas could not prevent his friend from leaving, no matter how much he disagreed with the decision.

And for a moment, just a moment, as he sat there looking out over the Temple grounds, the world before him shifted.

Instead of a dark-cloaked figure walking away, one walks towards the Temple, and they are not alone.

Behind the figure marches row upon row of white-armored soldiers, almost Mandalorian in design, long blaster rifles cradled against their shoulders. They reach the bottom of the long flight of steps and begin to ascend; they are going to enter the Temple. The Dark Side creeps around them, fueled by the cloaked figure with a lightsaber clenched in his hand –

Sifo-Dyas jerked violently, falling back and catching himself on his elbows, breathing heavily. He blinked rapidly and peered through the downpour. No soldiers, and the only cloaked figure with a lightsaber was now no more than a speck far off in the darkness.

He was shaking, the cold rain drenching his clothes. He had no context for what he had seen – was this history, or yet to come? Was there some conflict in Mandalore space he was unaware of, some clash between the ancient warriors and the Order? Or was there no connection? What was an army doing approaching the Temple? Were they part of the larger enemy against the Republic in the approaching war? Or had he seen something so far in the future that it would not come to pass for hundreds of years?

And what of the man with the lightsaber? His face had been shadowed – was he Jedi, or Sith?

Disquieted, Sifo-Dyas remained seated on the steps outside the Temple, soaked to the bone, rubbing his hands uneasily together as he searched the falling rain for shapes and shadows and answers.

*                                     *                                              *

Dooku felt a great weight lift from his heart as he continued putting distance between himself and the Temple. Now, he would no longer feel accountable for the incompetence of his Masters, or the Senate. He was free to participate in the inevitable reformation of the Republic as he wanted. And if Sifo-Dyas’s visions were true – as Dooku believed them to be – the best opportunity was rapidly approaching.

Coming to a bustling intersection of foot traffic, his cloak soaked through, he paused to consider his next course of action. He would be returning to his homeworld, of course, to take control of his inheritance. But before he did…

Intrigue got the best of him. Shielding his handheld holoprojector from the rain – one of the few personal possessions that he retained – he keyed in a connection.

For a moment, there was no response. Then a wavering blue form sprang to life in his palm. A benign-looking man offered him a smile.

“Master Dooku, what an unexpected pleasure,” Chancellor-elect Palpatine greeted.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting your afternoon, Chancellor,” Dooku responded smoothly.

“Not at all. How could I be of service to you?”

“I merely sought to find out if your offer to discuss our individual goals for the Republic was still standing.”

“Of course, Master Jedi.” The soon-to-be-former Senator from Naboo raised an eyebrow. “Though – you’ll forgive me for inquiring – I was under the impression that as long as you answered to the Jedi High Council, you were not comfortable delving so deep into the political arena.”

“I have left the Jedi Order.”

“Have you, now?” Palpatine’s interest seemed quite keen now. “Well, my friend, that certainly is news. If you are available now, I would be honored if you would join me at my office. If you are willing to indulge me, I am very curious as to the motivations of your decision. Of course,” he said quickly, holding up a hand, “I am sure you have other matters that must be attended to first, being a free man and all.”

A free man. Yes, that was one way to put it. “I will make my way to the Senate Chambers now, Chancellor.”

Palpatine smiled again, but it seemed fiercer than Dooku was accustomed to. “I shall be expecting you.”

#i guess if i want dooku and sifo-dyas stuff i'm gonna have to write it myself #dooku's motivations make a lot of sense scarily enough #but he went overboard #at this point he doesn't know about sidious yet #he just knows that palpatine is interesting in rebuilding the republic #they've talked briefly before #i kinda pulled that from the darth plaguies novel #i think sifo-dyas was a less extreme version of dooku #he knew things had to change #but wasn't willing to abandon everything completely to make sure they happened #though he also took some drastic measures #still this was fun to write #it went a looooooooot longer than i thought it would #dooku just had a lot of stuff he wanted to get off his chest #so i let him #the man's been thinking about leaving the order for years #qui-gon's death was the last straw #and sifo-dyas is not that stable at this point #he's lost control of the consistency of his visions #they're triggered by things that are currently happening around him #letting dooku go was one of the main factors that led to that specific army being created #sw #star wars #sw prequels #the phantom menace #sifo-dyas #count dooku #@finish-the-clone-wars #writing wednesday: let me convince you #renee's fanfic

[artificialqueens]

Laws of Motion / Chapter 5 (Trixya) - DenDenMonMon

Chapter Summary: Trixie had never even tried to explore her sexuality in that way. She had always assumed she was straight, because that’s what she was taught to be. As far as she knew she liked men, and men liked her. It had been like that during her entire life. The thought of maybe being attracted to another girl never did as much as cross her mind. If she had known that having sex with a woman was such a journey, she may had tried it before. Although, she wondered if that sexy roller coaster of sensations was caused by Katya and Katya alone.

AO3 Link

Chapter 5 - Yellow.

“Are you completely sure?” Sergeant Haylock’s doubtful voice traveled through the speaker of the phone, perched on top of a pile of boxes.

“One million percent,” Katya assured him, her words sounding shaky to her own ears. It was infuriating how she couldn’t even trust her own voice. She hoped it didn’t give away how nervous she was, because she was nervous, anxious, excited, but, above everything, she was sure. That was the message she needed to deliver.

It seemed to work, because the sergeant didn’t ask any further. “Okay. I’ll send the team. Captain Charles is getting the warrant. I really hope you are right, Zamo, or you will be in some deep shit. I’ll meet you at the precinct as soon as we are done.”

Trixie watched as Katya paced the small space of the cold cases room, her fingers tangling in the hair at the top of her head, pulling at the blonde curls absentmindedly. The slight tugging of her scalp seemed to provide some sort of stress relief, one that sucked her into an evident trance. She wouldn’t even look up. Her mind was deep in thought.

“We are already here!” Trixie replied for her, loud enough so the sergeant could hear her.

Roy sighed. “Alright, alright. We are on the move. Get everything ready for interrogation; we will get there as soon as the judge approves the arrest. You are waking up half of LA because of this, my husband is already pissed, so this better be good.”

The line went silent after that, indicating that the call had ended. Trixie watched the light dim and then completely disappear as the phone locked itself. There was nothing left to do but wait.

Katya was still walking rapidly from side to side, her fingers were still pulling her hair, her stare was still glued to the floor. Her anxious state manifested itself in the complete opposite way from Trixie’s. She sat on the folding bed, her legs crossed in a miserable attempt of a lotus position. She was picking at the skin of her fingers, painfully pulling at thick hangnails. A part of Trixie knew she was shutting down, but the energy that Katya had bouncing all around them kept her alert, preventing her from spiraling herself, if only for the sake of keeping an eye on her partner.

Suddenly, a thought hit her. “Did Roy say husband?” Trixie asked in surprise.

Katya didn’t stop pacing, but she did look at Trixie. “What? Oh. Yeah. You didn’t know he was married?”

“I didn’t know he was gay.” Trixie’s voice came out steady, with no harm or judgement in it, simply stating the fact.

As Katya looked at her with her mouth slightly opened, asking her if she was kidding, Trixie analyzed the little information she had on her sergeant. Her mind took her back to pay extra attention to the conversations they had shared. Laughter was a constant and insulting words being thrown at each other, with no harm whatsoever, was another. The topic of significant others had never been brought up, and she hadn’t asked. She had spent so much time engrossed in the case that she never really stopped to get to know her coworkers. Except for her own partner, probably, who was such a character by herself that Trixie had no room in her mind to solve both the case and the mystery of Katya.

“This is the most open-minded precinct in herstory; and we are super proud of it.” Katya’s words made Trixie return her attention to her. “You know I’m your everyday run-of-the-mill bisexual hooker,” she said as her hands pointed at herself in demostration. “Violet is a big fat lesbian. I mean, not fat, you could never have Violet’s name and the word fat in the same sentence. You get what I mean. Jasmine, she just likes people; she sees hearts not genitals. Kasha was married to a guy for years, now she’s married to a pretty nice woman who adores her.” She made a pause, her mind not having the energy to go through all the people that worked with them. “Well, you know about Roy now and Captain Charles is also married.”

“I did know that,” Trixie intervened. “I know he’s gone through a lot.”

RuPaul Charles was a renowned name in the field, his life story was well known and his reputation was highly respected. He was one of the first gay cops to successed back in the nineties. He wasn’t just opened about his sexuality, he embraced it and took the chance to inspire other law enforcers to do the same. He worked hard and climbed the ladder, despite all the struggles that a gay man of color was unnecessarily put through.

Katya agreed with Trixie. “He has! And he wants that to change, make a difference so other people can have an easier path. There’s, you know, that youth program he has for baby gays. I know he had, like, umm, kind of AA meetings for gay people within the police department. He’s doing great so far. He’s very smart and knows how to use the rainbow flag to help others. You know why we have some of the highest numbers in the whole state?”

Trixie didn’t know the answer, so she didn’t even try to guess. She shook her head as she stood up, her legs tingled as blood fought to keep on running in the awkward position. Her face contorted as millions of ants figuratively filled her veins at once.

“Lesbians!” Katya said proudly. The sudden clap of her hands made Trixie jump. “Lesbians get shit done.” Her fingers snapped to the rhythm of her words to accentuate them. “That’s why he’s made it his mission to slowly transfer all the queer women in the district into his team.”

Something didn’t quite click, and Trixie was sure it showed in her facial expression. “He wanted to interview me before giving me the job, he said I would fit right in.” She let out almost without realizing, the words leaving her mouth as the thought sunk in for the first time. “Could he have gotten some gay vibes from me?”

“I mean,” Katya said, her hands extended in front of herself and her lips formed a thin line. There was something secretive in her voice. Her tone almost begged Trixie not to force her to actually say the words. “Is he wrong?” The question didn’t give any room for Trixie to reply, it was rhetorical, it verged on sarcastic.

There was a huge chance those accusations were only in Trixie’s mind. She was the one twisting Katya’s words. She was the one that wanted to figure out if the captain was wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t wrong, and the real reason why he hired her was because he knew. He had known her truth even before Trixie knew it herself, before she had even allowed her thoughts to go down that road.

Trixie’s eyes couldn’t focus on anything for more than a second. She shook her head, a fog of realization clouding her every thought. “But, I’m not gay, though.”

She didn’t know if the room was spinning around her, if she was the one spiraling down to the ground, or if Trixie’s brain was making her dizzy beyond belief. Her knees gave out a bit and she planted her palms on the dusty table in front of her.

“Oh, Momma.” Katya spoke from behind her. Her voice was almost condescending, but she wasn’t mocking her. She let the words out in a soft exhale, as if she were talking to a small child. “You don’t have to label yourself.” Her hands landed on Trixie’s shoulders, applying a little pressure as they ran down her arms. “I considered myself heteroflexible for the longest time.”

It was working. Trixie could feel herself landing back into the room, her mind anchoring to the gentle touch of Katya’s warm hands. Hands that were by then circling her waist.

“And, if you need to do some more exploring,” Katya spoke to her ear, hot breath hitting her neck. “You know where to find me.” Katya’s flat hands pushed just below her belly button, right on Trixie’s pelvic area, making her wince. She wondered if Katya’s bones hurt as much as hers, for all the friction from their activities of earlier that night. Trixie was incredibly sore, and she had a lot more flesh in that area than Katya. Involuntarily, her hips pushed back, her ass finding Katya’s crotch, who didn’t even flinch.

A small chuckle left Katya’s mouth, and her smiling lips pressed a kiss to Trixie’s cheek. “You’ll be fine. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

And with that, all contact was gone. Katya turned around and left the room, leaving Trixie alone, slightly turned on and very confused.

Trixie didn’t follow her. The thoughts running in and out of her head wouldn’t allow her brain to connect with the rest of her body. Her feet were heavy, preventing her from walking. She felt hot in the pit of her stomach and between her legs, both providing extremely different sensations, overloading her system, which threatened to crash at any second.

She sat back down on the bed, her head falling to her hands heavily.

Had she been lying to herself?

Did people see things in her that she never spotted herself?

Trixie played with the hem of her dress, the same dress that she had picked to impress Katya. She could admit as much by then, sitting there by herself in Katya’s private space. When she picked her clothes for the night, Trixie hadn’t really thought about it, but it had always been at the back of her mind. As she went through her many dresses, Katya’s possible opinions on the outfit had been the decisive factor.

She knew she liked Katya, she liked her a lot; the actual definition of that feeling was yet to be determined. Still, that didn’t mean she liked all women, just this one. Katya, if anything, was the exception to every rule. She was an enigma, yet an open book to whoever was willing to read. Trixie often felt like she was finally able to capture a page of that book but, just when she got close enough, the information was written in a mysterious language that she couldn’t fully understand. Katya’s complex personality was divided in different volumes. It could be discouraging, Trixie could very easily close the book, place it on the highest shelf, and never look at it again. That wasn’t the case. She was determined to crack the code, to understand the alien language and let the reality of Katya to sink in completely.

Maybe what she had identified as attraction was actually a challenge. It was the need to get closer to that intricate human and understand how someone who was so excited about living life to the fullest could, at the same time, be so filled with anxiety while doing it.

The fact that they had found an amazing sexual synchrony was really nothing more than a coincidence. Yet again, Trixie had nothing to compare it to. She had never even tried to explore her sexuality in that way. She had always assumed she was straight, because that’s what she was taught to be. As far as she knew she liked men, and men liked her. It had been like that during her entire life. The thought of maybe being attracted to another girl never did as much as cross her mind. If she had known that having sex with a woman was such a journey, she may had tried it before. Although, she wondered if that sexy roller coaster of sensations was caused by Katya and Katya alone.

So that was it. Trixie had no issues with her sexuality. She had simply become infatuated with her co-worker because of her bedroom skills. All she needed to do was put some distance between them and the feeling would eventually go away. Trixie could do that easily, not immediately, though; they still needed to work together to close the case, but right after that, things were going to chance. It was settled, she could go back to work without having to worry about that just yet.

Even when Trixie hadn’t asked where the interrogation was going to take place, she knew. She walked straight to the last room on the left, the one with the strongest air conditioner. She entered the side cabin, expecting to find Katya there, waiting for the suspect, but it was empty.

On the other side of the tinted glass, Katya sat on the table, her hands moving around her exaggeratedly.

Smiling at the scene playing in front of her, Trixie pressed a button on the intercom, which allowed her to hear what happened in the interrogation area.

“…gonna kick you right in the pussy,” Katya said in faked anger. “And I’m gonna… I will find your dad. He is going to take a toaster bath and-and perish.” She stood up, her closed hands hitting the table as she leaned closer to the nonexistent criminal. “Ooh, and your mom, she’s gonna go somewhere…” Suddenly, her shoulders dropped, ending her whole intimidating act. “She’s gonna be fine. She’s gonna be on vacation. The Galapagos, maybe.”

Only then did Trixie realize her cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. There was something so interminably endearing about Katya, about the way she carried herself, about her vision of logic.

The little skit had been idiotic, childish even, but so loaded with passion and determination. It was a necessary step in the peculiar thought process that didn’t make sense outside of Katya’s own head. Instead of being annoyed or feeling excluded, as Trixie had felt the couple of weeks she had been working with Katya, she was now happy to at least be able to see the magic happen.

Trixie wanted to jump through the window and give Katya a tight hug. Trixie had never been a hugger, though. Physical contact had been a sensitive subject for her since years ago, yet there she was, wishing she could take Katya in her arms and kiss those silly lips that projected strings of nonsense more often than not.

Her eyes closed as Trixie remembered her resolution from just a few minutes ago. Those thoughts had to stop. At least she was able to identify them now. That was a win. Also, she wasn’t supposed to put her plan into motion until after the case was closed. She still had some time.

The phone vibrated against the metallic table, the buzzing sounded a lot louder inside the quiet room, making Katya jump.

“Jesus Christ!”

She brought a hand to her chest, a fruitless attempt to keep her heart from beating hard against her ribcage. Her other hand picked up the phone, reading the message on the lockscreen and freezing in place. Katya had heard the saying many times, people expressing how their blood went all the way down to their ankles, but she had never experienced the shock herself. It was a cold sensation that ran from the top of her head all the way down to the sole of her feet; and she felt colder and colder with each time she read the same message again.

They had gotten the warrant, the arrest had been done, and they were on their way back to the precinct.

A tap on the glass made Katya look up. She knew Trixie was on the other side, she just knew. She had developed a way to sense when Trixie was near her. That sensation was warm enough to incite her blood to run normally again. It allowed her limbs to function properly and unfreeze her from her spot. Katya made her way to the adjacent room with that thought in her mind. She truly had been lucky to be paired up to work with Trixie. Granted, at thirty-two years old, Katya hadn’t really had all that many partners in her life. She entered the force in her mid-twenties, and other than a short period with Kasha, Katya had always worked with Ginger. Both of her co-workers were incredibly helpful when channeling Katya’s energy and had understood the way her mind worked. They had taken their time to do so. Trixie just got her, right away.

As soon as Katya pushed the door open, Trixie was already by her side.

“How are you? Are you okay?” The sincerity in her eyes made the warm feeling spread across Katya’s chest.

Katya’s foot tapped against the floor, as her arms wrapped around her own torso. “Yeah. I’m just anxious. I can’t screw this up, Trixie. I can’t.”

She wanted to explain all the reasons why this was such a big deal for her. In her mind, she was listing the infinite consequences of taking a wrong turn. Her brain was telling her to yell, from the bottom of her lungs, the importance of making things right. There was no need to. It had been quite sometime since words started to be obsolete, and some sort of telepathic communication was installed between the two of them.

“And you won’t,” Trixie assured her.

Trixie’s hands moved to rest on Katya’s shoulders, the weight forced her arms to untangle and her hands fell to her sides. Trixie’s hands travelled down to hold Katya’s, she gave them a little squeeze with a small smile dancing on her lips.

“Thank you,” Katya said genuinely. She didn’t know why or what she was thanking Trixie for, but she didn’t have to, because the light nod she got in return was all the answer that she needed.

“Of course,” Trixie replied with the shrug of a shoulder. “You’ve got this. Now you only need to get the confession out of this freak. Do you want to keep on practicing? You can tell me where you are planning to send all my family members to.”

Katya burst out laughing, most people would pretend they didn’t overheard a private moment like this one. Not Trixie, though. Quickly, Katya realized it wasn’t a bad thing to share one more aspect of her preparation with Trixie. She liked to believe she was some sort of movie character, intimidating the suspect just by the tone of her voice and, if that wasn’t enough, she had to master some threatening talk. At the end of the day, she knew none of that was going to be needed, because she had the power of the law by her side. All the facts had been aligned for her to see things clearly, there was no doubt in her mind.

That was the reason why, when Manila Luzon was finally brought in for interrogation, in a hideous yellow dress, Katya knew the owner of the sex house had no way out.

Katya walked into the room alone, like they had agreed, like Trixie had insisted. That was Katya’s case, she had worked it for months, and had finally connected all the dots to solve it. Trixie had done nothing but orgasm her into clarity.

Both knew that wasn’t precisely true, Trixie had done a hell of a lot more than that. Nonetheless, the arguments were funny enough to make Katya agree to go by herself. If she struggled with anything, Katya could always flip a pen and Trixie would know she was needed inside. The secret signal was nothing but an emergency exit, one that Trixie knew wasn’t going to be used.

Her heels sounded strong and loud, and Katya already felt so much better as she made her way to Madam Luzon. It was hard to take the lady seriously. With the feathers covering her body and the messed up hair, she looked more like a Sesame Street character than the ruthless dominatrix they knew she was, than the cold blooded killer they knew she was.

A heavy folder was dropped on the table. Right after, Katya, very slowly and very loudly, pulled the metallic chair out to take a seat. She knew the file contained nothing but props and visual aids to help her in the interrogation. All the information of the case, she could recite in all five languages that she spoke, without a problem.

“I knew we would see each other again,” Madam Luzon smiled wickedly. “I told you so.”

Katya placed her elbows on the table. “Yep, yep. You certainly did.”

Without dropping the smile, Manila let herself fall against the back of her chair. “Although, I thought it was a different type of business we would be talking about.”

They studied each other for a second, eyes scanning and minds processing; both asserting the situation from their corners.

“That is fascinating to me.” The words left Katya’s mouth in a genuine tone. She couldn’t comprehend how the woman in front of her, about to be charged for the murder of seven young ladies, could be so cool and collected. “Do you even know why we brought you here?” Katya asked, her chin resting on her fist.

A huff escaped Manila, the yellow feathers on her fascinator dancing with the air of her breath. “Yes, girl, a misunderstanding. I don’t see any other reason.”

Katya opened the file, the image on top was of the first crime scene. She took it out and placed it in front of Manila. “Recognize this girl?” A head shake answered her question, so she pulled the next one. “What about her?” The procedure was repeated until all of the victims, in their perfectly done marionette makeup and their limbs pulled up by strings, were placed on the table. “Are you sure you don’t know any of these girls?”

Manila leaned forward, glancing at the gruesome images without a flinch. “I’m telling you, I have no idea who they are, or… were, rather.”

It was almost laughable. Katya popped her tongue loudly in an attempt to stop the giggle bubbling inside her. “See? That’s where you lose me.” She shook her head in mocked disappointment. “I don’t believe you. You… are telling me… that Madam Manila Luzon, the queen of all things sexy in this town,” Katya said with a shimmy of her shoulders and a smile on her face, still finding the sick humor in the whole situation. “Was clueless about what went on in the streets? Come on. You surely have people everywhere, keeping an eye on the competition.”

Manila didn’t have the same amount of self-control as Katya, she laughed openly and loudly. “They couldn’t beat me even if they’d tried. Seriously, look at them, they are babies. Every now and again a new group of girls comes to town and tries their luck. Those girls don’t know what they have to compete against. I don’t even want to count, but enough years have gone by where I’ve been working in this field, I can tell who is gonna make it and who isn’t.”

“And you recruit only the best, don’t you?”

The question took Manila by surprise. “This has absolutely nothing to do with my team.”

Katya’s index finger pointed straight at Manila’s face. “That’s not true, though. It has everything to do with your, umm, HR department, if we may.” Katya’s hand waved between the two, as it did when she had a hard time finding the right words. “Can I share my theory with you? Ooh, it’s a pretty fun one, you are gonna love it. I’m excited to tell it, can I tell it?”

A twist of Manila’s lips was enough of an authorization to proceed.

“You see, these girls, oh, they were good. They were really good. As I’ve been told, you have a very eccentric set of clients. What happens when those clients find a way to scratch their itch somewhere else?” Katya put her hand up. “Don’t answer that, don’t answer that. I wanna tell you.” She stood up, the back of her legs pushing the chair back, her palms landing flat on the table. “You find these uber talented girls and offer them a spot in your oh-so-prestigious team. Here’s the thing, though.” Her hand fanned on top of the pictures, pointing at the victims. “None of them wanted to work for you, and you are not very fond of rejection, now, are you?”

Manila crossed her arms on top of her chest, creating a physical barrier to protect herself from the accusations. “You have no evidence to connect me to those murders.”

Katya walked around the table, her head held up high, a sensation of victory embracing her body. She dared a glance to the one-sided glass, knowing her team was there watching her, knowing that Trixie was behind that mirror, rooting for her.

“I’ve spent months, months, trying to find The Puppeteer.” Katya placed her hands on the back of Manila’s chair. “That’s your nickname, by the way. It’s a pretty cool one, huh?” She then stretched her back and started walking again. “I just couldn’t understand why a man would do any of that. How could a man have such attention to details? What could be the reason for a guy to turn beautiful young ladies into even more beautiful dolls?”

Words flowed from her lips like cigarette smoke, directed to no one in particular but filling the air around them.

“I just couldn’t understand. Wanna know why?” Once again she shook her hand, indicating she didn’t really need an answer. “Because it wasn’t a man!” Her hands went theatrically up in the air. “And I call myself a supporter of women. They should revoke my feminist license. Women can be murderers too! We have the passion, we have the brains, we have the concentration. Some of us even have real life size doll houses where we can put our puppets in, and play with them when we wish to, even if they don’t want to.” She made a dramatic pause, leaning right in front of Manila’s face. “Because nobody says no to Manila Luzon.”

For a moment, Manila’s eyes looked wider. For a fraction of a second Katya could see how the overly confident Madam Luzon was chipping away. They looked into each other’s eyes. The stare battle was broken when Katya looked down, eyeing the colorful freckles on Manila’s hands.

“If we test the paint on your hands, I’m sure it will be a perfect match to the paint of the victims. Or am I wrong?”

Pushing her chin up, and pressing her lips into a thin line, Manila finally gave up.

“I want a lawyer.”

#rpdr fanfiction #trixya #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #bianca del rio #manila luzon #lesbian au #laws of motion #dendenmonmon #submission

[catholicismabusedestiny]

What Happened...

12.01.1999

 Up until the age of 10 or 11, after the last child was born (and about the same time where my father came to deeply resent my “responsibility for the kids” – which was beat into me for as far back as I can remember); however, once it threatened his role or, more precisely once I started to get a voice, my father did a 180 degree turn and anything I did around the house or with the kids was not likely to get me in trouble.

I’ve spent a life-time being disappointed about various issues pertaining to my family; however, none has been as painful as the adult relationships (or lack thereof) I have with my siblings; therefore, this has been one of the top three topics discussed over 26 years of therapy and I think it’s finally coming into focus thanks to my Minister, Therapist and two close friends.

To begin with, my father’s verbal and emotional abuse is not disputed; it’s to what extent and how it was carried out which appears to be the issue people differ on.  As stated, those first 10, 11 years were the hardest of their marriage and on one another; they were untrained, ill-prepared and almost desperate at times and it was something open discussed about by relative and friends – particularly after one of many crisis’s (i.e. 6 births, the house fire, Dad’s accident, the accident the day Patty was born etc.,).  Dad would refer to that time as his “Irish luck” but, suffice it to say, those first 12 years were the most difficult for them.

During these difficult times –  before my Dad had to be cognizant of who was around and where he was before going off on me – Dad did a lot of yelling and even more criticizing.  It was during these years when he developed and began trying out his many phrases he had for me.  His unrelenting criticism and disappointment of me was not new and was widely known within the family and beyond.  Therefore, in getting back to whether he loved me unconditionally during that time I’d have to say “No, he didn’t show me unconditional love during my early childhood”.  

As a result, to those that were horrified by what I said earlier, the only thing I can say is that “you don’t know what you’re talking about!”  Moreover, his total lack of respect for me was not only felt but was picked up by all of my siblings; they all knew from the time they could walk and talk that Dad disliked Mike, makes fun of Mike and disrespects Mike; therefore, they, in turn, also disrespected me and it’s only grown worse and has even been passed down to the next generation who will not return a message from me.  They were unconscious taught to believe the things Dad said of me; then, by my mid-20’s while in therapy, I confronted my parents on the abuse and came out of the closet.

From the time I engaged in those activities, the abuse factor transferred from Dad to Mom who disapproved of everything I did or said.  Although, it was the confronting them on the abuse that she got stuck on; she knew that I knew (or remembered) those early years when all of the physical and verbal abuse was followed by screams from me wanting my Mother.  While she still blamed me for what went on, she knew that if I repeated this info to others outside the family that it would negatively reflect on her and that’s not something she could tolerate.

In fact, I think it’s that very point as to why she wanted me to visit more often, as well as all the pressure she put on me to move back to Chicago.  More to the point, however, she constantly criticized me (jobs, where I lived, what I did etc.,) and never-ever wanted to hear anything I had to say (I was not to speak with I visited UNLESS it was about kids or marriage).  She so resented me that anything she said about me was done with heavy doses of disapproval, accusations I was lying, and a consistent tone that I was not accepted, respected or approved.  

With me being gone for all of those decades, there was never anyone to comment on her accusations or to stick up for me; thus, everything was said and taken as gospel.  Ironic too that the entire reason why I stayed away (as well as all of those times when I was actually in Chicago but didn’t go home because my Mother refused to allow me to bring anyone with me when I’d visit; and, when I did visit, there were strict instructions about what I could and couldn’t say.  

Yet, each Sunday night, after I listened to 20 minutes about babies and weddings, she’d give me shit for not visiting more often AGAIN!  Finally, I obviously had to be more direct with her so I said “Mom, you wonder why I don’t visit more often or why I won’t move back and, the truth of the matter is it’s you Mom…  you refuse to allow me to bring my bf with me and then you get mad if/when anyone asks me a direct question about my volunteer work, the AID’s epidemic, gay rights etc., etc.,  So, if my significant other is banned/not welcomed and I’m prevented from talking about my passions and all of the good things I’m doing for the cause of AID’s than why would I even want to attend?”

It’s as though my Mother wants me to be present but she doesn’t want me; she wants me at 19 or 20 – before I came out.  “I cannot flip-on or flip-off my life just because you don’t like it…”   Moreover, because of this dichotomy between who I am and what my Mother wants me to be, I return home from these visits and fall into a deep depression knowing that I’m not accepted (or respected) for who I am. My friends are well acquainted with the depths of those depression episodes after I visit Chicago and, thus, will give me a few days to myself when I return but, after that, they go all out to force me out of that state of funk.

It wasn’t all that long ago when someone referred to the unconditional love one receives from their father and I stated that I was “unsure” about that; you’d thought I said “Kill All The Babies!”  Immediately, my sister and her husband became extremely upset with me and, as such, I became quite irritated with them.

I’m unsure what “con” was played on them while I was gone for 30 years but, one thing is certain:

Ø  None of them were around for the first 7 – 8 years of my life; therefore, they have absolutely no idea what took place. Accordingly, I deeply resent anyone telling me what I relive in my bed on a daily basis is not true.

Ø  Yes, I did carry around a lot of guilt for decades that Dad’s temper, behavior and his anger ridden tirades were - in some way - my fault (as both of my parents attempted to allege which, in and of itself, every therapist states is abuse).  Furthermore, over the years, Therapists have continually stated that I was not responsible for Dad’s behavior or conduct in any way, shape of form.

§  All of this changed permanently, however, on January 12, 2012 when Uncle Chuck asked me “How was your childhood?” That pandora’s box opened up a whole host of bad things that my father had done to me before I was 18 months old.

§  It was further shaped by the very odd or weird things some of Mom and Dad’s life-long friends and extended family members said to me as I became the point person for the dissemination of information re: My Parents Health.

·         As they became more comfortable with me – especially since most of them hadn’t spoken to me in decades; and, overtime, I heard things such as: “it’s so good you’re here for your parents now given some of the things that happened in the past...”  OR “your Dad was so hard on you growing up; I’m so glad to see that you’re doing well and that you and your father have resolved things…”  OR “Mike, I’m proud of you, you’ve been able to put the past behind you and are now working to help your parents…   given some of the things that occurred, that’s quite impressive…”

·         What I came to realize (or actually remember), any neighbors we had on either Quincy or Thurlow would have (and did) hear, listen and witness things that they’ve not forgotten.  I knew that in the summer, with the windows open, that neighbors 10’ away would have heard the loud arguments and much more since my blue bedroom (where most of the physical and verbal abuse took place) was < 10’ from our neighbor to the North on Quincy.  On Thurlow, when I was older and learned to always sit near an entrance, I would run outside every time Dad would blow up so his verbal abuse from across the street was legendary.  Each time he’d throw me out, disown me and tell the world that I was not his son and that I was just a huge embarrassment that he was ashamed of, was all done outside where everyone around heard and listened.  Moreover, Dad’s favorite put-downs and “phrases” such as “you’re worthless and will never amount to anything” were (at least during those first 10 – 12 years when we were on Quincy) said to me at any time and anywhere; it didn’t matter is cousins or Aunt and Uncles were around; although, after about 12 years (or about the time we moved to Thurlow), Mom had been influential in getting Dad to stop saying certain things about the kids outside of our immediate family, thus, he was coached on how bad his behavior reflected upon him and he became more cognizant of who was present when he’d go off.

Ø  Therefore, between my bad dreams, my memories, those repressed memories retrieved via hypnosis, countless therapist opinions, my Minister (actually two of those), dozens of self-help books and self-actualization seminars/workshops/courses on being your best and being yourself and more than 3,000 diary entries, I believe I know who I am and I remain very disappointed that my siblings cannot see how their everyday actions of excluding me, not showing me respect and accusing me of lying are all actions intended to provide cover for Mom and Dad’s conduct and behavior.

§  What they don’t see is that I don’t blame out parents; however, they’d have to go through my writings to understand why I believe that’s true and that my actual intent for talking about any of these things is not only to seek truth and knowledge but to break down barriers, demonstrate how much of what went on was handed down from the previous generation and that the ONLY thing I want to ensure is that the dysfunctional, negative, critical and homophobic attitudes DO NOT get handed down to my nieces and nephews.  Mom would ask “why do you bring that up?”  “Mom, I bring it up because no one has brought it up previously, thus, it becomes engrained and passed down to the next generation.  I DO NOT WANT ANY NIECE OR NEPHEW TO GO THROUGH EVEN SOME OF WHAT I DID; I WANT THEM TO FEEL BUILT-UP, NOT TORN DOWN!!

[baronvontribble]

Original drabble, pt. 5

Navigation: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

yeeeeeeee

It was cold on the way home the same as it had been on the way to work. The bus didn't run from anywhere near the store to anywhere near Ted's apartment building in an amount of time that made walking the less reasonable option, so he walked the whole way. By the time he got to his door, his cheeks and nose and ears stung with the cold; the relief of putting down his bags long enough to get out his keys only lasted the amount of time he spent not picking them back up again, which he inevitably had to do to go inside.

He slumped heavily against the door the moment he'd closed it and held onto the bags just long enough on their way down to the floor to make sure nothing broke, but after that, all bets were off in terms of physical activity. "I'm home," he called out, closing his eyes and letting himself breathe. Fuck, walking had been a bad idea.

"Is this where I'm supposed to ask you how your day went?" the AI's voice asked him, and Ted let out a wheezy chuckle.

"Well for starters," he said, "if we were really following the script? Slippers. And dinner. Already made, nice and hot. Falls apart when you get to the 'sit in front of the television' stage though, what with me not having one."

"That's a shame. It didn't even get to the part where you threaten physical violence if I'm not quick enough with your alcoholic beverage."

"Jesus. I think I'll skip that one, thanks. I mean for one thing, I don't drink." Heaving a sigh, Ted straightened back out and made his way to the kitchen to put the groceries away, draping his coat over a chair as he went and leaving his keys and phone on the counter. The only things that stayed out beyond that were the HD camera made for streaming purposes and the sandwich he'd bought to act as a reasonably well-rounded meal. "Where'd you hear about that shit anyway? Kinda antiquated at this point."

"Case files. Domestic cases weren't the kind of thing I handled, but I still had to be educated in how they worked. I had to be able to take notice of everything that might count as evidence in any given case because the data I recorded could be used in court." Whether Ted was anthropomorphizing or not, the tone of the AI's voice made it sound like he was smiling. "Ended up being used against a few human co-workers too. I didn't have much in the way of agency, but if I saw something, I still reported it."

"Aw, so you're a good cop."

"No." A firm statement that left no room for argument; the good-natured tone was gone just as easily as it had crept in, impressing Ted all over again at the tuning. "Good cops are the ones who stop what they're doing when they realize it's wrong."

That just sounded all kinds of wrong to Ted. "Some people might say there's a lot of grey in there. If leaving puts your life in danger, for instance. Or if you don't have any real say in what you're doing." He wasn't sure what this guy had done, but he'd never gotten a bad vibe from any of their little talks over the past couple days. And usually his instincts about people were pretty spot-on.

But that firm tone was back again, giving no ground. "Ted, please," the AI insisted, "I'd rather not talk about this."

"Seriously though," Ted continued. "I mean you left, didn't you? Yeah, maybe it took longer than it should've, I don't know enough to make any kinda call on that, but it seems to me like you had a limit to how much you were willing to-"

"Ted." The volume had been turned up significantly, hard enough to rattle the laptop's cheap onboard speakers. Admittedly that didn't take much, but it still stopped Ted dead in his tracks. "Don't."

Just like that, all the good humor had been sapped out of the room. Ted let out a slow, steadying breath. He just knew this one was gonna claw at the inside of his head for days. "Fine, I won't talk about it." Picking up the box with the camera in it and leaving the sandwich for later, he headed back over to his not-quite-desk and fell into his rickety old chair. "I didn't mean to upset you."

The volume was back to normal when the AI spoke again, and his tone was softer. "I know."

Right, time for a subject change. "Did you read your way through all the books yet?" Ted asked as he wrestled with the box the camera was in. Stupid packaging.

"Not all of them," was the reply. "But I did find a name. You've read I, Robot?"

"Hell yeah." Ted had to grin. "Gonna name yourself after Susan Calvin or something?"

"Wrong book. I meant the short story."

"Ohh..." That one was a bit older than Asimov's stories, if Ted remembered right. "Kinda dark, isn't it?"

The AI ignored his comment. "I did some research. 'Adam' is a common enough name in enough languages that if I pick a similarly common surname, I'll be relatively difficult to track effectively by my name alone."

"And I guess the literary allusion doesn't hurt either, huh?" Ted gave it some thought. "What about the biblical roots of it?"

"I haven't read the Bible."

"Y'know, ate a fruit from the tree of knowledge after watching a woman do it, and then both of them got kicked out of the Garden of Eden by God for disobeying His orders. Original sin, free will. All that jazz."

It was several seconds before he got a response. He heard the fans kick into overdrive for a moment on the main computer tower. "Right."

Damn, almost sounded like the guy had barely tuned that one at all. “What’s that mean? Like, is it good, is it bad-”

"It means I suppose I have a name now."

"You like it?" The box Ted had been struggling with tore open all at once, the cardboard giving way long before the tape did; one layer of packaging down, a bazillion more to go. He took a moment to idly suck on a finger that'd been nicked on the cardboard's edges with a quiet hiss at the way it stung. "I mean, I like it. But I'm not the one who's gotta live with it."

Machines couldn’t scoff, but this one definitely knew how to give the impression of such a thing through his voice. "Functionality is more important than whether or not I like it."

Ted snorted. "Yeah, you like it." One thing he'd learned about this guy: positive feelings were rarely ever admitted to directly. "Got a voice, got a name. Might be tempting fate to say this, but it seems to me you're just about ready to face the world, man."

"Just focus on getting the camera set up."

"I'm working on it, jeez." Foam, plastic, more plastic. Naturally, only about half of it could be recycled. The camera came with a flash drive about the same size as the end of his thumb, and included wireless capability that Ted would probably never use. He was quick to toss the trash aside for Future Ted to deal with, only hesitating when part of the 'trash' was the instructions. However, a cursory glance told him he didn't actually need instructions, and the manual promptly went back into the pile.

Then he let out a tired sigh as he ended up scooting over to what had once been his main computer to pluck out yet another bit from its wreckage: the USB extender. He'd have a lot of rebuilding to do after all of this was finished. His poor gaming rig had been reduced to a pile of spare parts. Honestly, if anyone in the pipeline ever contacted him about a job this big again, he'd probably just tell them to go sit on a cactus. Or at least be really salty about taking said job.

"This might take a little while," he said. "Gotta install the drivers, get the extender plugged into the power strip..." Within moments he was under the desk having a fight with one of the power strips connected to the battery backup, rearranging things until he could make room for the cord to the extender. "Got any music you like?"

"Depends. Am I limited in what media libraries I'm allowed to take it from?"

Ted grinned even as the dust under his not-desks had him stifling a sneeze in his elbow. "Dude, have you seen my library? Half of it is ripped straight off of video upload sites. I'm the last person who's gonna tell you where to go for that shit."

"True." Ted looked up from his work long enough to get a glimpse of the windows open on the laptop, trying to follow Adam's music search as it happened. To say it went a little fast would be an understatement; there was no way in hell he was keeping up. "It's a blend of different genres," Adam informed him. "Part symphonic, part electronic. It's also in Russian. You don't mind that, do you?"

"Not a bit." Just as long as he understood that Ted didn't speak a word of Russian. "Is that where you're from?"

There was no answer except the music as it started to play, and Ted dutifully hauled himself upright to listen.

It was pretty. Ted had no idea who the singer was when her voice entered the mix after a few bars of meandering piano and flowing strings. She had perfect pitch, whoever she was; the tone of her contralto voice made him think of long, flowing black hair framing long, elegant features. One of those fairytale maidens singing about longing and true love and all that profoundly schmoopy nonsense.

Then the beat dropped, and he envisioned the maiden tearing her dress asunder and climbing astride a winged steed while holding a battleaxe, and the longing contralto turned into a one-woman wail of anguish and howling righteousness.

"I would've loved this in high school," he said somewhere during the second chorus, awestruck. He was pretty sure there'd been some Latin in the lyrics somewhere, but he hadn't been listening very hard so it might've been a trick played on his ears. This along with something that sounded like it might've been either badly mangled English or even more badly mangled Esperanto, but he wasn't enough of an expert on linguistics to tell what the attempted lyrics were. It was exactly the kind of melancholic angsty nonsense he would've loved when he was fourteen, and at twenty-seven, he was seeing it as equal parts awesome and endearing.

Adam didn't respond until the song was over, letting it play out before saying anything. Was listening to the echo of it over the speakers and through the microphone different from reading the data of it, beyond a difference in audio quality? A question for another time, perhaps. "It's not what I usually listen to," the AI admitted, in the kind of tone one might use to describe their fondness for Rocky Horror Picture Show or The Room. "From what I've experienced so far, I prefer soundtracks over anything on the radio."

Ted snorted. "You nerd."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Only a nerd tries to justify their cheesier music choices. Just admit that you like this, I dunno, this symphonic emo Russian synth-EDM, and don't look back. I mean, I listen to show tunes."

"Show tunes?"

"Dude." By that point, Ted was grinning from ear to ear. "Broadway? Y'know, musicals. And big band stuff too, like Gershwin."

Several seconds of silence followed, then: "I regret asking."

"Alright, look. Lemme find some and I'll show you-"

"No, I believe you."

"I won't take long, I swear!"

"Ted..."

And this was how Ted dragged an AI into an hour's worth of Broadway sing-alongs, which the AI in question would later call 'torture', followed by Ted suddenly remembering his sandwich and bringing it into proceedings as well in the form of turning lyrics into nonsensical mumbling. This is also how it came to be that the camera did not get hooked up that evening. It didn't even occur to Ted to question why Adam seemed relieved when he gave up on it for the night, because he was having too much fun.

#no one cares andy #original writing #original characters #robot and marshmallow #this thing's grown a plot on me and i didn't expect that #written up to part 7 so far but idk what's gonna happen next

[angeltriestoblog]

The state of the world has once again taken a turn for the worse, and like all other similar instances, I turn to the comfort of the written word. With that being said, I wanted to put it out there that I have no intention of speaking over the narratives of those who need to be heard the most during this time. (I guess it pays that I don’t really have much of an audience here.) It’s just that I’ve always said that writing helps me compartmentalize my feelings and figure out my next course of action, and I guess this time is no different. I need to get my thoughts down somewhere I can see them instead of having them flit around aimlessly in the deep recesses of my brain.

—

These past few days, I have been made more and more aware of my smallness. Following the (first degree) murder of George Floyd, I’ve had access to all the information surrounding his death: who did it, how they did it and why, the implications of the act, and the several ways black people of color and their allies are standing in solidarity to counteract this brutal display of injustice. I’ve come across several petitions that hope to hold certain individuals accountable or raise issues to the national level, funding sites that aim to provide financial assistance to those most in need, and resources with the intent to educate that demand to be circulated on a wide scale. While these have technically showed me how I’m not entirely powerless, that I do in fact have the ability to enact some sort of change, it’s still difficult to stomach that the change I am capable of making is not as substantial as I want it to be.

I understand that what I’m feeling is a hassle, at worst—nothing compared to those on the streets, to the black people of color who have to fight for rights that are supposedly inherent to all human beings, who demand justice for all those who have fallen because of police brutality only to have these cries fall on deaf ears. I do not have to face various forms of oppression and microaggressions not just when this topic is trending, but throughout the course of my entire life. I do not carry this lingering fear that every step I take outside of my front door could be my last. What happens to their community is absolutely sickening but the thing is, we haven’t even seen all of it. Keeping tabs on social media, checking up with actual victims of structural racism often deludes us into thinking we know exactly what’s going on and how hard it must be, but access to all of this information doesn’t erase the fact that I am watching everything from afar.

So instead of sulking so much that my reaction could be misconstrued as an attempt to make the conversation about me, I tried to channel all this frustration in a more productive manner. I’ve reduced my Twitter time because my timeline has magically morphed into a raging cesspool spewing hatred and anger and is thus getting in the way of my journey towards being an effective ally and concerned citizen. I’m definitely not saying this because the people I follow only ever tweet about the resurfacing of the #BlackLivesMatter movement—hopefully, at this point of the post, I’ve already made it clear that I am far from apolitical. It’s just that my following can easily be classified into two groups: those who wear their ignorance on their sleeve and actively resist any form of education, and those who are so ruthlessly divisive that they scare away anyone who wishes to be educated. The world is already unforgiving enough as it is and I refuse to take part in that kind of culture. I have been trying to ease my way back in though by looking at tweets almost exclusively in the likes of some of my most politically aware friends (hi Pat, Ryen, and Alyanna—I hope you never have to see this) and checking the trends sporadically for any live updates.

Not only have I realized just how many hours in a day going on that stupid bird app actually eats up, but I’ve also had a lot of time to educate myself and reflect on my previous actions. I figured that if I’m so upset about how my impact on a global scale is terribly lacking, I can always start on a more personal level, which is probably just as revolutionary. I’ve watched movies, gone through articles, and even started on this book called White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo, which debunks why exactly it’s so hard to talk about racism with white people. In this process, I’ve learned that everything I knew about the concept was surprisingly shallow and surface-level. Having first claimed my badge of wokeness when I was 15 (and engaged in some pretty performative activism at the time, if I do say so myself), I was shocked to find out that everything I collected from viral hot takes and recommended YouTube videos that claim to be an extensive guide to fundamental social movements possessed an unforgivable degree of inaccuracy.

For instance, all this time, I was under the impression that I could only be a racist if I called someone ugly because of their dark skin or curly hair, or said the n-word whenever I sang along to Caroline by Amine. As long as I didn’t do those things, or any other form of discrimination towards a marginalized group, I was in the clear and had nothing to worry about—I could get a star on the Good Noodle board. In reality, to quote Scott Woods, racism is “a complex system of social and political levers and pulleys set up generations ago to continue working on the behalf of whites at other people’s expense, whether whites know/like it or not”. It is not something we actively choose to participate in, but something that we are born into—literally who would have thought!

Because racism has been demonized by everyone with working mental faculties (as it should be), it’s hard to own up to the fact that at some point, we have subconsciously picked up racist behaviors or exhibited racist tendencies at some point in our lives. Every time someone tries to point out where we went wrong in the hopes of giving constructive criticism, we have our defenses up, a list of receipts of all the times we tweeted the #BLM hashtag prepared to show that we are, in fact, not the villain that we were made out to be. This is a counterproductive exercise that helps nobody. If we truly want to step up and show our support for the movement and those working to make it happen, we must first be open to the possibility that we have done wrong and we have so much more to learn.

As a kid, my beauty standards were very Eurocentric, like most Filipinos: according to a study conducted by me based on years of personal observations and experience, we are the country most obsessed with whitening soap and hair rebonding treatments. I called my friends the n-word as a term of endearment and previously used AAVE (African American Vernacular English) in my tweets to give them a little bit of personality. I chose not to watch chick flicks that revolved around interracial couples because I felt that the difference in their skin color got in the way of their chemistry. One time, when my mom and I were walking to WalMart during a vacation to the States, we came across a stocky black man and my initial reaction was to hold my purse closer to my body. I remain deeply ashamed of these beliefs I held, which were admittedly born out of ignorance, and I acknowledge my responsibility to continue to eradicate any traces of these I may still have.

I am also doing my best to extend the same compassion I have for black people of color during these trying times towards my own countrymen. We’ve struggled enough during this pandemic thanks to the sorry state of our healthcare system, and now the government seems hell-bent on speeding up the passage of the anti-terrorism bill. This threatens to impede our freedom of speech and help government officials get away with incompetence and even abuse of authority. If anyone gets a hold of this blog post and chooses to interpret this paragraph as an open threat to the President, this could be the last time you could ever hear from me, and this frightens me beyond words.

I know this isn’t a new contribution to the discussion but here are some links to helpful masterposts containing a variety of resources should you wish to donate, learn, or sign. This goes for both issues in our motherland and what is supposedly the land of the free. Let’s stay vigilant, let’s stay compassionate. Wishing you all the love and light the world still has left to offer.

#personal #quarantingz #angeltriestoblog #angel tries to make sense of the world #??? #I DIDN'T EDIT OK I JUST RANTED ON A PAGE AND HIT POST

[clonerightsagenda]

Posting Gill’s bday fic over here with permission. It’s Rosemary-related and TLC compliant (with a couple of minor spoilers) but should be understandable even with no knowledge of the AU.

This is what you have learned from dating Rose Lalonde. Expect any room to fill up with clutter in her presence. Your attempts to keep things tidy are as effective as holding back the tide. Expect everything to take on the feel of an epic, like you might be summoned onto a world-altering quest at a moment’s notice. It’s like a human fairy tale, but the old kind, not remakes that are all glitter and talking animals. The stories with teeth.

Don’t expect her to say that she loves you.

Don’t take it personally either. That’s what you remind yourself. Rose resists sincerity. When you presented her with the first flowers you’d grown in the new greenhouse (roses; you’d been delighted to learn she’d been named for a flower), she’d laughed uncertainly like you’d unlocked an event she didn’t have a script for. Over the next week, as the blooms withered, they moved around. First you spotted them on the windowsill, then on her bedside table, in this vase or that one, like she couldn’t figure out what place they had in her life.

On the Land of Rays and Frogs, you encountered a puzzle path made of colored lily pads. If you stepped on the wrong one, it would buckle and deposit you in a mini-boss chamber before you returned to the start, weary and wiser. Navigating this relationship feels much the same. Some of your missteps now are the inevitable outcome of two species still learning about each other, but not all of them. After reading Rose’s walkthrough, you’d daydreamed of meeting its author. Now you think you need a walkthrough for her too.

The day after your tumultuous first date, Rose dumped her concoctions down the drain, saying she could embarrass herself perfectly well without the aid of depressants. Not even a week later, she set the equipment up again.

“It might come in handy for medicinal purposes,” she said when you asked her why she’d changed her mind. “Besides, it wasn’t all bad.” She winked. “We got some mileage out of it.”

You blushed, and your rainbow drinker glow briefly flared before you wrestled it under control again. In the first few weeks you hadn’t known how the rules changed when you moved from unofficial to official. Where did you put your eyes, or your hands? What were you allowed to say? “It did make you more forward.”

She laughed, and from the sharpness on her breath you realized she’d already been sampling her experiments. “I can be so fucking uptight sometimes. Maybe we all need to lighten up. Lighten up. Get it?”

“I get it,” you said. But you didn’t.

So you sought clarification from Dave. After you quested through the meteor, lipstick at the ready in case of clown sightings, you found him topside staring back the way you’d come. At the beginning of your journey, you’d taken turns stationing yourselves there, afraid Jack would catch up and resume his rampage when you least expected it. When he didn’t make an appearance, you’d all let your guards down, reducing sentry duty to a quick backward glance now and then. Was he keeping watch for Lord English now?

“Are you watching for Jack?” you asked.

He jumped and tried to cover it with a miniscule adjustment to his cape. “Nah. Watching Skeletor blast everyone to bits.”

“You and Rose have been up here a lot recently.”

“We both came up after the first killing, you know? It was so loud.” He rubbed at his eyes underneath his shades. His skin is a few shades lighter than his sibling’s, and you could see shadows there. “It’s been hard to sleep since then. At least she’s found a way to conk out.”

“About her newfound use of soporifics.” You hesitated, staring up at the flashing lights that were already becoming familiar. It’s amazing how fast you accustom yourselves to the unthinkable. “Is that normal for humans?”

He frowned. (Later, he’d tell you he hadn’t been sure how to respond. “I didn’t want to fuck it up for you two,” he said. “I didn’t think it’d get that bad.”) “Hard to say what’s normal in our situation. Guess a lot of people would pull out a bottle after everything we’ve gone through. Better than sticking a forty-five in your mouth. She’s always been extreme about reacting to things. It’s hard to believe we’re the same damn species sometimes, let alone siblings.”

“I didn’t think an outing with me is so terrible you have to be out of your wits to enjoy it.” You didn’t mean to sound petulant, but his eyebrows rose.

“She doesn’t mean it like that.”

“I thought you didn’t understand her.”

“It would take an institutional thinktank to really figure her out, but I do a little.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. He does that when he’s being serious sometimes. “I think the whole thing freaked her out. Freaks her out, present tense, if you’re officially an item now. Congrats, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

Another spiderweb of cracks blossomed above your heads. You could see them reflected in Dave’s shades as he said, “I don’t think she trusts anyone being nice to her 100%, that’s all. Not even me.”

Rose has been clean for months now in human terms. You both have. The first few weeks of your victory were spent dealing with the effects of abandoning your substances of choice. You stumbled around feeling as if you’d been dipped in concrete, your movements and thoughts slow and ponderous. Rose went days without sleep and flinched away from things the rest of you couldn’t see. Roxy warned you of what to expect, since she’d gone through the process before. She’s also the one who told you to remind Rose to eat. “She’s not gonna want to,” she said. “You feel gross all over and the last thing you want to do is stick more shit in your body, but if you don’t eat you’ll just feel crummier.”

You’d noticed her drinking her meals before, but you’d never brought it up beyond meaningful glances or the pointed placement of foodstuffs in her respiteblock. Rose has always been good at dodging questions. “Do you have any suggestions for a strategic approach? She’ll try to deflect me with witticisms. Her barbs are floppy at the edges right now, but my defenses are equally compromised.”

“That’s a cute way of saying you’re both fucked up.” Roxy shrugged. “I can’t beat her in a war of words, and I wouldn’t try. My advice? Sit on her and force feed her Saltines while telling her it’s for her own good.”

You had been skipping meals yourself. Even after eating normal food, you still felt hungry. Your system wanted something else to satisfy it, so what was the point? Rose latched on to that hypocrisy when you tried to nag her, so you’d end up sitting across the table from each other with plates of leftovers cold from the fridge, matching each other mouthful for mouthful. Whatever worked.

The worst of that is past now. But sometimes she still behaves in ways that make you wonder if after all these sweeps she really trusts you.

-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began pestering gardenGnostic [GG] -- GA: Jade GA: Shes Doing It Again GG: whos doing what? :o GA: You Know Who GA: Who Else Do I Come To You In Search Of Explanations For Their Inexplicable Habits GA: Show Some Space Player Solidarity Here GA: There Are So Few Of Us Who View Common Sense As Part Of A Complete Breakfast GG: for everyone else its an optional granola to sprinkle on top GA: The Recipe Said Season To Taste And Im Afraid Theres A Serious Lack Of That In The Premises GA: Ok Can We Cut The Extended Cooking Metaphor Out GG: yeah, it was getting a little meanspirited GA: That Too I Guess Mostly I Didnt Want To Get Stuck Exchanging Culinary Puns GG: ok, what terrible thing is rose doing now GA: She Has Locked Herself In Her Room And Has Been Listening To Her Playlist Designated For Angst For Three Hours GG: lol GG: that behavior cannot stand! GG: except it sort of can, since we all have a right to privacy GG: even if we exercise that right by listening to sad music all day GG: these things cannot be revoked for bad taste GA: Actually Most Of It Has Been Pretty Good GA: Filtering Through The Door Gives It Nice Acoustics GG: maybe you need to give her some... space :D :D :D GA: I Just Want To Know What Upset Her GA: She Says It Wasnt Me But I Dont Know If That Means It Wasnt Me Or It Was Me And I Am Expected To Work That Out On My Own GA: A Reassessment Of The Past Few Days Activities Hasnt Turned Up Anything Suspicious GG: i cant think of anything that might have upset her... GG: ohhhhhhhhhh GG: i think its her moms birthday GG: that might be it GA: How Did You Know GA: Is That Supposed To Be Common Knowledge GG: she complained one time about having to go to a fancy dinner GG: something thrown by her moms colleagues i think??? GG: her mom made her dress up in something frilly, she said she felt like an american girl doll GG: to be honest she sent a picture and i thought it was a cute dress!! GG: definitely not her style though GA: Im Impressed You Remember GG: i try to keep track of these things GG: it was nice hearing about everyones lives, i always wished I could do things like that GG: tell me your lususes birthday, i will put it in my calendar GA: I Never Knew It GA: I Wish Shed Told Me GA: Rose I Mean I Dont Think Wriggling Days Are Important For Virgin Mothergrubs GG: dont take it personally GG: she does it to all of us, and youre her girlfriend so she has to be EXTRA secretive about terrible and compromising things like emotions GA: That Logic Sounds Backward GG: the human mind is a complicated maze of mystery kanaya GA: Sounds Mysterious GG: it is GG: she probably doesnt realize its stressing you out, i know shes trying to be better about that kind of thing GG: you know, COMMUNICATION!! D: GA: No Please Anything But That GG: the achilles heel of our entire household GG: i can bug her if you want GA: No Thats Ok GA: Mostly I Wanted To Make Sure I Hadnt Caused This And Needed To Resolve It GA: If She Wants To Grieve By Herself I Understand GG: if shes still in there by dinner well root her out! GG: there is a limit to how many sad songs are good for your soul GA: Ok GA: In The Meantime Do You Have Any Work That Needs Doing In The Greenhouse GA: Id Like To Keep My Hands Busy GG: theres some stuff that needs deadheading on table three GG: do you want company? GA: No Thats Fine GA: Ill Talk To You Later GG: sure thing! -- ¬¬grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] -- GA: Im Sorry About Your Mother TT: Who told you about that? GA: Jade TT: Figures. TT: Lousy goddamn supportive friends. GA: She Has Said She Will Flush You Out If You Dont Come Down To Dinner GA: Do You Feel Up To It GA: Otherwise I Can Convince Her To Leave You Be GA: She Is Easily Distracted From Her Resolutions If You Know How To Play Your Gaming Rectangles Right TT: No, I'll be there. TT: What time is it? GA: Half Past Five So No Rush GA: Im Still Gardening And Havent Washed Up TT: It might take me that long to get presentable. GA: Was Her Wriggling Day Important To You GA: I Admit The Concept Is New To Me GA: What With Our Ancestors Being So Far Removed From Our Lives And Our Guardians Being Literal Fauna Who Did Not Celebrate Notable Dates TT: It’s probably not even her real birthday. TT: We were all created on the same day, and I doubt anyone was on hand to record when her meteor touched down. TT: She must have picked a day she liked. TT: We used to give each other over-the-top gifts every year. TT: I thought she was being passive aggressive, so I reciprocated in turn. TT: The last year, I thought about getting her a bedazzled martini glass, but I didn’t get around to it. TT: Thank god. TT: I can only hope she interpreted my gestures as sincere as readily as I interpreted hers as sarcastic. TT: Otherwise she must have thought I was the worst daughter imaginable. GA: Im Sure She Didnt Think That TT: I wish I’d given her something better. TT: Something genuine. GA: I Was Working On A New Hat For Nepeta During The Game GA: I Got Some Monster Slime On Her Old One With A Sloppy Chainsaw Maneuver And Even Though She Said It Wasnt The First Time I Wanted To Make It Up To Her GA: And Help At Least One Of My Teammates Diversify Their Wardrobe TT: There’s always an ulterior motive, isn’t there? GA: You Tell Me GA: You Are The Expert In Decoding The Nefarious Meaning Hidden Within Every Exchange Of Pleasantries TT: It’s a secret code, Kanaya. TT: The sixth grader who tossed the newspaper into our yard this morning is working with the KGB. That’s what "Good morning" meant. This is well established in spy manuals. GA: My Knowledge Of Human Subterfuge Is Always Expanding GA: The Hat Was Supposed To Be A Surprise GA: Then I Found It In A Treasure Chest Not Long Into Our Journey GA: Theyre Gone And You Know That But Then You Find Something That Reminds You GA: Oh GA: Ill Never Give Her That Will I TT: I don’t know what I would’ve done if we’d lost anyone from our session. TT: Well, I do know. I have memories from a timeline where we lost half. TT: It wasn’t pretty. TT: I know in a lot of ways we got lucky. GA: Its Not A Contest GA: You Dont Have To Have Had It Worst To Feel Bad TT: I know. TT: But it’s hard. GA: See Look At Us Talking About Our Emotions Isnt That Nice GA: A Horrible Kind Of Nice TT: Or a nice kind of horrible. TT: Either or. GA: The Juxtaposition Is Key TT: I didn't mean to shut you out. GA: I Know You Need Privacy Sometimes GA: I Would Just Prefer To Know Whats Going On So I Dont Have To Worry About Whats Wrong GA: And You Know You Can Talk To Me TT: I know. Intellectually. TT: Is it weird I can trust you all with my life but not always with my feelings? GA: Kind Of GA: But I Get It GA: Were All Weird About Some Things TT: I'm trying to do better. And I'll let you know next time I need to indulge in a three-hour sad jams session so you won't worry. TT: Maybe after I've run through my playlist, we can even talk about it. GA: We Can Sit Awkwardly At A Table Waiting For The Other One To Break The Silence First TT: A tradition. GA: Also I Should Let You Know Its Stir Fry Night TT: Really? TT: You should have led with that. TT: Save me a seat.

As time passes, you all improve with hesitant steps that sometimes send you sliding back, sometimes not. Rose throws herself into her walkthrough, which she plans to distribute to anyone else caught up in SGRUB’s gears. Everyone is on consultant duty to flesh out areas of personal expertise. You, however, are her co-editor, a position of special privilege.

Rose views the work as one more way to help whatever players come after you. Your motivation is less selfless. Once, several sweeps and universes ago, an alien’s words found you and gave you something to hang on to. Somewhere, in a distant galaxy, someone else is being forced to play this game. Maybe your words can reach them, like Rose’s reached you. Working on the walkthrough now lets you build something together in a way that she won’t dismiss as sappy and overdone, a love letter for the universe.

That doesn’t mean you don’t run into difficulties, of course.

TT: Have you had a chance to look over the Prospit chapter? GA: Oh Uh GA: Ive Seen It TT: Did you have any feedback? TT: I'm going to ask Jade too, but I thought I'd give you the first shot. GA: Um GA: I Dont Know TT: Was it that off-base? TT: I know I'm a Derse dreamer, but I tried to be thorough. GA: Its More The Tone GA: You Wrote That Prospit May Look Friendlier But Should Still Be Viewed As An Antagonist Because It Has Ulterior Motives GA: And Maybe Thats True Especially About The Clouds GA: But My Time On The Moon Was The Brighter Portion Of My Childhood GA: And The People Of Prospit Were Always Kind To Me GA: So I Guess The Framing Made Those Memories Feel Kind Of GA: Threatened TT: Oh. GA: It Isnt A Logical Reaction TT: What do you think I should change? GA: I Dont Know GA: Maybe Nothing GA: Youre The Expert Here I Know Im Biased Toward My Moon Whatever Systems It Might Be Part Of GA: We All Take That View About Some Parts Of Our Youth Dont We GA: Even If It Was Part Of Something Bad We Remember The Good Moments GA: We Hold On To The Small Kindnesses TT: …Yeah. GA: You Can Disregard That Feedback GA: Youre The One With Writing Expertise And A Clear Goal In Mind GA: I Dont Really Know What Im Doing GA: Youre Better At This TT: I’m really not. TT: I just put on a more convincing show. TT: Don’t dismiss yourself. You have expertise in areas I don’t. GA: I Guess Im Not As Used To Putting Myself Out There TT: You can come up with a clever pen name. TT: There’s a tradition of vampires spelling their names backward. GA: Im Reformed TT: An anagram then, maybe. TT: Jokes aside, this is a collaborative project. We’ve got a Google doc and everything. TT: I don't want to intergalactically publish anything you're not comfortable with. TT: How about a revision session this evening? I'll bring Lofthouse cookies. GA: The Ones That Are Just Discs Of Sugar And Flour TT: With nary a redeeming nutritional quality in sight. TT: Keep that quiet, though. Jane would kill me if she knew I was smuggling them into the house. GA: Sounds Great Ill Be There

Rose’s typical drafting position is on her stomach with her laptop propped up on the pillow. You prefer to stretch your legs out with your back up against the wall. Thermoses of tea balance precariously between the two of you on the mattress.

“There’s been a lot of activity on the kernelsprite document,” Rose says, flicking through the pages. “Apparently Hal listed “100 advantages of being prototyped” and Dirk replaced it with “Most of this list is either illegal or immoral.” I’m turning track changes on to see what they were.”

You tap your fingers idly on the keys while your own husktop buffers. “Anything good?”

“Get away with murder,” she reads. “That’s cliché, you don’t even have to be a sprite for that. I think he just put it in there to be edgy. He’s trying so hard; you have to respect that. It’s like when I started buying black makeup to try to spite my mother.” She scrolls down further. “Oh, here’s a good one. Clip through the floor.”

“I’ve seen John do it. He’s not as original as he thinks he is.” You peer at her screen. “Eat your enemy’s phone. I’ll give him points for one. It’s not feasible for most mortals.”

Rose reaches across your legs for another cookie. “Sure, if you’re a coward.”

“I’ll accept that designation if it means avoiding a mouthful of circuitry.”

She chews thoughtfully and then flicks a sprinkle off onto the carpet. At least you’re in her room. Still, you feel a compulsion to pick it up. “About what you were saying earlier. I don’t want to contribute to any lingering insecurities.”

The change of topics catches you off guard. “They’re milling around in the lobby, but I’m not letting them upstairs.” You shrug, your shoulders sliding up the wall. “As we’ve been reminding each other, we can’t fix everything about ourselves immediately. I’m more confident than I used to be. I didn’t let Jake talk me into that routine with the glitter.”

“Shame.” She frowns at you, an expression diluted somewhat by a rim of frosting on her upper lip. “I’m not commandeering this project too much, am I? It’s nice to have something to be enthusiastic about again, but maybe I’m getting carried away.”

“No, you’re being very accommodating.” You squirm, smoothing out inconsequential creases in your skirt. Sometimes feelings don’t make sense. But once Rose decides she wants to talk about them, she tries to pin them to the page and dissect them. She does it because she wants to understand and help, the same way she wants to reverse engineer SBURB with words to assist players who come after. That doesn’t make the process any more pleasant when you’re the one on the operating table. “The problem is on my end, in the concern lobby. The lurking insecurities have been taking numbers for a while, and the counter is only up to twelve.”

“Like Inside Out crossed with a DMV? Hellish.” Rose picks up a pen and rolls it between her fingers. She likes to draft things longhand first sometimes. “I remember back on the last day of the game, you said you thought everyone burned brighter than you. You must’ve realized by now that my “burning brighter” is mostly because I have a habit of setting myself on fire.”

You’ll admit you’d been starstruck by the walkthrough’s mysterious author. It had been nice to harbor a new secret crush once Vriska was a lost cause. And you’d first met Rose face to face as a newly risen goddess bathed in the luminescence of the Green Sun. She’d seemed ethereal and beyond you.

Then, after the first few hours of sorting out living arrangements and watching Karkat roam around yelling for Gamzee to give the bodies back, she’d announced she was going to “sleep for a fucking week” and faceplanted into the nearest rug. Dave didn’t help beyond alchemizing some safety cones and setting them up around her. That had helped a little. So had seeing what her hair looks like in the mornings. “If you’re worried I have some unattainable vision of you set on a mental altar, rest easy. But you did restructure the multiverse with nothing but nerve, so I might still want your autograph a little.”

Rose brandishes the pen. “Only on the condition I get to sign your bra.” When you wave her away, she drops it on the pillow. “Spearheading the multiverse operation is one of my prouder accomplishments, I’ll admit, but my violet-tinged authorial prowess is entirely due to thinking I was hot shit as a pre-teen on the Internet. Besides, if we’re talking bragging rights, you fixed reality. Not to mention put up with us idiots for three years.”

“That was a struggle.” At times you’d wondered if you were the only one on the meteor keeping ahold of your wits. “Remember when the ceiling panels gave way and Gamzee fell onto the table?”

“Not our best group dinner. But you see, I’m a mess. You’re the one who has her act together.”

You frown. Being praised for your stability is a sore spot of yours. Yes, you’d been the one to bear everyone else’s struggles. That doesn’t mean you liked it. “I had to. Someone did. It got tiring after a while, though.”

Rose winces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. You shouldn’t have had to. But it is impressive that you did.”

“You were sick,” you say, in response to her apology.

You see her shoulder blades rise and fall in a muted shrug. “I know. But that doesn’t mean you should have had to deal with it.”

“I guess…” Maybe you’re the one who’s prompted her to speak up, but you struggle with your words too. Troll culture teaches you that open exchanges of feelings are for moirails. Palemates are the only people you can trust the depths of your soul to, if you can truly trust anyone at all. Humans don’t compartmentalize in the same way. You can see the benefits of that system, but you still fear saying the wrong thing will push her away. “You undercut yourself to tell me I’m better than I think I am. But if I’m already worried about measuring up to some standard, that just pushes us both lower. Do you see what I mean?”

“The self-deprecation’s not cute. Got it.” She twists around in what is probably some kind of advanced yoga pose to look you in the eye. “But you shouldn’t undersell yourself either, ok?”

When she doesn’t break eye contact, you nod reluctantly. “This is a very affirming argument we’re having.”

She reaches over and prods you with the pen. “I’m channeling Jake. Believe in yourself.”

You smile. “It’s hard to resist, these days.”

When you’re done for the evening, Rose captchalogues her laptop and you troop out. Everyone has their own room, but all of you tend to spend more of your nights in the common area curled up in armchairs or slumped over each other on sofas, within easy sight of each other when you wake from bad dreams. After a few weeks of intentionally lingering there until you fell asleep, you made it official and filled the whole room with soft materials like a huge communal pile. Terezi even taped up democratically-determined regulations. Rose spends some nights curled up next to you with her face shoved so close against your neck you wonder how she can breathe. Sometimes, though, she retreats to a corner with a pillow at her back like a wall. You know not to approach her then.

Tonight, she finds an empty patch of floor and drops down on it. You lower yourself next to her.

“Are you happy with the chapter now?” she asks.

“I’d like to give it another pass tomorrow, but it’s much better.”

“And everything else?”

“That’s better too.”

“Good.” She gives you a peck on the lips and, when Terezi wolfwhistles, flips her the bird and kisses you for real. You kiss her back, until… You pull away.

“Are you wearing my lip balm?”

“Maybe.” She purses the lips in question. “It’s got a good flavor.”

“I was wondering where that went. You know, you could have just asked to borrow it.” Grudgingly, anyway. She has a terrible habit of licking the stuff off and then reapplying it to start the cycle anew.

Rose raises an eyebrow. “You offered to do my laundry so you could steal my favorite shirt.”

You think, with only a modicum of guilt, of the shirt you have stashed behind the laundry basket in your closet. “It’s very soft.”

“I’m never getting that back, am I?”

“Probably not.”

She sticks her tongue out at you and pulls a blanket over her shoulders. “Night.”

“Good night,” you say. That’s the only endearment you exchange.

-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] -- GA: Karkat GA: Karkat Answer Your Phone I Know You Can See This GA: Youre Looking At It Right Now CG: YEAH I SURE AM. CG: I'M STARING AT THIS MARVELOUS HUNK OF PLASTIC AND ELECTRICITY IN MY HANDS AND REFLECTING ON HOW IT GRANTS US THE ABILITY TO COMMUNICATE WITH EACH OTHER FROM ANY DISTANCE. CG: SUCH AS, FOR EXAMPLE, EIGHT FUCKING FEET AWAY. GA: This Is Private CG: I DIDN'T KNOW WE HAD A CONCEPT OF PRIVACY ANYMORE. CG: COLOR ME SURPRISED, SO SOME THINGS ABOUT OUR LIVES *AREN’T* SUPPOSED TO BE COMMON KNOWLEDGE? GA: It Might Help If You Spoke With Any Kind Of Discretion Or Volume Control CG: NOT AN OPTION. CG: CARRY ON. GA: Youve Watched A Lot Of Human Romances GA: What Is The Appropriate Interval Before Affirmations Of Matespritship Are Exchanged GA: You Know Like GA: Uh CG: "I LOVE YOU"? GA: Yes That CG: THE FIRST STEP IS BEING ABLE TO TYPE IT INTO A PRIVATE CHAT SESSION WITHOUT BLUSHING. CG: I CAN SEE YOU OVER THERE. GA: Dammit GA: What Is The Waiting Period Here Like Three Sweeps CG: SO I GUESS SHE HASN'T DONE IT YET? GA: Well GA: Not Sober GA: She Was Quite Eager To Confess Admiration While On Soporifics GA: To Everyone And Everything Including Inanimate Objects GA: Im Not Sure Such Exchanges No Matter How Heartfelt Can Be Considered Fully Genuine CG: YOU'RE IN LUCK, A LOT OF HUMAN FILMS COVER THIS IN DEPTH. CG: IF YOU WANT I CAN ARRANGE A VIEWING SESSION WITH SOME MORE INFORMATIVE SELECTIONS. GA: That Might Be Fun GA: But Mostly I Would Appreciate Some Friendly Advice GA: As Educational As Im Sure The Latest Work Starring Anne Hathaway Would Be CG: AN EXECUTIVE SUMMARY IS: CG: IT USUALLY DOESN’T TAKE THIS LONG. CG: BUT THE CHARACTERS INVOLVED ARE OLDER, THE SAME SPECIES, AND HAVEN’T BEEN THROUGH A WAR, SO IT’S NOT A REPRESENTATIVE SAMPLE. CG: ARE YOU WORRIED ABOUT IT? GA: Not Exactly GA: I Know The Sentiment Is There GA: If Anything I Just Hope She Feels Comfortable Enough She Knows She Can Be Open With Me GA: Shes Trying But I Can Tell Its Still Difficult For Her CG: DAVE SAYS "its obvious shes crazy about you" SO NO WORRIES THERE. GA: Why Is Dave Part Of This Conversation CG: HE WALKED OVER AND LOOKED AT MY PHONE OVER THE BACK OF THE SOFA. CG: LIKE I SAID. PRIVACY = ZERO GA: Hi Dave CG: HE SAYS HI. GA: I Saw Him Wave GA: Now Tell Him To Go Away CG: AND HE’S GONE. CG: THE CHAT IS CLEAR OF FUTURE BROTHERS-IN-LAW. GA: Future What CG: THAT’S WHAT YOU’LL BE IF YOU AND ROSE GET "HUMAN MARRIED". CG: THE RITUAL MAKES YOU FAMILY WITH THEIR ENTIRE FAMILY. CG: I’M PRETTY SURE IT WAS HISTORICALLY DESIGNED TO ACQUIRE ECONOMIC AND POLITICAL ADVANTAGES. CG: YOU KNOW, KIND OF LIKE HOW INTERCASTE MOIRALLEGIANCES CAN AFFORD LOWER CASTES PROTECTION. CG: BUT IN MODERN TIMES MOSTLY IT MEANS YOU’RE STUCK WITH THOSE CHUCKLEFUCKS FOR LIFE AS A PACKAGE DEAL. GA: Oh No CG: OH YES. GA: Karkat I May Be Rethinking This Whole Venture CG: TOO LATE, I’M GOING TO BE YOUR BEST MAN. IT’S ALREADY DECIDED. GA: What Is A Best Man GA: Is It Whoever I Have Designated If I Were For Some Reason Obligated To Wed Someone Of That Gender CG: NO. CG: THE MOVIES AREN’T ENTIRELY CLEAR ABOUT THEIR ROLE, BUT IN GENERAL THEY GIVE HEARTFELT SPEECHES AND PROVIDE EMOTIONAL SUPPORT. GA: Maybe I Want Jake To Be My Best Man GA: He Can Recite Touching Monologues Ripped From The Silver Screen CG: YOU HAVE NO SAY IN THIS WHATSOEVER. CG: (YOU KNOW I’M JOKING, RIGHT?) GA: I Figured GA: Although I Wouldn’t Put It Past You To Try To Plan That Kind Of Thing Out For Me CG: HEY IF YOU EVER WANT IDEAS, I CAN THROW SOME OUT THERE. CG: YOU’RE WAY TOO YOUNG FOR THAT KIND OF THING THOUGH. CG: AND WE STILL HAVE TO GET YOU FROM POINT A TO POINT B, WHICH INVOLVES TRAVERSING THE ROCKY TERRAIN OF EMOTIONAL HONESTY, WITH WHICH I HAVE HAD NO PAST PROBLEMS AT ALL. CG: YOU COULD ALWAYS SAY IT FIRST YOURSELF I GUESS. CG: UNLESS YOU THINK THAT’LL MAKE HER EVEN MORE NERVOUS? GA: It Might GA: Outright Displays Of Emotion Embarrass Her She Relates It Too Much To Her Drunken Excesses And Those Of Her Mother GA: If I Can Be Permitted To Psychoanalyze Here GA: Shes Admitted As Much CG: THEN… LET HER KNOW SHE CAN FEEL COMFORTABLE? CG: THAT DOESN’T SOUND VERY EXCITING, BUT MAYBE IT DOESN’T HAVE TO. CG: THEY MAKE A BIG DEAL OUT OF IT IN THE MOVIES BUT I THINK AS LONG AS YOU’RE BOTH ON THE SAME PAGE WHETHER THOSE THREE EXACT WORDS HAVE ESCAPED YOUR QUIVERING CHUTE FLAPS DOESN’T MATTER ALL THAT MUCH. CG: THERE ARE OTHER WAYS TO SHOW YOU CARE. I’M PRETTY SURE YOU’VE GOT THAT COVERED. CG: MOVIES AREN’T ALWAYS THAT REALISTIC ABOUT WHICH PARTS OF A RELATIONSHIP ARE A FEDERAL FUCKING ISSUE VERSUS WHICH PARTS ARE NEGOTIABLE. GA: !! CG: YEAH YEAH RUB IT IN. CG: SO I RELIED ON THEM A LOT, IT’S NOT LIKE I HAD MUCH PERSONAL EXPERIENCE. GA: I Shouldnt Criticize This Was Helpful GA: Thanks For Listening GA: And I Would Like To Watch Movies With You Sometime If That Offer Is Still On The Table CG: DEFINITELY. CG: I’LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN I’VE GOT A GOOD LINEUP PULLED TOGETHER.

A few days later, Rose wanders into your room unannounced and flops onto the bed. This isn’t uncommon behavior, so you keep sorting through your clean laundry. Her cat behaves similarly, insinuating himself into a room as if he belongs there. It’s a lazy confidence you envy. “We should go out,” she says, directing her words at the ceiling.

“We should?” you ask, holding two socks up to see if they match. They don’t, exactly, but they are a pair. Rose knitted them for you herself. They’re lumpy and awkwardly shaped, and you treasure them.

“We were going to do something fun after the game, remember? That was the plan. But we've both been sick, and outside is...” Rose waves toward the window and the world it serves as a barrier against. “Outside, so we haven't gotten around to it. But we should. You’ve been in your room a lot. It’ll do us both good.”

Drat. Your downturns aren’t as explosive as the others’. Sometimes you simply withdraw, spending more time on your own while a mental screen descends between you and the world, distorting it like a blur filter. There’s nothing wrong with you, exactly; it’s just that you don’t have the energy. That’s not bad, right? There are worse things than numbness. “What were you thinking we could do?”

She sits up halfway and then flops back down again. The pillows bounce. “I was hoping you'd have some ideas.”

You twist the socks together and toss them into the appropriate drawer. “The only thing I remember suggesting was outfits without sleeves.”

“Compelling, but not really something to make a date out of.” Rose frowns. “Have we ever... had a normal date? By regular people's standards?”

“Troll or human?” You shake your head. “I don't think any species would give us a passing grade.”

“Earthworms might be impressed.”

You pout. “You've never taken me to any good plots of soil.”

“We'll do that next time. For now, Jane said someone needs to do the shopping.”

“You know how to sweep me off my feet.”

Rose, still prone, waves a list in your direction. “It'll be fun. We get to pick which flavor of potato chips we want, and everyone else has to live with it.”

If Alternia had anything like supermarkets, they hadn’t spread near your oasis. For all that your caste can stand the sun, the electric lights hurt your eyes. They’re too bright – a harsh white that makes all the bright colors look flat and artificial. You reach for Rose’s hand, and she squeezes it. “I appreciate the support,” you say, “but I wanted to see the list.”

“Oh. Right.” She brings it up for both of you to consult. “Does Jade know how expensive beef is? She’s really running us through it.”

“She’s been talking about growing vegetables for the household. It’s too bad she can’t raise her own cows.”

“Don’t give her ideas. She wouldn’t be able to bring herself to butcher them, not after we’d named them all.” Rose leads you to the back of the store and scoops up slabs of meat packed into tidy foam and plastic containers. The setup is so clinical your residual rainbow drinker instincts don’t even twitch. It’s a far cry from the Alternian pastime of slicing your dinner up while it’s still wriggling. “We need milk,” she begins, and trails off after she pivots to the left. “It was that way in my old store. But they must not follow a common plan.”

Rose looks unmoored now that her navigational confidence has been broken. A lot of the humans are like this, wavering when their world doesn’t behave the way they think it should. It’s almost easier for those of you who expect foreign ways and customs. It’s harder to be a stranger in your own home. “We’ll wander,” you say, and steer her firmly by the shoulder.

By a combination of trial and error and studying signage like relics of a lost civilization, you manage to gather everything on the list. The only problem comes when you pass a series of shelves stacked with bottles, and Rose stiffens. It takes a moment for the pieces to fall into place – you’ve never seen wine packaged in its original containers before.

”Come on,” you say, linking your arm with hers. “Help me test which limes are ripest.”

You have to tug for a moment before she comes with you. You don’t think she’s planning to make a running leap for the vintage. If anything, she looks like she does when there’s an enemy sighted, wary and ready to spring. If she destroys several wine racks with a blast of divine light, that’ll probably go on your bill.

”Sorry,” she says, once you’ve made it to the produce section. “At my old store, it was in a separate room. Not out in the open.”

You lean toward her a little, so your shoulders press together. “It took you by surprise.”

She leans back. “Like pulling down your sheets and seeing a spider in your bed.” You see a dot of blood on her lower lip. She must have bitten it. “It must be harder for you. There’s no getting away from all that blood walking around on two legs.”

”It’s easier not to slip up, though.” You reach over with your free hand and dab at her cut, wiping the smear on the side of your shirt. “They’d make a fuss if I tried to sample it.”

”That’s what recovering alcoholics need.” She swipes at her mouth herself, but the wound is already closing. “Wine bottles that scream when you open them.”

”You’ve uncovered a new industry.”

”I need to patent it immediately.”

You squeeze her arm before letting go. If she’s making jokes, that’s a good sign.

Rose perks up when you’re heading toward the checkout. “Hang on. We have to stop by the natural foods section.”

”We do?” You check the list again. There’s nothing left on it.

”You never know,” she says. Now it’s her turn to drag you along. “The cure to all our life’s problems might be hiding next to the apricot kernels.”

Her tone is mocking. “Is there something wrong with natural products?”

”Not on their own. Jade says a lot of processed food upsets her stomach after growing up without it. But some people will pitch organic to you as the cure for cancer, and if you’re telling me you feed your four-year-old Goji berries instead of getting him vaccinated, I think you’ve opened yourself up to public disdain.” Rose plucks a box of tea off the shelf. “Look at this one. It says it’ll revitalize your body and restore harmony to your thoughts. All for twelve dollars, too.”

”Sounds like a deal.”

”It would have its work cut out for it with us. Hey, if I drink Sleepy Time and Stay Alert blends at the same time, what do you think will happen?”

”You’ll shed your corporeal form and ascend to a being of pure consciousness, and that would be a shame, because I like your face.” You retrieve the boxes and put them back before she decides to do product testing. “Apparently these exotic grains cure depression with their wholesome vitamins and minerals.”

”Buy the whole shelf.”

She’s right; some of these products are ridiculous. The two of you are giggling over asparagus water when a middle-aged woman pushes past you with her shopping cart. A highblood couldn’t look down their nose better. “Are you girls done with that?” she asks.

”Definitely,” Rose says, straight-faced. “I’d recommend it. It made us gay.”

Rose did the talking there, and you were too busy laughing to think of how to react. But when you get to the cashier, your tongue twists in your mouth. You stammer through pleasantries until Rose rescues you and completes the transaction. You drift away while she's collecting the bags, pretending to peruse the week's advertisement flier.

“She was pretty,” Rose says when she joins you, groceries in tow. “Is that why you were stuttering?”

You take half the bags from her. It would have been polite to help her carry them from the conveyor belt, but you needed to escape. “Was she? I didn't notice.”

She nudges you with a conspiratorial grin. “You don't have to play coy. I won't get jealous.”

“I'm not playing coy.” You shift one of the bags over your wrist, and something inside crinkles. Hopefully you didn’t break anything. “Her face was a blur. I panicked.”

Rose’s smile fades. “I’d forgotten you could be shy.”

The automatic doors whoosh open as the two of you approach. You sidestep a mother and her offspring going the other direction. “When you grow up on an oasis where your nearest neighbors are the shambling undead, you're a little cautious of strangers.”

“But willing to send them messages on Pesterchum questioning their intelligence and morals.”

She printed your first conversation logs off and stuck them to her wall, which you find equally endearing and annoying. Every time you see them, you itch to pull out a pen and make edits. “That's different. We weren't face to face. And... this is all new, here. I worry they'll be able to tell.”

“That they'll scream “Space invader!” and cart you off to a top secret facility?

”I’m sure it’s funny to you,” you say with a sniff, starting across the parking lot. “They won’t dissect you.”

She smiles again – you meant her to; the dissection at least was a joke. “I get nervous too. Not as much now after everything we’ve been through, but I’ve always been hyperaware of social situations. But I tend to take the ‘don't get scared; get angry’ approach.”

You recall how she marched up to the conveyor belt and slammed down her purchases. “I did wonder if you were going to challenge the salesperson to a strife.”

“Chalk it up to the childhood narcissism. I always felt like everyone was passing judgment.”

You accidentally make eye contact with a man stepping out of his vehicle and redirect your gaze at Rose’s collarbone. “Like everyone's watching.”

She nods. “And that's not true. They have their own problems and couldn't care less what we do. We're not important to them. In this case, that's reassuring.”

You’re surprised she finds it comforting. You’re happy to fade into the background; Rose likes to be noticed. You’d never realized it frightened her too. “What a pair we make,” you say.

“Between us, we add up to one functional person.”

You pull open the car door for her with a flourish. “I'd be generous and say at least 1.5.”

A few of the humans have been working to get their licenses so Jane’s father doesn’t have to drive them everywhere. Rose only has a permit, but that doesn’t stop her from using the car. Seer powers let her know if there’s likely to be trouble, but otherwise she drives like she’s got a grudge against the pavement. She peels out of the parking spot and then slams on the brakes. You hug a carton of eggs to your chest so they don’t splatter against the windshield. “What is it?”

”We have cold bags for everything, right?”

”Yes.” It was overkill for a short trip, but you prefer to be prepared.

She pulls into the store’s partner gas station while you wave apologetically at the elderly woman she just cut off. “This is a date. We’re going to get coffee.”

The coffee machine is broken, so you both get 99 cent slushies and sit on the curb next to the free air pump. The parking spot is empty save for a mulch of cigarette butts and ripped up Lotto tickets. Rose slurps some of her concoction out of a straw. It’s a murky mess, and you spotted her squirting a few shots of energy drink in for good measure. You spent several minutes painstakingly creating a rainbow pattern and are now trying to drink evenly to keep the layers intact. A bag of chips slumps half-empty between you. They’ll complain about that back home, but it’s their fault for not coming along to supervise.

Rose sucks on her straw with a noise like a drain unclogging. “How’s this for romance and adventure?”

“I could do it again,” you say. And you could. The encounter with the cashier still leaves you shaken, but the haze has peeled off the world. It’s funny how after everything you’ve been through, something as simple like this can be energizing. There are groceries in the car that need to get back and a household worth of responsibilities to keep up with, but right now it could just be the two of you setting off on some new adventure. Rose has always made you feel that way. Light players make the world narrow around them, drawing in attention, compressing possibility. They’re a lantern you bump against, entranced. With Rose, you’ve found one that doesn’t burn.

”Well shit, these were ninety-nine cents.” She smirks in the way that means you’ve missed a joke. “I think our budget can afford it.”

”Thank you for dragging me out here.” Lurking in your room seems silly now. “It helps, borrowing your confidence.”

”It’s a show,” she says. “I don’t know how you manage to seem so centered all the time.”

”Amateur theatrics,” you say. “One functional person, here we are.” She raises her drink in a toast, and you knock them together. ”I mean it, though,” you continue. “It’s nice, the way you turn things into adventures. Even if it’s a shopping trip, I don’t know where we’re going to end up. It’s unpredictable, but I like it. I like spending time with you.”

She smiles and looks away. Whenever you’ve successfully induced emotions, she never wants to look you in the eye. “That slushy must have made an impression.”

”It was good.” You flick the straw, sending drops of condensation scattering across the asphalt. “We didn’t have anything like this at home, at least not where I grew up. That might explain part of the rapturous response. But mostly I think it’s because I love you.”

Rose stills. That might be a bad sign, but you’ve gotten yourself into this situation, so you might as well keep going. “I’m not trying to corner you,” you say, looking down at your knees. “I know you have difficulty expressing some things. But I wanted to express that. Right now.”

When you sneak a look over, her shoulders are shaking. The ice from your drink solidifies in your stomach until you realize she’s laughing.

”Do you know how long I’ve been agonizing over this?” she asks.

”I knew why,” you begin. “Your mother…” That’s not a complete sentence, but it doesn’t have to be. Sometimes you want to ask John to transport you into Rose’s past so you can grab the woman by her shoulders and shake her. “How could you be so careless?” you want to demand. “Didn’t you realize what you were doing?” You are all the results of what has been done to you, combined with your attempts to overcome it. Even with your universes gone, their impressions remain as indelible parts of you. You wouldn’t want Rose to be anything other than who she is, but that doesn’t stop you from wishing she could have gotten something better growing up.

“That was what started it.” Rose takes a gulp of her drink. The humor drains from her voice. Now she’ll look you in the eye. “She’d vanish into her laboratory or a drunken stupor and leave me to fend for myself. The first time I tried cooking spaghetti I set off the fire alarm. I couldn’t get it to stop until I climbed up on a chair and took the batteries out. She slept through the whole thing. So when she turned up with a new present, how could I believe it was sincere? And even if it was, it didn’t make up for anything. If all you can give is the trappings of love, like you’ve bought out a Valentines’ clearance sale but can’t be damned to raise your own child, it doesn’t count.” She sloshes the remains of her drink around with one hand and watches it like she’s reading tea leaves. “So I guess I distrusted all of it. The glitz, the performance, anything. Even the words. Because if you do it right, they should know. But… in the past I’ve been guilty of overcorrecting.”

“Really?” You try to keep your tone teasing. Anything else might alarm her.

She elbows you in the ribs, but not hard. “Sometimes I’ve turned the wheel a bit and drifted over the dividing line between reasonable responses and terrible decisions by a few millimeters.”

“I think a driving instructor might say you sailed over the median, engaged with oncoming traffic, and left the highway entirely for parts unknown. What?” you add. “I’ve read the manual you’re all practicing from.”

“Five dollars says you pass the test before I do. After the timeline John made unhappen, I realized I’d never told you. For all the wrong, stupid reasons. I shouldn’t have let any of that stop me. I would’ve died with that as one of my greatest regrets. So I wanted it to be perfect, since I made you wait so long.” She covers her mouth with one hand and smiles through her fingers. “God, you should see my search history. I watched promposal videos, although I wiped all that data and I’ll deny it if you tell anyone. And here we are –” she pauses and shakes her head - “in a gas station parking lot. But you know what? I think it fits.” She slings an arm around your shoulders and plants a sticky kiss on your cheek. “I love you. Let’s make it count.”

This is what you have learned from dating Rose Lalonde. Expect your lives to accumulate the clutter of experiences together – receipts and stolen shirts and empty packages still streaked with frosting. Expect to make missteps, because the two of you are walking an uncharted path one step after another. Sometimes you fall, fight your demons, and climb back up again. You are all doing this for the first time.

Expect her to say she loves you in unexpected ways. A new package of lip gloss left on your pillow. A flower pressed between the pages of a heavy book to make it delicate and perfect. Occasionally, the words.

Make it count.

#trying this one last time #kat writes fic #dare i put it in the tags.... #nah #homestuck/

[weracetogether]

Failure Greets Us All- Tampa Bay Frogman Swim http://ift.tt/2rJAJB8

Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.- Winston Churchill

You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.  - Johnny Cash

When we give ourselves permission to fail, we, at the same time, give ourselves permission to excel. - Eloise Ristad

I have been told my entire life that if you do something, anything, you may and eventually will fail. Now, my parents didn’t say this to be cruel or to have me accept failure in the things I would attempt or as a way of life. Instead they told me this because the reality in this world is that you will falter, things will go wrong, and no will or faith will stop you from meeting failure. I have met failure several times in my life. One such time was when at a young age I failed at being a balance beam gymnast; I learned failure as I fell off a railroad tie surrounding our garden smashing my face into the driveway below. But from this event I learned other things- first, cement hurts like a son of a gun, a lesson I would be taught several times in life. Second, I learned that I could not fear the edge just because I might fall. You see the reason I was on the edge beam was to pick green beans from our garden. All the green beans had been plucked from the “safe” garden area this factor didn’t stop my desire to eat them. I remember the events of this fall clearly- tears, blood, that metal taste in my mouth, my screaming, sitting in the bathroom while my mom bandaged me, peroxide, iodine, stinging. But what I remember more was seeing my mother yelling at me and shaking her head when she caught me picking beans on the edge again, still with healing wounds from my previous failed attempt. Now I laugh and hope that she will too, but then I believe it was far from funny to her and maybe a little twinge in her heart knew she could not stop me from failing or falling in life. In my mind, my being afraid of falling again was not going to help in the task at hand; it wasn’t going to get me those green beans and stepping over or on the tomatoes would surely find me dead. Maybe from this I should have learned to stay away from the edge or to be afraid of heights, but I wasn’t wired or taught that way. Failure didn’t bring fear; it brought stubborn determination and at times more failure.

I didn’t really think about failing when I started racing. I have always had this mentality about racing: just make it to the finish line. I gave little thought to my fear of not making it across that line. I tell you this to tell you that the thing I did fear the most in racing happened this past weekend. I failed to make it to the finish line. I failed to make it to the finish line on a swim event that I not only love completing but have a passion to be at because of the cause they support. Yes, on Sunday, 21 January 2018, I was pulled from the waters of Tampa Bay during the Tampa Bay Frogman Swim; never crossing the finish line.

Now let’s all take a deep breath because I need one.  Like the story of the Titanic you now know how the story ends but let me tell you the rest of the story.

The day before the event we did all our normal things. We stopped by Sweetwater to pay for our kayak rental and talk to others about conditions on the water. We then went over for the practice swim. Patrick, braver than me, went in the water skin only. We swam around and out a little ways, feeling the cold “holes” of the water. The water temps were in the mid 50’s, so cold but not unbearable. I swam in my sleeveless wetsuit knowing I would not be in the water for an extended period of time on this day. Just shy of a mile we exited the water. The water was certainly cold, but not the coldest I had swam in. After the swim we went for Korean food (another normal). Now set up, stretched out, and our hunger satisfied, we completed pack pick up. Everyone is friendly. This event is ALWAYS friendly. People don’t feel obligated to have to know you in order to talk to you. The chatter is about the service men we are swimming in name of, past events, and things that have taken place over the past year. We talk of water temps and wind and hope for the both to stay calm overnight. Then satisfied that all boxes are checked and double checked we head home. All normal. The only thing not normal about this day was that my stomach was upset. The 9 miles of throwing up while swimming that plagued the Alligator Lighthouse swim ran through my mind; three cold miles would be a long ways puking in the waters of Tampa Bay, so I hoped for the best.   

On Sunday morning, we head to the starting beach. The sun is not up yet; it will rest for a few more hours. Here on the beach we encounter the first problem of the day, Patrick has no kayak. The guys are running late, leaving several swimmers and kayakers nervously pacing the sand. The only positive for me is my dad is there with his kayak. Although I always find comfort in knowing Patrick is on the water, even if not beside me. I talk to a few people but again my attention turns to my stomach which seems to be trying to scream over the crowd for my attention. My first thought is “please don’t throw up”. Then I stated to think, “well if I can just get to the start without throwing up I know I can swim while not feeling well.” TMI moment: Throwing up was not what was actively happening but my stomach was acting up. Thankfully I was out of the porta potties as the athlete and kayaker brief started. As the brief started kayaks were still missing, pacing was still happening; anxiety and frustration rose around us. Just before the ceremony was to begin the kayaks show up and Patrick sets up his rig. He has had a lot of practice setting up a kayak so this is done in short order.

The ceremony began with the reading of the names of the fallen Navy SEALs whose badges we dawn around our necks, whose names we swim in memory of, and whose memories surround us through their families, their friends, their service comrades, and there ever still photos. You remember that you aren’t on this beach for yourself, this is bigger than you. This event brings a purpose beyond ourselves. You are reminded that today you are standing here because others can’t; you stand here because others stood up and gave for you; you stand here because you believe in honor and grace.

Then the Color Guard marches out to present the colors and the National Anthem begins. In the three years I have been a part of the Tampa Bay Frogman Swim one of my favorite things is the National Anthem (swim or not swim it plays). Not only because it is another reminder of those who we stand on this beach as representative for but because of what happens next. As the singer begins the crowd falls silent. You see hands reaching to their hearts, people stand to attention, and salutes are offered toward our ever waving flag. Then as the second line begins you hear small voices from all around you begin to sing. The voices get louder, stronger, raised together, and inspiring others. By the time bombs are bursting in air your heart to soaring with pride and compassion for your purpose of this day. The conclusion of the National Anthem brings cheers and uproar across the beach. The colors are retired and the start line begins to bustle.

As the first wave heads out the cheers on the shore are loud, as many remain there, waiting. This cheering noise will diminish as the wave numbers go higher and the number of those left on the beach dwindles.  The second wave goes off and there is a call out for an extra kayaker. Patrick, who was not assigned a swimmer yet, goes towards the call for assistance. He begins to move his kayak to head out in the following wave only to have it realized his kayak is a rental and could be used by the support member for the particular swimmer. See the kayak for this person didn’t show up, meaning Patrick’s kayak would go but not Patrick. As I approached, thinking I was kissing him good bye and telling him to paddle strong, he was removing his gear from the kayak and it was being whisked away to another kayaker who jumped in and went to find his swimmer. There was talk of more kayaks coming but it wasn’t looking good for Patrick to get on the water this day. While Patrick was never intending on kayaking for me, like I mentioned before there is a comfort in him being on the water, a comfort I can’t put in words but it is built over years of trust and hours of him looking after me in the water.

My wave readied, I hugged my mom and kissed Patrick and told my dad I would see him out in the water. My wave entered the water slowly since the water temps were low and the sun had not warmed us yet we moved very slowly, as if we would not be cold if we snuck in not disrupting the water. We gathered together wishing each other good luck, reminding each other to be safe, and letting each other know we would see them on the other side. Our kayakers are behind us and I spot my dad giving him a signal that I am who I am- seems hard to tell us apart in our wetsuits and hot pink caps. My dad signals back; we would do this about three times before the horn would start our wave.

In the minutes leading up to the start I felt good. I had my line laid out in my mind and knew where I wanted to be in order to be in “clean” water and out of the crowd. The horn went off and I took a high line closer to the radio tower and then bridge. My dad was at my right hand side within a few minutes of the start. I gave him a wave, just to acknowledge that I knew it was him. I settled into my stroke early- 1, 2, 3, breathe, 1, 2,3, breathe, spotting forward as needed and watching the bow of the kayak for direction. The sun was, as usual, in a horrible spot hiding the buoys for me, but I knew our course was good. On the course we were on we were out closer to the bridge, just us and a few other swimmers; all the rest of the teams were closer to the buoys and mostly out of my sight as they were behind my dad’s kayak given my water level view. I was in clean, flat waters and moving well. At about a half mile I felt this tightness on my left side, but it quickly faded and I gave it no second thought. I figured it was shoulder and back tightness from the full wetsuit I was wearing. I am not a fan of a full wetsuit but I wanted warmth over comfort.

I felt strong hitting the first mile mark. I was holding a good pace and we were positioned well in the Bay for the current drift that was happening. We began crossing the sandbar. On the sandbar I started to feel the side pain again, only this time it was going from my shoulder to my hip on the left side. Also there was a feeling like my guts were being crushed by the wetsuit. I briefly stood up and stretched my side and arm. I felt the water leave the top of the wetsuit, which I believe added to the problems to come (only in retrospect). I reentered the water and began swimming again. Now I could feel the cold rush over my core. I tried to focus on the stroke, to find that smooth motion I had before- 1, 2, 3, breathe. I was longing for this pattern to come back to give me a sense of comfort and control, but I was not finding the rhythm. I swam on and then something happened I had never had happen before.

As I was swimming it was as if there were two worlds overlaid on each other. One is reality and the next was a disorienting view of reality, like waking up from a dream where you are trying to figure out if what your mind is showing you is real or not. Only I wasn’t asleep. In years of racing with cold, sleep deprivation, pain, lacking nutrition, I had never had a cognitive feeling like this one. Somehow my mind was literally scaring me into thinking I was going to sink. I know this is crazy- one I am in a full wetsuit, you don’t sink in wetsuits; two, I am in three feet of water I can literally stand up inn this moment. I swim a little more and the water deepens. I pop up and grab for the kayak. I am pretty sure this is the moment that I saw panic in my father’s eyes. A panic I had not seen since I was much younger and popped my elbow out of socket while wrestling in the living room. I grabbed the kayak thinking I could center myself. I think I told my dad that I was okay but that I didn’t know what was happening in a sense of I didn’t know why I was not just continuing to swim past this feeling. I took a few breaths and tried to stretch again to ease the pain along my side. I let go of the kayak and went back into the water.

My dad pulled up his anchor and paddled. I only made it a short distance further before popping up again and grabbing for the kayak. I knew now what I had feared was about to happen. My dad felt my hands and my neck, I said, “I can’t do it.” Something was wrong and I did not know what. Funny enough I know that I didn’t become disoriented to not knowing where I was or what was going on because in true athlete fashion I stopped my Garmin at 1.8 miles my day was over.

Before I could really process what was taking place my dad singled for help, the right choice as time wasn’t something needing to be wasted if something bad was happening. The safety jet-ski with rescue board came over and the lifeguard jumped off the back. He helped me onto the board, jumped on to the jet-ski and instructed the driver to go, but to go easy so I would not be thrown off. I had wrapped my arms into the roping on the board and he held my hands, shifting my body to make sure I stayed on the board. I know he told me his name but I was too busy being mad at myself and frustrated to remember. He told me repeatedly that I was okay; he was comforting and kind. My mind raced I knew I was okay. My health was okay, but “I” was not okay.

I could feel the shore getting closer. As we slowed and then stopped I stood up. The pain along my side still there, still reaching deep into my abdomen. Patrick and my mom were on the shore, they both jumped up seeing me. Patrick came towards me as the race coordinator and medical personnel moved towards me. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to ask to be taken back out to where I had quit in the water. I wanted to start again. I wanted to be anywhere but there.

Here is the thing when you come in behind a jet-ski people want to check on you, they want to make sure you are safe, they want to ask you questions. While I had heard the speech earlier to listen to the race personnel and if something happened to let them help, all I wanted was for the world to stop spinning so I could figure out what was happening and the place to do this was not beside the finish line that I was not going to cross. I told them I was good, no need for medical care. They pointed me towards the warming tent or medical tent if I did find myself in need of them. My mother looked at me with worry but comfort that I was safe.

Patrick was there and even though he will tell you I stubbornly did not listen to him either, the only thing I wanted was to be next to him; there I knew I was safe. I was fighting tears- tears over this failure, tears over feeling I failed those I was representing today, tears from failure to be able to push down this pain. I didn’t want to cry here, I wanted to yell at myself. Patrick convinced me to go to the warming tent and lie down on the warming mat. I was there with the mat warming around me, a shower cap warming my head, and a warming blanket over me. I should have felt good warming up. I should have been happy to be safe. But I wanted to run away. Each finisher who came in I wanted to hide from out of embarrassment and my own frustration. After only a short time I was done, I could not take being there any longer. I was not able to lie there any longer without sobbing and I didn’t want to do that, not here, not over myself.

Patrick walked with me to the truck to get changed and then back to the beach. My dad kayaked up and when he looked at me it was like I was five years old again. He hugged me, repeating that I was okay and he was glad I was safe.

We packed up and with few words between the four of us we went to the after event. As my family went in I took a moment to sit in the truck and cry. First I cried about my failure. I let that fear of failure sink in, the realization that it had happened flooded over me. I replayed every moment in my mind, where it went wrong, why it went wrong, how it should have or could have been. Then I got mad at myself. Not for failing but for my change in perspective. My failing to complete the last 1.5 miles did not change why I was there, it did not change the fundraising we completed, and it did not change my pride in representing a group who gives to the families of fallen warriors. I sat there and cried over all of it. Then I took a deep breath and went inside.

Again I still did not want to talk to anyone. I still wanted to disappear. I felt ashamed and embarrassed to be standing in this space with others who didn’t fail; others who made it across the finish line. We went home that day again with few words. For me I needed the one thing that could not happen right then I needed time to think.

Over the next few days I just tried to forget about the water, but it would come flooding back to my mind, replaying over and over. This was my happy place and now all I could think about was being pulled from it. I am still not sure what caused what or why it happened in that moment on that day- other than to say failure happens. Maybe the side pain and cramping was from the cold or a lack of nutrition or from my stomach attempting to leave the body union. Maybe I should have trained longer in the full wetsuit. Maybe I needed more time in colder water. Perhaps I was caught up in negative self-talk that just manifested itself in the real world in that moment. Maybe it was all or none or all, I don’t know.

Here is what I do know. Failure sucks… but it does not define me. It does not define my passion. It does not define my grit. It does not define my love. It does not define my family. It does not define my life. It simply defines the moment. A moment that will be met with stubborn determination.

I will swim again. I will find the finish line again. And someday when I least suspect it I will meet failure again, but I don’t fear that day. I don’t need to fear failure because what has never failed in my life was standing on that shore that day with compassion, love, and support that held me steady and stopped the world for me for just a moment allowing me to catch my breath. In that moment I was surrounded by purpose and by those who love me unconditionally. This is what I learned in this failure- when you fall of the edge, when you stop in the middle of the bay, when failure greets you, if you look around there is love and there is no reason to ever fear when there is love.

And my favorite quote of failure:

The phoenix must burn to emerge. - Janet Finch

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