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flowerflamestars · 4 years

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Would you write a HC of Nessian being that childhood enemies to lovers in high school? I can only trust you with it

Trust accepted and golden.

-Okay, okay, so on the very first day of first grade, Cassian met the prettiest girl in the world. Little Nesta was absolutely one of those tiny polite children who has a vast hidden well of rage and imagination only displayed when playing witches with Elain in their mother’s garden. She’s quiet at school, utterly shy.

Cassian, meanwhile, is a gremlin. He’s energetic! and sweet! Dimples and curls, an enormous smile. He runs right up to the new girl on that rainy late summer day to introduce himself.

And trips. The Prettiest Girl in the World- as he tells Az, later, while they hide in Rhysand’s treefort- gets mud all over her perfect first day of school dress.

- Baby Nesta is not okay, okay? She has no idea what to do with this friendly boy. She wants him to stop talking to her. She’s sure her mom is going to be disappointed when she comes home with her white dress ruined, and it’s her first day at a new school without Elain.

Cassian keeps apologizing, but it is Not Okay.

-Nesta decides she hates him.

- Three years later, Nesta destroys Cassian in the spelling bee. Cassian begins to tip from the Prettiest Smartest Girl in the World is incredible to, the Prettiest Smartest Girl in the World keeps beating me at everything and I want to win JUST ONCE

Once, because he’s pissed. Once because then she’d be looking. Cassian just wants Nesta to look at him, and by sixth grade this feeling goes from earnest to furiously incandescent.

HEAVY ON THE FURY

- Jump ahead, to the very end of middle school, the Archeron’s mom dies.

Cassian is a happily adopted foster kid, former orphan who just barely remembers his parents. He finds out, and carries around this horrible heavy feeling in his chest all day like he can’t swallow.

He wants- he doesn’t know- he wants to say something. But Nesta isn’t at school, and they aren’t actually friends, but he just wants to say: someday. He wants to tell her what his foster moms told him: that it’s okay to cry. (He cannot imagine perfect, smart, Nesta Archeron crying). Whatever you feel is okay.

Entirely by accident Cassian runs into her at the local library. Outside, crying on the sidewalk, arriving just in time to watch her hurl her water bottle at the cement.

Cassian, being Cassian, brings it back to her.

It turns out pretty girl tears are terrifying.

So he very quietly hooks it back onto the pretty lavender backpack Nesta has carried around for the last three years- his is purple too, not at all to be weird, just because- and sits down on the sidewalk too, a couple feet away.

And Nesta is Not Okay. Her mom is dead, and she doesn’t know what she feels because it’s huge and terrifying. Everything hurts and she’s so, so angry and that stupid water bottle lid doesn’t really fit anyway, because it’s actually Feyre’s lid on Nesta’s bottle, because their Aunt doesn’t know anything and doesn’t know them, and Nesta only has that stupid baby backpack because their Dad spends all his time at work so he doesn’t know that before Mom got sick Nesta and Elain got new backpacks every year, whichever they wanted, and they always matched, but Elain’s ripped last summer and their dad had his assistant get a new one but it’s pink and Elain hates pink and it clashes with Nesta’s-

Cassian watches the Pretty Perfect Girl curl in on herself and scream.

This, in the end, is when Perfect Girl becomes Nesta.

Cassian is is panicking, okay? PANICKING. His ability to comfort other people is 85% knowing when Azriel is overwhelmed and 15% hugging his dog during thunderstorms. He doesn’t know what he can possibly do for Nesta- so he just grabs her hand.

Holds on, like Az did without laughing at him when Cassian cried that his adoption had gone through.

And Nesta hangs on, so hard it really actually hurts. He doesn’t ask her what’s wrong, or why, and Nesta is so grateful that hurts too. He’s always so loud and laughing, and Nesta has always hated it a little, thinking he was laughing at her.

(he was not)

The complete simplicity of that sweaty grip is just enough that Nesta can think. And poor baby Nesta thinks.

She has to go inside and return all the sisters books so they don’t have a fine. She needs to figure out how to cut Feyre’s bangs because she’s running around like a sheepdog because Dad didn’t remember to schedule her a haircut. Elain will help. And Nesta will help Elain water the houseplants because Mom loved them and Dad told the maids they’re fake but they’re not, only the ones in the living room are.

And Nesta- Nesta has a plan.

-They go in the library. If the volunteer behind the desk is making faces at Nesta’s tearstained face or grubby, iron grip on the boy beside her, Nesta isn’t going to acknowledge it, because Mom always said rude people didn’t deserve attention.

Nesta picks out her books, Cassian silently follows. And then he walks her home. They live in the same neighborhood, so it’s fine- but whats not fine is Nesta still hasn’t said anything, and Cassian just wants to say something-

But what happens it this- Nesta carries half the books in a grip so hard it looks painful. Cassian knows its probably painful, because she’s really hurting his hand now.

Cassian will look later at the imprint her tiny fingertips had made and feel like his whole body is fluttering- but now, now, she’ll steal his half of the books like it’s nothing and stomp up the porch steps of her house, right past a wilting delivery of lilies slowly dying before her front door.

She won’t say thank you. Cassian won’t say goodbye.

But Cassian will think it’s okay, it’s okay- because Nesta wasn’t alone like he’d been alone.

The blue door slams shut, and they don’t speak again until junior year of high school.

- Nesta Archeron is seventeen and ready to eat the world raw. She’s top of her class. She has goals, she has terrifyingly perfect hair, and she is not going to let anything stand in her way- especially not the fact that she ran for junior class president and tied, with Cassian.

-Cassian has become very, very Cassian in the intervening years. He’s popular but kind, a loud laugh that echoes down halls. Smart, but not a stratospheric over-achiever like Nesta. College is a year away, but everyone know’s he’s going to get an athletic scholarship.

They run in very, very different circles.

-Listen, it’s not even on purpose- it’s just that something about Nesta’s horrified expression and color-coded organization and perfect fucking red lips makes Cassian his most insane golden retriever self. He can’t help himself.

They have to work together. They fight constantly.

But Cassian’s fighting, at seventeen, is like 80% teasing and 20% very real, very earnest flirting.

And maybe- maybe Nesta knows that and it makes her even grouchier. She has a plan, okay? She’s on track to graduation top of her class. She’s going to Standford, then Harvard. She’s going to be a surgeon.

It’s not so far away she can’t still be there for her sisters. Elain wants to go to Berkley and obviously will because she’s brilliant- Feyre will only be alone for one year, but she’s already all set for that to be her study abroad year, so she won’t be trapped at home in their empty house. She’ll be in Spain, and then she’ll go to art school.

All three Archeron sisters will be of age to pull from their enormous inheritance left from their mother- they will never need to ask anything of their absent, silent, bastard father ever again. It’s just a matter of waiting.

Nesta is on track, and she can’t get distracted.

But Cassian- Cassian really seems to think Nesta doesn’t remember him. As though she could forget, as much as she wants to, that absolute disaster of a boy who was the only person in the world who made Nesta feel like she wasn’t responsible for everything.

Of course, that little boy grew up to be beautiful.

Of course, now he’s a goddamn menace who’s a clear foot taller than her with broad shoulders to match. Of course, that enormous kind smile sits even more tantalizing on an older face. Of course his dimples are so deep they flash when he grimaces at her student council timeline, broken down for the next two years.

- Azriel, Nesta’s AP chem lab partner, bound forever in respect by mutual silent competence and scorn for the assholes who sit behind them who keep lighting things on fire, says nothing about any of this until Nesta comes into class holding an enormous rainbow concoction like it’s going to explode.

Together- perennially left to their own devices by a teacher who really does not know what to do with them, and maybe fears they both know the coursework better than she does- they stare at the rainbow sprinkled whip cream mountain, slowly melting into the equally bright froth of the drink.

Some of them are heart-shaped.

Azriel breaks first, and asks, “Cassian?”

And Nesta, sweet baby ice princess Nesta, numb from being swooped upon by a giddy, grinning, blushing 6′4 quarterback who darted out of the culinary building to force this into her hand and run back away says: Does he think I’m a lesbian?

This is the moment Azriel’s soul actually leaves his body.

The visceral cringe is so apparent Nesta keeps talking: I mean, the rainbows? why?

It’s just close enough to a wail that Azriel decides to take pity on this whole new level of romantic idiocy. He proceeds to explain it’s a unicorn frappuccino? maybe? probably? not that he could advise actually consuming anything Cassian makes.

Nesta’s big What the Fuck face does not fade, so Az finally goes: he’s trying to get your attention.

Nesta: He has my attention. I see him every day.

Azriel, thinking about how much fun telling Lucien about this will be, imagining his very beautiful boyfriend howling with laughter: Right, and why would he want more?

Nesta: Because he’s a menace?

Az:

Nesta:

Az:

Nesta, glaring with heartfelt intensity at the melting hearts and stars, food coloring weeping: Because he wants my attention. That- that bastard.

Az, opening his mouth, only to be cut off by Nesta furiously unzipping her bag:

Nesta: that stupid fucking- are you kidding me? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? He- HE- he made me go to a soccer game last week and called it OUTREACH.

Azriel, watching Nesta tap her phone at top speed: Are you...texting Cassian?

Nesta: that motherfucking, stupid, college admission essays- I’m going to-

Az: Nesta??

Nesta: Do you know how much of a disaster he is? Do you know how much of my time he has wasted? He wants my attention, he has my fucking attention. Why didn’t he say so?

(In the background, the boys behind them have, indeed, started another fire)

Three buildings away, Cassian, vibrating with a frequency that can be seen from space: Mooooor, you don’t understand. She’s so smart, she’s going to be trauma surgeon.

Morrigan, trying in vain to get a full rainbows worth of food coloring off her pearlescent manicure: Cas, you literally want to be a nurse.

Cassian: Exactly

Morrigan gives up on her nails, distracted from Cassian’s lovelorn expression by his silenced phone flashing repeatedly: Who’s sparkle heart sparkle heart bomb peach firework sparkle heart?

Cassian, flailing:

Nesta, here expressed as sparkle heart sparkle heart bomb peach firework sparkle heart: Coffee. 3pm, Sunday. Yes?

Cassian, chewing on the inside of his cheek: Yes! Did the senior class shunt all their work down again?

Nesta: Not to work.

Cassian, life flashing before his eyes, thinking it was the sprinkles?!!

Nesta: A date.

Nesta: Is this supposed to taste like sour candy?

- They go on the date. Cassian overcomes his transcendent nervousness by getting into a pretty squabble with Nesta over the book they’re currently reading in AP English.

(The entire argument is a false premise, he loves Jane Austen. Nesta knows this.)

- Nesta takes him to this beautiful coffee shop that is like 70% just a lush tropic garden.

(Elain sees them coming and has to literally duck behind the counter to laugh. Lucien, her shift partner and dearest friend, watches the whole song and dance of ordering, sitting under a flowering tree and staring at each like lunatics with utter glee, ready to rely every detail to Az)

The Thing is, they keep fighting. They keep fighting, but Cassian’s smile gets softer and softer, his laugh brighter and brighter. The arguing is turning into banter and Nesta is actually? having? So much fun?

- The thing is, Nesta needed a plan to survive.

But maybe- maybe Cassian was there all along. Maybe, if she can’t be distracted, the obvious answer is to stop letting him make her crazy and- and let him in.

Maybe, she can hold onto responsibility for everything and still let someone else have a little responsibility for her.

Maybe, Cassian is exactly what she needed.

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bulldagger-bait · 4 years

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Sometimes I really hate the fact I was born female.

I hate that fact that men don't take me seriously.

I hate that I'm seen as a harpy whenever I show slight passion about a topic.

I hate that I was raised in a school where the boys thought I was insane for being a feminist. Where boys took pictures of me after saying "women only belong in two places, the kitchen and the bedroom", and then posting them all over social media calling me the "angry man hating lesbian feminist". I hate that a boy negged me on in chemistry class, sexually harassed me, and then when I lost it at him my chemistry teacher told me to calm down, that I was overreacting. I hate that when i told him to fuck off, and got sent to the deputy principal to explain myself. Me. Not him. Not the boy who was harrassing me, or the teacher that allowed it in his classroom.

I hate that when I told my dad a boy had been sexually harassing me, he went behind my back, contacted his parents and my school administration. I hate that I was then called into my deputy principals office and told that this had all "been blown out of proportion" and that I was being unreasonable. But it wasn't unreasonable for that boy to say he couldnt wait until I was 18 to get me drunk and high so he could have sex with me. When I was an out lesbian.

I hate that one of my friends was raped by a boy in our school. I hate that when she told the school they didn't believe her. I hate that they made her continue to share classes with him. I hate that she was threatened with suspension for spreading lies about "such a serious topic" and that he was able to keep harassing her on school grounds, unchecked.

I hate that one of my friends thought it was okay to threaten to rape me in front of my entire social group as a joke. And then I was seen as a hysterical bitch for telling my most trusted teacher. She actually did something about the situation. I was then ostracised from that group of friends. I "couldnt take a joke" apparently.

I hate that when I was nine years old I was riding my bike around my neighbourhood, and a boy five years my senior cornered me in an alleyway and tried to rape me not twenty meters away from my front door.

I hate that when I was younger a boy would hit me, scratch me, pull my hair, twist my arm, dig his grubby little fingers into my pressure points, making me cry out with pain, only to be told it was because he liked me. I hate that I believed it. I hate that I let it continue for two years. For two years my "best friend" covered me in bruises, and I let him because it made me feel pretty and wanted. I was ten.

I hate that when I was fourteen and desperate to convince myself I wasn't gay, a boy who i thought was my friend tried to pressure me into dating him only to then tell me about his porn addiction—his words, not mine—and call me an insensitive cunt for getting as far away from him as possible. After he told me about the things he'd like to do to me. Not with me. To me. As fourteen year olds. As children.

I hate that I was forced into pink and shaved legs and make up and long hair.

I hate that my mother made me cut up boxer shorts I had bought because I was sick and tired of wearing panties. Because some guy had made some comment about my grammy-panties. Never mind the fact that they were comfortable. I bought boxers because they were closer to shorts and I thought boys would just leave me alone. I bought boxers because they were cool and had superheroes on them and were comfortable. I bought boxers because I was sick and tired of the neon pink panties my mother had been making me wear for my entire life.

I hate that I wore pigtails to school and a boy called them "ride-me handle-bars".

I hate that when I cut my hair off the first thing people assumed I was, was a man. As if its that easy to take my womanhood away from me. As if all that makes a woman is long hair. I hate that I was called "skank who was trying to hard" when I had long hair, an "art hoe" when I had short hair, and a "dyke", "failed woman", "wannabe man" when it was cropped.

I hate that at 8 years old I was being bullied for being ugly. Because I had unkempt eyebrows. Unshaven legs. Tangled hair. Sweaty skin. Scraped knees. A crooked smile. Because I wasn't a child model. Because I wasn't some pedophiles wet dream.

I hate that I'm considered incompetent for certain jobs because of my menstrual cycle. Because women are too over emotional when they're "pms-ing" or "on the rag"

I hate that a man's go to insult for me is "cunt". Something that dehumanises me to my genitals. How silly of me to think I was anything more than just a hole for someone to fuck.

I hate that someone took advantage of my sexuality. Because I was repressed. Because I was a woman who grew up in a christian environment. Because I was a lesbian who was still convinced I could be straight. Because there was a pretty woman who knew she could manipulate me. I hate how there are people who still think its my fault, or that lesbian sex isnt even real so how could I be raped? Or that women can't rape. I hate that I had been convinced that what happened to me was normal. Because women are frigid bitches that don't want sex, but their partners do, and its "inhumane" to not put out.

I hate that I am paid less. And that people don't believe women arent paid less. Despite the fact that their is mountains of evidence to support our argument.

I hate that I had to do twice the work to get half the recognition in school.

I hate that a boy with no experience and no drive was seen as a more suitable leader than I was. Because I was a "controlling bitch". I hate that I did an incredible amount of work on the student council and he got to take the credit for it. I hate that he was a worse student but was seen as more acedemically gifted than I was.

I hate the double standards.

I hate how every part of my body is sexualised. I hate how my disability is sexualised.

I hate how when I mentioned my chronic pain condition to my male classmates, they made comments about how I would make a fantastic masochist. I hate that I internalised it. I hate that I believed them. I hate that when I got into a sexual relationship I let her hurt me—even though i didn't like it—because I throught kinky sex was the bare minimum and "vanilla" was for frigid prudes.

I hate that my body is not mine, but rather belongs to the public. For the government to legislate. For strangers to ogle at. For my father to control. And when I speak up I'm an unreasonable bitch. When I demand agency, I'm insane.

I hate how the odds were stacked against me since birth all because of that second x chromosome. All because some doctor said "its a girl" and immediately half of my opportunities were removed because they "weren't for girls".

I hate that in order to keep a job I am supposed to adhere to femininity. That not wearing make up is seen as lazy and unhygienic. That I need to "fix my eyebrows". That I need to shave my "gross gorilla legs".

I hate all this bullshit bagage that comes with being female. I hate it. I hate it so much. I hate that I am my own voyeur. I hate that even in my most private moments I am focused on how an unseen gaze would percieve me.

I hate that the slightest devience from "purity" will be met with threats of violence. That if someone doesnt agree with my politics I can be told to "choke on a dick" and to "kill myself" and whoever said that is safe in the knowledge that their community supports their words and actions. That if I step a toe out of line or make a mistake I deserve the full force of misogyny that people have been waiting to dole out to an appropriate victim.

I hate that my own father sexualised me. I hate that he abused me. I hate that he got away with it all because "teen girls make up that kind of stuff for attention". Because he was an "upstanding man". I hate that believes he is guiltless. I hate that he has manipulated and gaslighted me into believing his version of events. I hate that when I speak up I need to be careful because "he's a good man" and "he doesnt seem like the kind to do that" and that "you're blowing things out of proportion, I'm sure it was never like that."

I hate that when women accuse men of violence its "he said, she said". But when men accuse women of the same they are instantly believed. I hate that my voice holds less weight than a man's.

I hate that the religion I was raised in told me not to speak in church. Not to ask questions. To submit to men. To cover my head before god. That braided hair was sinful and vain.

I hate that I was taught there was no such thing as a female orgasm in order to discourage me from having sex. That I was told sex would be painful. And yet I was also told that when I married a man I should freely give him sex because it was my duty to serve him and bear children.

I hate that I'm seen as a baby factory.

I hate that I'm seen as a collection of body parts. A uterus. A pair of tits. A vagina.

I'm not those things. I am made up of those things, but they do not define my worth. I am made of carbon, but you wouldn't call me "an arrangement of carbon atoms" or "a carbon storage system" or "a carbon factory"

I hate that when I talk about my experience with womanhood I need to twist myself into knots to not step on any toes or offend. I hate that I have to be palatable when I am upset and enraged.

I hate that my anger is demonised and sexualised.

I hate that my love is fetished by heterosexual men. I hate that they see lesbianism as this empty thing to get off to.

I hate that I don't feel safe holding my girlfriend's hand in public. I love her more than anything in the world and my skin burns when I don't get to touch her. I hate that sometimes I get scared and call her my "friend". Not girlfriend. I hate that in public I feel ashamed to love her.

I hate it that my homosexuality is debated. I hate that it is seen as disgusting.

I hate that I have been taught and socialised that every single part of who I am is fundamentally flawed in some way.

And yet, despite all this, there are days where I am grateful for who I am. There are days when this body is not my enemy. There are days when I love my womanhood, however that may appear. There are days when I am unbothered by the thoughts of others. There are days where I am unafraid to love who I love and to love proudly.

There are days where the pain and anger of the past drive me to be happy.

I know those days won't last. They never do. There's always a slur, or a misogynist, or an abuser, or a traumatic memory. There's always a right being infringed upon, or an aspect of my body made public property, and it takes me right back to the anger.

I could never stop being angry. There is too much pain in this body to forgive and forget.

But sometimes, I don't hate the fact that I was born female. Some days I'm proud.

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leah-jeffries · 5 years

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I can’t believe it’s been over a week since BookCon rolled out of here! Now another 300-something odd days until the next one and I’m already anticipating BookCon 2020. Insane, right? Before this year is over, I’ve gotta tell you about what went down during one of the biggest bookish weekends in the world.

I’d been at BookExpo 2019 so by the time BookCon rolled around, the pair of us were tuckered out, our feet were in pain and I was anticipating the large number of convention-goers that would make their way into the enormous glass building. Now if you’ve never been to BookCon, it’s pretty much like BookExpo, but on steroids and with a much bigger fan experience. If you had to measure it against something like New York Comic Con, it’s really like a fourth of what that is. Though, I have to admit that this year was probably the highest attended BookCon the two of us have ever seen! I’ve been going since 2014, so it’s been a good part of a decade that I’ve had the pleasure to watch it grow.

Now if you didn’t know, the folks that run BookExpo/BookCon have an enormous social outreach. Besides all the standard platforms they have accounts on, they always make it a point to update their app through the respectable stores (in our case, on the Apple App Store) where they seem to have EVERYTHING. It lets you plan your schedule, check out who will be attending, what sort of events are happening, and even lets you connect with other people who will be attending in the community.

Okay, so I knew that BookCon would be a place where I go to really check out how exhibitors shift their focuses between the industry-targeted BookExpo and the standard community-targeted BookCon. And I knew that people were more excited since there were some heavy hitters that would be in attendance (I feel like it was really about all the celebrity authors this year).

So Saturday morning, I knew I was going to come early just because I love seeing the show floor right when it opens and what exhibitors are offering in their programming and materials to hand-out in the first wave of attendees. When I woke up and on my way to the city, I couldn’t help but peek in on the official Facebook group to see if people were really out and about for the conference already (I was up by 6am) and of course, there WERE people who had been talking about how attendees had been there since practically 4am! There were some really big book lovers out there, which I am totally on board for, but definitely not as big myself.

Saturday seemed like a wild day and honestly, the busiest that I had seen the 4.5 days between Book Expo and Book Con. And according to a few articles (particularly on PW), it was the busiest and most-crowded. I’m not surprised since Saturdays seem to always be the biggest when it comes to conferences and conventions. There were people EVERYWHERE and not enough freebies to spread amongst the increased con-goers (which I know a lot of people were disgruntled about) according to most attendees chief complaints that I read about.

To be honest, writing this a week later, the events are all a blur. So I’ll stick to the highlights.

Back to Saturday! To be honest, the biggest thing that happened that I was really hoping to score was THE TOLL from Neal Shusterman. When the cover was revealed a few weeks ago, I hadn’t thought in my wildest dreams that they would be creating advanced galleys (no matter how limited) for the ARC OF THE SCYTHE trilogy, let alone dropping them during BookCon. From conversations that I had with publishers over the duration of Book Expo, it seemed like they were holding back a lot of their promotional materials until Book Con, which I found pretty surprising. So when RivetedLit announced that there were scythes walking around the floor with envelopes that told you if you were “the chosen one” or not, you bet your tush that I bolted in search of them. I have no idea how many times I asked if they had something for me and how many enamel pins I ended up with and honestly, that was the biggest hardship I faced the entire weekend. With their tote bags full of envelopes, I was convinced that that these galleys didn’t exist. Apparently, there were 25 of them but I sadly, did not get my grubby hands on them.

September isn’t too long from now, right? (-sobs-)

(Also, I can’t deny that I waited until the end of Book Con on Saturday in hopes that S&S would do a drop of it since that was what happened with AN ENCHANTMENT OF RAVENS during Book Con 2017. It was my biggest regret leaving early.)

I feel like I tried to steer clear of the bigger booths that had the more ‘coveted’ giveaways happening (like HarperCollins and Penguin Random House) because there always seemed to be an endless stream of people, but I definitely didn’t stray from Simon & Schuster and Hachette. While they were buzzing with people, they had more opportunities for attendees to interface. RivetedLit had a fun lollipop (though people seemed to line up HOURS in advance with no promise of a free book) wall where you picked one at random and the color on the bottom fo the stick indicated which of their most-talked about titles you would receive. And if you got a blank one, you still got a lollipop out of it (which I certainly approve of).

Between the two of us, we got WINTERWOOD by Shea Ernshaw, SLAY by Brittney Morris, and PERMANENT RECORD by Mary H.K. Choi (I only got a lollipop on Sunday!). I gotta say, those were great choices. I had hoped to get THE LADY ROGUE by Jenna Bennett since it sounded so EPIC and I loved the premise, but again...September isn’t too far away...right? (-anguished sob-).

My two other highlights of Saturday was meeting Claire Legrand, author of so many delightful young adult novels, but she was there at SourceBooks to promote her latest release, KINGSBANE, the second in the Empirium Trilogy (aka one of my favorites in recent years). The first fifty in line received a complimentary finished copy of KINGSBANE while anyone thereafter got a copy at a discounted price. And let me say that there were A LOT of copies.

I only got a few seconds with Claire Legrand when it was my turn to meet her and I always feel like I’m taking too long by chatting with them (and I always love getting a photo of them signing their book), so I just tend to be awkward and always keep in mind to tell them to have a great time while they’re there since I know how insanely exhausting it can get. She is always a delight to meet and always decked out in a lovely outfit.

She was also giving away her preorder enamel pins which I’d missed out on since I procrastinated, so I was so glad I was able to snatch one for my pin board!

My other signing that day was with Joan He - again, a fleeting moment because I knew there were many people in line who wanted a chance to talk to her and I really would rather have that time devoted for those who want a real moment with her. I was so excited to meet the author of DESCENDANTS OF THE CRANE since it is a jaw-dropping, edge-of-table-gripping story. And honestly, how am I supposed to resist a diverse spellbinding story???

I spent the better part of the weekend on the show floor and saw a lot. It’s really no surprise that there were lines everywhere you turned. I can’t exactly figure out the best way for exhibitors to eliminate their lines other than dropping tickets in the morning or reserving them through an online system (like autographing area tickets), but I can say that if there weren’t lines, I think it would be such a great opportunity to network and get to know publishers more. I feel like a lot of the times, bloggers and people from the media (at least small-press media) get a terrible reputation at Book Con and other bookish conferences is because there’s very little room to develop that relationship between publisher and media. 99% of the time, people in both roles are behind the screen and working for corporations that do not allow for much face time.

Sunday was pretty much the same, but I still enjoyed walking around all day despite having been through the show floor MULTIPLE times in the week I’d been there. It’s just always fun to see what new things exhibitors are doing and to see the demographics of the attendees. According to PW, it was majority white women in their 30s-40s. While that doesn’t surprise me in the slightest and I did see a number of POCs on the floor, I was disappointed that there was not more catered to bringing in those bigger numbers. It was definitely startling to see the sea of “whiteness” when there were plenty of authors/illustrators with culturally diverse backgrounds in attendance and being promoted.

Truth time, I really wanted to devote my mornings on the weekend to finding totes. If you’ve ever been to one of these conferences before, you know there always seems to be totes flying everywhere from every booth, but it didn’t seem like the case this year. I’d sadly missed out on this AMAZING tote giveaway supporting Karin Slaughter at Blackstone Publishing during Book Expo, but I made up for it by claiming one of their really cute ‘Crazy Book Lady’ totes which is now in my collection of totes to use as my casket lining when I die :).

The only things we had to attend were our autograph signings. We had Sandhya Menon, Cora Carmack, and Tasmyn Muir/Kel Kade.

Cora Carmack went pretty smoothly. We’d met her earlier that week during her signing for RAGE and we’d wanted to get some of her backlist titles signed, so it was pretty delightful to see her. We’d decided to skip Sandhya because we were disappointed in the rule of having to purchase a book at full price, especially when her books were being sold at the Simon & Schuster for half price.

Tasmyn Mui and Kel Kade were signing on Sunday and it was our lightest day when it came to a schedule. We were pretty excited for GIDEON THE NINTH which boasts a cast of lesbian necromancers, so what is not to love? Especially when V.E. Schwab blurbs it, amirite? Also, Tasmyn and Kel were TERRIBLY delightful.

While we were waiting in line for the signing to start, there was a kerfuffle behind us and it seemed as though they’d run out of books for one of the authors which was pretty shocking to me. These autographing sessions are booked WEEKS in advance and while I know there is some negligence on part of the Book Con staff (people who just let other people without tickets in), I just couldn’t believe how short the number of books had been and it didn’t seem like it was a one-time mishap. There were multiple complaints across the Book Con official group in the days following Book Con and I dunno if I would have been okay with it had I been waiting a while for books that I thought I was going to get and ended up not geting (and believe me, there is a lot of waiting).

Two things that jumped out at me on the floor were the very family-oriented activities happening on the other side of the show floor hall. While the right side was condensed with all of the publishers, the left side was left quite empty and most of it dedicated to the queue hall for attendees to line up in the morning. But when you looked around that section, you might have noticed that there were many more merch booths and an area dedicated to a Family Headquarters where families had their own activities and programming. While I don’t have my own family, I thought it was really nice for Reedpop and Book Con to parter with the Children’s Book Council to cater to families that would be attending.

Not only was the event committee catering to them but also a few of the exhibitors They had tables and little (what I assume were workshops or activitiy time) tables where kids and parents could sit and do a variety of things like color and decorate activity sheets. This has got my 100% approval stamp all over it and of the kids that I saw there, they seemed like they were definitely having a lot of fun!

The other thing that jumped out at me that I briefly mentioned above and was probably my favorite part of the whole Book Con experience was the section that had exhibitors selling bookish merch. You don’t know this, but I am an avid collector of bookish merch like prints and enamel pins. Anything that is artfully done and for a fandom of mine, I will throw my money and bank account at without a second thought. I was actually really excited to explore it and while I’d browsed through it at Book Expo, it seemed to definitely bump up with a few more vendors during Book Con.

Sadly, I don’t have photos documenting that part, but I will definitely link anything I bought below that has a buy page or product look for you in case you want to check it out!

ChickLit Designs had a booth where you could spin a wheel and win a prize! Between the two of us, we won a lovely Rifle Paper Co.-esque Oscar Wilde quote print and a $10 off one of their products! Since they did have inventory there, we naturally had to buy something to avoid shipping costs.

"The Secret Garden" by Frances Hodgson Burnett - Phone Case

I was delighted to see Wick & Fable there since I am an enormous fan of their products! They had a really cute booth setup and there was no shortage of people looking to buy their stuff! I’m not too familiar with their store, but I understand that their website is pretty much their candles and subscription boxes. While they were selling their candles, they were also selling (what I assume to be) exclusive products from their monthly boxes which typically cannot be found online outside those boxes (which means $$$). While I desperately wanted to purchase their gorgeous Grisha/Six of Crows shadowbox frames, I just didn’t have $35 to shell out for them as much as I wanted to. I didn’t walk away empty handed though. I’m a sucker for THE CRUEL PRINCE and again, if I see anything that catches my eye, I will buy it. So I had to score the below pin!

The Cruel Prince Enamel Pin

Speaking of Cassandra Clare (no, I know that Holly Black wrote THE CRUEL PRINCE, but I always feel like I see Cassie and Holly together), I also couldn’t help but pick up the gorgeous tarot deck from the Topatco booth. Once again, gotta love any chance to save on shipping costs (though I had hoped for a discount, no matter how small).

Shadowhunters Tarot Cards

The only other thing I bought was from a booth I’d been eyeing all week and debating on buying from. If you aren’t familiar with Pinch Me Therapy Dough, it’s basically like a stress ball or kinetic sand - something meant to help you if you’re feeling anxiety, stress, anger, etc. I hadn’t known about this brand until I saw it in an Instastory of Tahereh Mafi’s. What is special about these ‘doughs’ is that they have a really soft, cool texture and are infused with the NICEST SMELLING essential oils. It’s really hard to find a product where the aromatherapy doesn’t go overboard and I couldn’t help myself. The woman there was selling them in large and small sizes as well as sample size packs. After some good smelling time, I settled on the very first one that I’d smelled and really loved.

Pinch Me Therapy Dough - Holistic Aromatherapy Stress Relieving Putty - 10 Ounce Relief Scent

They are a little pricey and I only got a small size (it was $15), but I really think it was worth it and it has me wanting to get more of them (Chill and Sun were two other scents I loved) but I think I’ll wait until I see the company at another conference and save the shipping fee!

I was surprised to see a lot of subscription box companies there, but were really only there to promote their boxes as a whole. Had they been like Wick & Fable and sold more of their separate pieces from their boxes, I think that would have made a HUGE difference. I understand that maybe there wasn’t inventory or they didn’t want to break away from their “subscribe to our box” branding and slashing prices, but I just don’t get how you wouldn’t want to make a bit more profit with such a good opportunity!

What my wishlist for Book Con 2020 is to have more of these vendors AND an Artist Alley. I know it’s odd to think of one outside of comic con conventions, but I’ve seen so many amazing pieces of artwork for books that I think it’s such a missed opportunity for there not to be at this sort of event where people are so willing to put down a few dollars to be able to visualize their favorite stories. And it would give conference attendees an opportunity to get away from the crowded lines of the main show floor and people who are just waiting on loved ones or need time to kill!

Until next year, Book Con. :)

#bookcon #book con #book con 2019 #bookexpo #book expo #book expo 2019 #bookcon 2019 #event #events #bookexpo 2019 #books

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blackhawkcomics · 4 years

Text

A lengthy family history of Juliette Rodriguez

Warning for... a lot of things, but it’s Julie, so it’s mostly all implied. Implied eating disorder, implied suicidal ideations, heavily implied emotional child abuse. Minor mention of drug abuse, though that isn’t Julie. There’s a pretty snarky discussion of homophobia too.

“My parents got married and had Kathrine super young, though maybe not in that order? I don’t know the exact date of their anniversary, but, like... there’s hints it wasn’t entirely on the up. Stuff like Grandma being just a little bit colder to Katherine than me and Audrey, Dad mentioning their short engagement once and then shutting up fast, just general caginess surrounding why they decided to get married so soon -- I mean, they were eighteen when they got married. My age. That shit just didn’t happen in the latter half of the twentieth century unless it was a shotgun wedding.

“You know, little stuff like that.”

“I think they were actually, like, decent at first? Like, before Mom got her big-shot job at her law firm, back when they still remembered being broke, first generation college kids. Katherine turned out okay at least, so they had to have done something right. And I mean she’s would-maybe-be-chill-with-me-being-gay levels of okay, which in my family is big. But then if I told her, she’d tell Dad, and then Dad would immediately snitch to Mom and let her be the bad guy, and we all know how that would turn out.

“Actually, wait, that’d actually be great if they kicked me out. I could go live with Lucia. Yeah, no, I should totally come out to my family.

“Anyway, yeah, Katherine’s okay, even if she acts like a middle-age soccer mom sometimes... which, I guess she almost comes by honestly now. Fuck, that’s a weird thought. It’s what she gets for marrying a bland white boy, though.

“Honestly, though, I like Katherine. We’re chill. I think she can relate to the way Mom put a lot of pressure on me to keep up my grades, and that being the only way we felt we could win her approval. You know, normal, healthy mother-daughter relationship stuff.

“Audrey, on the other hand, is annoying. Growing up, she thought just being four years older than me made her so much better, and like, I get it. When you’re a little kid, four years is a big difference, so I understand not wanting to play with me, but did she have to be such a bitch about it? And Mom loved her. Katherine was great because she was smart and Mom could brag about her perfect grades, but Audrey was popular. She was the perfect little dress-up doll right when Katherine got to that age when parents stopped being cool, and unlike Katherine, Audrey never grew out of being a whiny little kiss-ass momma’s girl. Well, joke’s on Mom, because her favorite little girl is fucked up. I’m talking sex, drugs, the whole rock and roll. And Mom still has no idea.

“Now that I’m older, though, I honestly feel kinda sorry for Audrey. It can’t have been easy growing up as Mom’s favorite, and I mean that with a hundred-percent straight face. Mom is a lot even when she likes you, and she expected Audrey to be Katherine two-point-oh, only she forgot the reason Katherine was so smart --- because she studied all the time --- was also the reason she never had time to make many friends. I think Audrey reminded Mom of herself at that age, too, only Mom never really figured out that Audrey didn’t have the same ambition that drove Mom through law school, so she kept pushing and pushing to make Audrey fit into the perfect mold she imagined Audrey in, and eventually Audrey just snapped. But she was still skinny, and popular, and Mom still loved her best. I used to loathe Audrey so much for that. I still do, sometimes, when I’m feeling petty.

“Me, though? I was always chubby, even as a baby, and Mom --- being the control freak that she is --- couldn’t stand it. So even from the start she was harder on me than my sisters, and by that time Dad was so whipped that even if he cared, I don’t think he would have done anything about it. And then Aunt Dorothy got her grubby little lesbian hands on me, and it was all over for me. Literally, she was a lesbian named Dorothy. I can’t make this up.

“Aunt Dorothy was the best. Still is --- at least I think, because Mom’s entire family still pretends she doesn’t exist, and I have no idea how to contact her. But this was back before they found out her ‘roommate’ was really her evil gay wife who corrupted Aunt Dorothy’s good Christian soul with her evil gay vagina...

“I feel like that joke doesn’t work as well when one or more of the participants doesn’t have a penis. Oh well.

“What’s important is that I was nine when, through a happy series of coincidences, Aunt Dorothy and her roommate moved to New York at the same time that both my parents’ workloads tripled in the wake of Iron Man’s Senate hearing, and Mom --- having just enough sense to not put the already-spiraling Audrey in charge of nine-year-old me --- needed a regular babysitter. Enter Aunt Dorothy.

“Now, Aunt Dorothy knew her sister, and she knew the kind of backwards-ass, hypocritical, conservative garbage she must have been filling our heads with, so she took it into her own hands to educate us on such matters as fairness, and compassion, and treating people with kindness and empathy, and critical goddamn thinking skills, which had apparently been flooded out of my mother’s head by the endless deluge of lawyeristic doublespeak that is the official language of the corporate cloud she lives in. Audrey had her lips so firmly adhered to my mother’s ass that she refused to hear a word Aunt Dorothy said to contradict our mother’s narrow worldview, but for some reason Aunt Dorothy never gave up on me. Maybe I was more receptive to what she was saying, what with me already understanding on some intrinsic level that my parents’ love was conditional. Or maybe it’s true that gays recognize fellow gays, even before we recognize ourselves.

“In any case, Aunt Dorothy became my hero. Even at home, it was Aunt Dorothy this, Aunt Dorothy that. But still, at nine years old I already knew that certain topics were dangerous at home and that I shouldn’t bring them up. Audrey tattled, of course, and I’m sure Mom yelled at Aunt Dorothy for trying to poison our impressionable young minds with her liberal agenda, but she was still the only family in the area, and Mom needed her to look after us.

“Eventually though, someone on Mom’s side of the family blabbed, or put two and two together, and they figured out she was a dirty filthy lesbian doing dirty filthy lesbian sex with her roommate, and that was the last straw. We weren’t allowed to see Aunt Dorothy anymore. We weren’t even really allowed to talk about her. I think after a few years she moved out of New York again, but I’m not really sure. I used to daydream about her bursting through the door one day and taking me away to live with her and... shit, I can’t even remember her wife’s name. Fuck. I hope they’re okay. I don’t like to think what I would be like today if I’d never gotten to know them.

“Anyway. My parents managed to beat the liberal agenda out of Audrey --- not literally, of course; they may be awful human beings, but they’re not monsters --- but it was too late for me. They tried to turn me around. God they tried, but I was too stubborn. So... well, they didn’t give up trying, but they gave up on me, in a way. They realized they were never going to change me, so they did their best to mitigate the damage. Make me into a private shame, not a public one. Which meant lots of private screaming, and private dieting, and private misery.

“Lucia and her family were really the only things that got me through middle school. I stopped talking even to her about it for a while, at least not explicitly, but... she knew. I think her parents knew too, or at least suspected, but if I wasn’t ready to open up even to Lucia, they knew there was nothing they could really do to help besides feed me extra portions when I was over for meals and love me like one of their own. Honestly, I --- it was bad for a long time. I owe Lucia my everything, and that’s all I want to say about that.

“Fuck, I can’t wait ‘til I graduate and I can get out of here. Screw college, I’m joining Lucia at SHIELD. She’s more family to me than these miserable piles of festering dog crap I call my parents.”

#uhhhhhhhh so this happened #this is NOT an open starter because julie would never in a million years be this open about family matters to anyone who isn't lucia #and not even her sometimes #short leash and a short fuse ( julie )#does it count as headcanon if it's my character? ( about )#after the end ( verse )#suicide tw #eating disorder tw #child abuse tw #drug abuse tw #homophobia tw

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dcbicki · 7 years

Note

Do dan/amy with #1

1. Things you said to me at 1AM | Post s-6, in which Amy is eight months pregnant, there's a crib that needs building, and Dan is a complete fucking tool.

(Bitch, I went well over a thousand words with this, so… thanks for that.)

Arriving home, she hadn’t expected to see a couple dozen boxes - some smaller, some larger - littering the rooms of the apartment.

“Dan!” She’d called out, hoping to find her roomate-come-baby-daddy-but-definitely-not-partner nearby. He’d called to say he’d be home early. And it’s gone twelve, so where the fuck-

“In the other room.”

She’d found him crouching down on the floor, all jeans and crinkled shirt, holding up two pieces of white wood.

The crib. Right.

She’s been here ever since, in a room bound to become a nursery, watching him toy around with the unassembled pieces of the child’s bed.

“You know, Catherine and Marjorie just ordered theirs. And it came pre-built.” She clicks her tongue, types some shit into her phone, looks over at Dan, “Then again, they aren’t as fucking extra as you.”

“I’m not gonna be fuckin’ upstaged by a sophomore lesbian and her backup sperm donor.”

Amy rolls her eyes, tries to avoid cracking a smile, “At least she chose the baby’s genes.” She doesn’t bring up the fact that Dan was the original donor, “This baby’ll probably come out with a head full of gel, clutching a fucking iPad.”

She holds her phone until her knuckles turn white - nothing new there - as if to demonstrate her point. Then she crosses her legs, and lets it drop (odd) into her lap, keeping a straight face as she watches him.

It’s past midnight, and they’re still no closer to having the fucking crib built.

“Remind me again why you didn’t just let the delivery guy do it instead?”

There’s a hex key, a couple dozen pieces of varnished white wood, and some bits and pieces laid out on the floor. They’ve been there for about an hour and half, and Dan doesn’t seem to have even built one side of the fucking thing.

“I’m not having some white trash truck driver’s grubby hands all over my kid’s bed, alright? Fuck, do you really want those kinda germs hanging around the apartment?” He scowls.

Yeah. Sure. That’s it. He’s such a cheapskate when he wants to be.

“I can build a fuckin’ crib, Amy. Jesus.” He grumbles, tosses down a wrench (she’s pretty sure he doesn’t need a wrench), and rests his hands on his hips, untucking the shirt from his pants. “You wanna give it a shot?”

“Because you can’t?” The blonde raises a brow, smirks, “No. It’s actually kinda fun watching you struggle.” She reasons, crosses her legs comfortably, sitting Indian style.

“Oh, yeah?”

Amy hums, nods her head and leans back in the rocking chair. It’s uncomfortable as all hell, but Sophie suggested they buy one. (And she listened why?)

“Even Mike can handle a little DIY, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, well, that neanderthal was around when they were still making tools out of wood so that’s not surprising, Ames.”

She grins, “Hell, I’m sure even Jonah could do it if you gave him a tutorial.”

The daggers he shoots her make her smile widen, and Amy raises both brows at his retort, “Fuck you.”

Dan bites at his bottom lip for a second, wipes the bridge of his nose with his wrist. (As though he’s been working hard. Please.)

There are two slats of wood at his feet, perpendicular and screwed together. It’s the most he’s done so far. (Is that even right?) She could probably have the thing built in ten - no, twenty - minutes or so, but she won’t lend a hand. Fuck no.

He said he could do it. He can prove himself. Besides, it’s really kind of amusing to her to watch him fail miserably. Then again, he hasn’t exactly been trying very hard.

Reaching down, Dan picks up the instruction sheet, balls it up in his fist before tossing it in the box the unbuilt crib arrived in. They had a bunch of furniture unloaded several hours ago, but so far none of it has been constructed.

Luckily she’s only eight months along, and they’ve still got some weeks to go before the little fucker arrives.

“Well, that’s good. Now what are you gonna do?” Amy teases, leans back so the chair sways back and forth, creaking against the hardwood floors of their apartment. Damn him for making her move in with him. “I mean you couldn’t even build it with instructions, so now-”

Dan holds up a finger, lifts both brows confidently. “I’m waiting for a moment of genius.”

“We don’t have all night.”

“You got a better idea, Mom of the Year?”

“Yeah. You could call the store, and they’d send someone out to do it.”

“It’s one in the fuckin’ morning. What kinda service do you think they’re providing, Amy? Fuck.”

“Not right now, you fuckwit.” Amy frowns, rolls her eyes and head back so she’s staring at the ceiling. How did that mark get- “I’ll call them first thing in the morning.”

“No.” He damn near cuts her off, walking over until he’s stood in front of her, resting both hands on the sides of the chair. “No, you won’t. Because I’m gonna get this thing done, even if it kills me.”

“Wow, you really don’t like sucking at stuff, do you?”

“Don’t act so surprised. You knew that already.”

“True.” She agrees, lowers her gaze to meet his, but she keeps her head titled back, hands running along the armrests of the chair, carefully avoiding touching his hands, “I don’t want you to overexert yourself to death, though. I mean, you didsay you’d help out with the kid. And you did promise that I could be the one to kill you when you’re ninety if you haven’t already died of natural causes.”

“Well, Amy, this is me helping out with the kid.”

She snorts back a laugh, “Really? Because it looks like this is just you trying to prove yourself. No need to compensate for anything, Dan. I’ve already seen your dick. It just about does the trick.”

“Just about?” He stands up straight, traces of a smirk beginning to form on his face.

Ah, yes. One of his three facial expressions. Disgust, confidence, terror. She likes imaging which face he’ll make when she gives birth.

Amy shoots him a look à la ‘Shut the fuck up and get on with it’. Looking up through long lashes, she notes how he hasn’t moved, is still towering over her. “Are you going to fucking build it or not, asshole?”

“Are you gonna fuck me if I do?”

“God, you’re a child.”

“No, Amy. I’m a man who would like some recognition for his hard work.”

Wait. Did he- That fuck weasel.

“Have you been screwing me this whole time?”

Dan smirks, wider than before, and he shrugs, nonchalant, “Maybe. That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m gonna ignore the fact that you’ve wasted over an hour of my life by pretending to be bad at something you can apparently do, because it was kind of fun to witness your would-be emasculation anyway. But, no. I’m not going to fuck you. Jesus Christ, you were just playing me like one of your little college bimbos.”

“Ames, you know I gave up sleeping with other women for you.” He tilts his head to the side, all proud and smug, like it’s a massive accomplishment. She wouldn’t believe him if it weren’t for the fact that she threatened to chop his dick off, and she knew just how much he treasured King Danny - God, that name - and he knew just how serious she was with her threat.

“But I still don’t wanna be upstaged by Catherine and her side-bitches.” His eyes crinkle then - is that a fucking smile? - and Amy can only frown. “I guess I just have more interest in getting our new bed up and ready instead.”

They don’t even have a new bed to build, so what the fuck is he getting it ready for-

“Oh, fuck, no.”

She pulls a face, shakes her head, stands up and goes to walk off all in the flash of a second - because fuck him - until his hand catches her elbow. It’s gentle, and she kind of hates him for it. Then again, she’s eight fucking months pregnant and he’s not a complete animal.

“Amy.”

“Fuck, Dan. I can’t believe you ever roped me into this in the first place.”

“Into fucking?”

“Into moving in with you, you goddamn unflushable turd.”

“You love it.” He smirks - because of course he does - and Amy hates herself for smiling back.

“I don’t love you, though.”

“You like me more than you like anybody else.” He reasons, steps closer until she’s flush against him, all bump and breasts. Fuck.

“Yeah, well, I’m the only person that you like, so-”

“Yeah. You are.”

It’s one o'clock in the fucking morning, which means they should be sleeping, not having a heart to heart. Or, well, a… discussion pertaining to matters of the heart had either of them possessed a heart?

“I do like you, Amy.” He grins, reaches for her chin.

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you love me.”

“Fuck you.” She steps back, wills herself to ignore his lingering gaze, “Build the fucking crib, asshole.”

“Are you going to bed?”

“Yeah. You’re not welcome to join.”

“After I build this fuckin’ IKEA piece of crap?”

She comes back into the room to pick up her abandoned phone, shoots him a brief look before spinning back around, knowingly letting his eyes dance along her back and ass, “If you can build it in the next twenty, no… ten minutes.”

“I can do it in five.”

Amy rolls her eyes down the hallway, waves a hand behind her, rests her free hand on her stomach, “Your dad’s a fucking moron.”

#juliaslouisdreyfus #fic*#dan x amy #dan egan #amy brookheimer #veep #veep fic #ship: dan x amy

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glittership · 5 years

Text

Episode #74 — "Best for Baby" by Rivqa Rafael

Direct download here!

And here’s the RSS feed: http://glittership.podbean.com/feed/

Episode 74 is part of the Autumn 2018 issue!

Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/

Best for Baby

by Rivqa Rafael

When I jack in, I shove the plug into its socket harder than I should. The disconnect–reconnect tone combination sounds; the terminal is as grumpy as I am. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve been kept back late in the lab to finish a job. Which was stolen from me. By the person who asked me to do this, as a “favor.” Who also happens to be my supervisor, so I can’t say no.

I load up the interface, drilling straight down to the zygote’s chromosomal level. Hayden’s been a bit careless, like he always is on the rare occasions he actually gets in the wet lab. I get to work, fixing his mistakes. Back in my body, I’m grinding my teeth and hunching my shoulders. Before I sink deeper into the VR, I take some deep breaths and roll my shoulders the way Lena showed me. Her yoga obsession has fringe benefits for me—my body needs to be relaxed if I’m going to do my job properly. Just for a moment, I’m back in our living room with Lena coaxing Kris and me to stretch with her. It’s enough to refocus me.

For all that it’s a science, there’s an art to working in the interface. The prion scalpel is tiny—obviously—and delicate; it needs to be handled with care, the type of care that only comes from being completely in tune with your neural implant and the system it’s connected to. It’s something Hayden seems to lack. Keeping my movements graceful (thank you, Lena), I begin to repair the damage. In here, I’m both the pipette and the hand depressing the button; I’m the prion scalpel; I’m the machine. The translation overlay is just a guide; I’ve been able to recognize bases by shape for a long time now. When I started, I thought I’d never remember the sequences, but I know our most common mods by heart now.

[Full story after the cut.]

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 74 for June 17, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Today we have a GlitterShip original, which is available in the Autumn 2018 issue that you can pick up at GlitterShip.com/buy, on Gumroad at gum.co/gship08, or on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and other ebook retailers.

If you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them.

http://www.storybundle.com/pride

Our story today is “Best for Baby” by Rivqa Rafael, but first, our poem, which is “Aubade: King Under the Mountain” by Tristan Beiter.

Tristan Beiter is a poet and speculative fiction nerd originally from Central Pennsylvania. His poems have previously appeared in GlitterShip, Eternal Haunted Summer, Bird’s Thumb, and Laurel Moon. When not writing or reading he can usually be found crafting absurdities with his boyfriend or shouting about literary theory. Find him on Twitter @TristanBeiter.

Aubade: King Under the Mountain

by Tristan Beiter

I wake to the crackle of the thousand-year hearth in the center of the room, to the bells tolling. Never church bells, but the deer harness hanging on the wall.

I stretch towards his space, removing my earplugs—which I have taken to wearing since even the tomtes snore something terrible. Luxuriate in the furs: big piles of wolf pelts and

bear skins that make up our bed under the intertwined roots of these seven great pine trees which are our roof, warm, with the wind through them and older than even Klampe-Lampe,

who has risen already and left. But he’ll be back soon. I can see the pile of battered, burnished gold and silver, still waiting to bedizen him, bracers and torcs and earrings

and necklace upon necklace—careless ugly riches that have lasted generations of trolls living hundreds of years, all mounded up and displayed on knobbled bodies

and in untamed hair. I pluck my earring, bracer, heavy silver beads from the ground and put them on. When he returns, he’ll carry me in his left hand to the throne room under the mountain.

And now for “Best for Baby” by Rivqa Rafael, read by A.J. Fitzwater.

Rivqa Rafael is a lapsed microbiologist who lives in Sydney, Australia, where she writes speculative fiction about queer women, Jewish women, cyborg futures, and hope in dystopias. Her short stories have been published in Defying Doomsday, Crossed Genres’ Resist Fascism, and elsewhere. She is co-editor of feminist robot anthology Mother of Invention.

AJ Fitzwater is a dragon of repute living between the cracks of Christchurch, New Zealand. Their fiction appears in such venues as Clarkesworld, Lackingtons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and Glittership. A collection of their Cinrak the Lesbian Capybara Pirate stories will be out in May 2020 from Queen of Swords Press. Their stranger than fiction can be found on Twitter @AJFitzwater

Best for Baby

by Rivqa Rafael

Finding my rhythm, I begin to work a little faster; I’ve almost forgotten about Hayden and his insistence on getting his grubby hands all over this project. I don’t have forever in here—the zygote needs to go back on ice—but I’m in the zone now and there’s still plenty of time. I’ve got this. Sure, I’m not going to get any credit for it, but Hayden’s going to owe me. I’m logging everything, so he can’t conveniently “forget.” If I play my cards right, this might be the last step to me finally getting a promotion. Goodness knows I deserve one. Maybe Hayden would even back me up.

I zoom out to look back at my work so far, and gasp. Something’s wrong. I should be about halfway done, but it’s like I was never here. No, worse. There are deadly cancer mutations here, lots of them, right where I was working. All types that wouldn’t show up until later in life, too. None of it was here before, and time is short.

You had to know Hayden pretty well to pick up his aura of desperation as he talked up the state-of-the-art equipment. PCR machines and centrifuges just look like boxes with touchscreens if you don’t understand what they do, after all.

The couple lacked the air of anguish that infertile couples usually have when they walk through. Or the wonder often displayed by more-than-twos and gonadically incompatible—my heart panged as I thought of what it would take for us, how we’d—stop, it was pointless even to think about it, I told myself for the millionth time. I just worked here; I’d never be a client. Kris had already banned me from talking too much about work. Like me, she was implanted. You grow up knowing your place, not rocking the boat, aiming for what’s feasible. Lena was more willing to indulge me the fantasy; would we split everything evenly, or would one of us provide the mitochondria and the other two a set of chromosomes each? Both could work. I snapped myself out of it. Kris was right about this one; I just wished I could convince myself to believe it as thoroughly as she did.

These two eyed the machinery with indifference. Probably here for mods, and mods only. If they weren’t using a surrogate, I’d drink my Taq polymerase.

“Impressive. How do you guarantee your results, though?” Mom-to-be glittered with diamonds—genuine, I could only assume. Closest I’d ever got to any, anyway.

“As I already explained…” Hayden caught my eye before I could look away. “Perhaps you’d like to meet one of our geneticists? Merav can answer your questions in far more detail.”

Dad-to-be’s suit was so well-cut and so fine, it might even be real wool. His hair was immaculate and he smelled of expensive cologne. His HUD glasses were shiny, a model too new for me to recognize. “That would be excellent.”

Setting my face into a neutral expression, I swiveled on my stool to face them properly while Hayden introduced them as Mr Blake and Dr Ashdowne. The names rang a vague bell and they were obviously capital-I Important, but I didn’t work it out until later. Hayden scolded me later for not standing up, but it just didn’t occur to me. As it was, I was going to have to start mixing my reagents again by the time this interruption was over. “I’d be happy to.” I did my best to distill and explain the years of research into genetic variables, what we could reliably reproduce and what we couldn’t, how we managed successive generations of mods, and how we tested each zygote’s chromosomes before allowing it to progress to blastomere—all non-invasive.

They nodded along as I spoke; I couldn’t tell if they really understood, but Hayden smiled at me, which was a rare occurrence, so I was lulled into feeling grateful.

At some point, they started talking to each other, right over the top of me. They dithered about hair color, wondering whether the stereotypes about blonde hair still held. Did they notice the irritation in my voice as I tried to explain how many other variables might be at play in their child’s success?

“We just want the best for our baby,” Ashdowne said, almost pleading, but there was an edge to her voice that made me think that “best” meant something different to her than it did to me.

“Of course. But this is just the beginning. We can’t control much of growth and development when upbringing plays such a large part. And epigenetics have an effect as well.” Keeping my voice even and patient was hard; there were only so many ways I could say the same thing. “Think of it as… venture capitalism. You’re making the best possible investment with every tool at your disposal, but that doesn’t guarantee that things will work out exactly how you planned.”

Ashdowne nodded, but Blake’s eyes were flinty. “You’re saying our child might crash, and it won’t be your responsibility?”

“I’m saying your kid might dye their hair one day, and that’s not something we can control for. We’re very clear about what we promise and what we don’t. It’s in the contract; I assume you’ve read it. It’s up to you.” Maybe it wasn’t the right PR line, but I wasn’t PR.

They signed the contract.

I put the zygote back on ice and try to log into another. This couple only wants one child; that’s part of why they want it perfect. Still, each client typically has more than will be used; we need that margin for error as much as the IVF specialists do. There are four more zygotes. This should be salvageable. But each one gives me an “unavailable” notification. What is going on?

Returning to the first zygote, I allow myself a tiny sigh of relief when I can still get back in. It’s a mess, but I can fix it in time. I think. I set up an extra firewall, the best I can code on the fly. We’re down to the wire here. Last chance to get it right, assuming the other zygotes are gone for good. If this one doesn’t work, doesn’t stick, we’re going to have to fess up and get more samples—if they don’t cancel the contract, which wouldn’t surprise me. I’d heard that Ashdowne had found the induction and retrieval unusually difficult, and it wasn’t fun at the best of times. So much for the Important clients. Fucking Hayden, honestly.

Working in the same order I always do, I begin cleaning up the chromosomes. Again. It’s almost easier this time. The errors are so obvious, it would be comical if it weren’t so dire. As though someone used a pickaxe instead of a prion scalpel.

I’m wincing, I realize, just looking at these errors. I’ve never seen so many cancer mutations in one place. Forcing my body to relax, I get back into my rhythm. This is definitely within my capabilities to fix, and with the logs I have running, maybe I’ll get some recognition for it. Maybe even that bonus Hayden had hinted at, even though it’s seeming less and less likely that it’ll be him authorizing it.

My firewall pings; someone’s trying to log in. Hayden.

“That firewall is going to look very suspicious to the auditors,” he says, using a private channel on the company comms.

“Standard protocol when there’s a security breach, which there certainly seems to have been. I hope you’re looking into it, Hayden?” I’m pretty sure he isn’t, but I choose my words carefully, aware that my logs will pick this up along with everything else.

Hayden added me to the team officially, and I had to sit in on endless meetings when I should have been doing real work. He assured me that it would be worth it; that there were bonuses for jobs like this. That is, jobs for billionaire corporate royalty like Oliver Blake and Penelope Ashdowne. So I did my best, and that seemed to be good enough. From what I could tell, they liked having an “expert” on board, even if they didn’t actually listen to me very often.

But then one day, Hayden was in the meeting before I arrived, chatting to “Oliver” about the stock market and complimenting “Penelope” on her outfit. After all these weeks, I was still calling them by titles; Hayden had said it was important I was respectful. That didn’t seem to apply to him, though. He ran a hand over his sleek hair, as though checking it still hid his neural implant. “Oh, Merav, didn’t you get my memo? I really need you on that rush job. I’ll take this from here.”

“But—” I bit my tongue quickly. Hayden was my supervisor and he was within his rights to do this. Outside the room, I checked my work datapad.

I hadn’t missed any messages.

“Oh, this doesn’t look like a security breach to me. Seems like an internal error.”

Staying quiet, I carefully roll chromosome 19 back up while I think through my options. There’s no way an audit would incriminate me; my logs are streaming as they should. What is Hayden playing at? “Have you checked on the zygotes in meatspace?” I ask finally.

“Some kind of lab mishap. Terrible, isn’t it?” So that was why the other zygotes were “unavailable,” with this one only missed because I’d been working on it.

My heart thunders in my chest. “That’s going to suck for whoever made that mistake. What’s worse, do you think, the docked pay or having to apologize in person to the parents?”

“Tough one. Sure is a shame for that person.”

“Still, one zygote is better than none.”

“Fuck me, you’re actually trying to fix it,” he says. It takes me a second to notice he’s swapped to socmed comms, the one that’s supposed to be the most secure on the market. No logging options at all.

“No, I am fixing it. It’s my job.” Frantically, I switch to loudspeaker mode, and my datapad to record ambient sound. It’ll catch all the lab noises as well, but it’s the best I can do. The red light blinks at me; I allow myself to exhale and return to the chromosome I was working on.

Instead of replying, Hayden changes tack. “You have a long-term girlfriend, don’t you?”

“Two, actually.” In ordinary circumstances, I’d enjoy flustering Hayden with that. It’s not a secret and we encounter plenty of polyamorous folk in our line of work, but I’m completely unsurprised that he hasn’t paid attention. But I’m too stressed and wary to enjoy the moment.

“I, ah, huh.” He falters for a second; I hear skepticism that I, of all people, could possibly have not just one but two lovers. But he’s clearly a man on a mission and plunges on. “Ever wanted a baby of your own? The… three of you?”

I finish up the short arm of chromosome 2; no colon cancer on my watch. “We might adopt one day, if we can afford it.”

“What if you could, though? Have a biological child, I mean. You’d want to?”

“I don’t want things I can’t have. Waste of time.” I borrow Kris’s words for this lie, but it’s hard to imagine a person I’m less interested in having this discussion with than Hayden.

He does this fake laugh, short and barking. “Lots of other things to spend that money on anyway, right?”

“Sure, if you had it.” Just a couple more silent mutations and I can move on to cleaning up the epigenetic layer. Time to work out the end game. “What’s this about, Hayden?”

“What if I told you there was better money in just… stopping now, if you know what I’m saying?”

I recalibrate the scalpel and begin clearing the methylation around the DNA; there’s way too much, because of course—Hayden fouled up everything he could. “No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Jesus, are you stupid, or are you being deliberately obtuse?”

I take my time replying. I’m working, after all, and this part is fiddly. “You’re going to have to explain yourself either way.”

He only hesitates for a moment. “I know some powerful people. People who have an interest in seeing Blake and Ashdowne suffer.”

“They’re last names now? You were such pals.” Methylation is at regulation levels now. Next, I sculpt the histones to the shape that centuries of research has determined to be ideal. Working quickly, I correct the errors to the surrounding proteins. A perfect zygote.

“You know what your problem is, Merav? You have no idea how to play the game. You think hard work is rewarded. It isn’t. You have to be daring. Take a risk. Not as though the modded are ever going to give us a hand up, right?”

That first meeting. “You’ve got one of those implants, I see,” Ashdowne said, eyeing the side of my head, where my undercut showed off the neural implant. Like my early adopter parents, I was proud of my body hacks and what they could do. No gen mods in the world can tune you into tech like an implant can. Wearables? VR headsets? Ha.

Blake dragged me back to reality. “They’re illegal if you’ve been modded, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Unfair advantage to have both, right?” I struggled to keep the sarcasm from my voice. A thousand years on my salary, and, by inference, my parents’, wouldn’t be enough to pay for mods. I might like my implant, but I didn’t like being treated like dirt for having it.

Hayden was all polite formality. “Merav’s implant allows her to interface directly with our machinery. We couldn’t do what we do without our ‘planted staff.” Hayden was quite willing to keep his implant covered to keep the clients happy, and he was pretty enough to get away with it.

“Ah.” His expression didn’t change, but the sneer was evident anyway.

“We just bought that little company that makes this brand, remember, dear?” Ashdowne raised an eyebrow at her husband. “Whatever it takes to get the best.”

“That’s right!” Hayden said. “You get what you pay for in this industry. It’s a cliché, but it’s true. If you’ll come this way? You haven’t seen the clinic yet.”

And then they were gone, leaving only the scent of cologne and perfume.

They’d deserve it. They would. They care as little for me as a person. For a terrible, shameful second, I’m tempted. I imagine it; going off the grid, doing illegal mods for the rest of my life. Holding a baby, my baby, our baby, in my arms.

I zoom out and look at the zygote in its entirety. Regardless of how horrid this baby’s parents are and my dead-end job that undervalues me and underpays me, after I’m done, doctors and nurses will make every attempt to give this tiny clump of cells the chance to become a person. And these days, they tend to get it right, especially with a proven surrogate. The mutations that are left won’t kill this child, only make their later life a misery of radiotherapy and chemo. Teach the parents empathy? I don’t think so. In an instant, it’s clear what I need to do.

“You’re right, they want us right where we are.”

He chuckles with relief. “I knew you’d come around.”

“But I’m pretty sure assaulting their offspring isn’t going to change that.” I terminate the call with Hayden and send everything to head office; the logs of my work on the zygote, all of today’s communication between the two of us. Everything. Highest level alert, coded “suspected bioterrorism”; that should take care of it. They’ll deal with him better than I can.

“Time check,” I command the interface.

“Five minutes, twelve point four seconds.”

It’s enough time. Carefully, making sure not to introduce any last-minute errors, I unwind one 3p25 and fly up to OXTR. Just a couple of small changes are enough; a haplotype here, a couple of extra copies of an allele there, and I’m done and zipping the chromosome back up.

It’s a tiny change; there’s so much beyond one gene at play here. Goodness only knows what kind of methylation, and socialization for that matter, lies ahead for this kid. But the way I see it, a little extra empathy never hurt anybody.

END

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Episode #74 — “Best for Baby” by Rivqa Rafael was originally published on GlitterShip

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