#had I the time money and wherewithal there's a lot I would do differently now

[hyperionwitch]

WELL...after almost 4 years of working on it, Evelynn is finally...FINALLY done. lmao In the end, she became a bit of an unwearable disaster, but all she had to do was look good in pictures, and by god, she did that like a champ~ 🖤

Photos by @tasty-patches (and touch ups/effect editing by me)

Wig by nori.kyoko

Lashers pattern by @kinpatsucosplayofficial-blog

Claws adapted from pattern by j.jubscosplay

So much help on the bra/harness from @greyallison

#cosplay shenanigans #cosplay #kda all out #league of legends #evelynn #kda evelynn #jesus christ #this would be IMPOSSIBLE to wear at a con lmao #the stockings fall down the skirt rides up the lashers are ungovernable #and you can't do anything about it #because C L A W S #so alas #she is being retired now that we got the shoot done lol #but I'm really proud of how she came out! #had I the time money and wherewithal there's a lot I would do differently now #I know more than I did 3.75 years ago #but sometimes the point of a project is to learn! #WHOOPS posted to the wrong blog fdsdklghg

[gatheringbones]

[“Alex tells me he had long been aware of the existence of transsexuals, and he had even contemplated transitioning earlier in his life. He had known a couple of people over the years who had transitioned, but he had no idea of how to go about doing so, and he lacked the money and the wherewithal.

In the early 1990s, “the conversation changed,” he says, making it possible for him to contemplate transitioning. He heard about support groups for transgender men. FTM groups were forming in San Francisco and Seattle. A burgeoning “queer” movement was challenging the dominance of radical feminist ideas and was offering female-assigned individuals who wished to embrace their inner maleness a way to do so affirmatively, with a sense of pride. Writers and activists like Sandy Stone and Kate Bornstein were talking about a different, more expansive understanding of the radical potential of gender switching, rejecting medicalized notions of trans people as having the “wrong body,” or as being mentally deficient. The term “transgender” was established as a way to move beyond the medical model of “transsexualism” and to include a broad array of gender-variant persons who wished to challenge the binary. It enabled Alex to call himself transgender.

“I did not want to have to say I was ‘crazy.’ I don’t even like saying I’m dysphoric, though I fit the narrative,” says Alex. “I didn’t start T until I found a very good doctor who didn’t demand a letter from a therapist. I wouldn’t confess dysphoria in order to get access to top surgery. I won’t do it. Why would I want to make myself even more marginal?” However, once there was a “weakening of pathology, of judgment,” he decided to move forward.

Meanwhile, Kristin, Alex’s closest friend, settled in Seattle after graduation, where she found an accepting culture and a lively butch presence in the lesbian community. She worked for a state representative, and when she visited the state capitol to lobby on his behalf, people sometimes perceived her “as a boy.” But mainly she felt okay about looking different, and she fell in love with a woman, Jennie, who affirmed her right to be who she was. Kristin is pretty flat chested and small hipped, and “looks like she wants to,” more or less. She presented as a masculine female. It helped that her family tended to be supportive. “Even though I don’t really operate as a woman, I operate in the sphere of women, and there were a lot of really strong women in my big Polish family!” Also her dad, now deceased, was queer, and her brother (who appears in this book) is a transgender man.

Because Kristin, unlike Alex, received a lot of support for her gender nonconformity, she said it never became a major source of distress for her—which isn’t to say that it hasn’t been a challenge at times. She contemplated transitioning for a while but eventually made peace with her body. Being in therapy helped. “I thought that my anxiety was special and everyone else was normal,” she tells me. But as she found ways to ease her generalized sense of anxiety, she became more comfortable with her body and her gender nonconformity. “I thought, ‘Why do I care so much about what other people think about my gender?’ I have a right. I have a fucking right to be who I am,” she tells me, her voice cracking.

And as she became more comfortable with herself, she found ways to deal with bathroom confrontations. “Now when people come up to me and tell me I’m in the wrong bathroom, sometimes I look my body up and down and look at them quizzically and say, ‘Oh, really?’ Thanks!” She makes light of it. “The more comfortable I am, the more likely they are to think I’m in the right place and leave me alone. Now it’s even funny at times.” But airports, she says, are still particularly challenging. Heightened security seems to extend to the policing of gendered bodies in bathrooms. The other day, a blond woman in her fifties came over to her as she entered a bathroom stall and started yelling, “You’re in the wrong place—the men’s room is over there.” Kristin just smiled and said, “Thank you,” and the woman left in a hurry.

“I get why some people transition,” says Kristin, “to be normal, and not have people gawking at you all day. It takes a whole lot of energy.” Still, she came to the conclusion that transitioning would not solve her problems, and that it might open up new, unknown challenges.

Alex, on the other hand, made the decision to modify his body and present as a male, and it has made his life much easier. He no longer gets harassed walking down the street, and he’s no longer as angry. “I still look young,” he tells me, “but at least the beard and receding hairline prove I’m through puberty!” He is much happier now, he says. “I honestly don’t feel I’ve changed that much. That is, ‘transitioning’ didn’t change me so much as it forced others to see me as I saw myself. Yes, the bodily transformations were welcome and comforting. I felt that I was finally ‘home.’ But how do you separate that feeling from the sense that you’re finally recognized by others for how you see yourself?”]

arlene stein, from unbound: transgender men and the remaking of identity, 2018

#arlene stein #gender stuff #currently reading #trans literature #lesbian literature

[fandomwriterstuff]

Rewind

Rick Flag x you

Rated T

~6.5k words (I could not turn it into chapters, it didn't work out right)

Warnings: canon typical violence

I highly recommend listening to this song because it is very epic and I listened to it while I wrote the dramatic end scene.

You were a petty thief, a modern Robin Hood; you stole from the one percent to gave to the needy. And you know what? More often than not, the one percenters never even noticed. And every time you got caught you used your powers to get out of the situation. However, you knew a day was coming when you wouldn’t be able to get out of a nasty situation. A feeling of dread was filling up your nightmares and seeping into your waking life. You were filled with anxiety that your next job would be your last. Of course, it was never an issue with your powers. That is, until it became an issue.

You were doing a job in Gotham, a shitty city if you did say so yourself. Nothing like the country home you grew up in. You knew the ins and outs of the city bank. You knew the guard schedules, you knew the camera angles, you knew the passcodes, you knew which day your target would be inside. Bruce Wayne. Local billionaire who wasted his time and money hosting galas for the rich and famous. You loathed the idea of him. He wouldn’t notice a couple million getting lost in the shuffle. You knew everything that Gotham City Bank had to offer. But what you didn’t know would get you caught and sent to a metahuman prison. What you didn’t know was why you’d been feeling the dread of this job creep up on you for weeks. You had a bad feeling about it, more than the rest. So when you walked in, in disguise, you thought nothing of the exhaustion and weakness that filled your body.

You’d barely slept the night before, so it was normal. And this wasn’t a cash job, it was all wire transfers. But Wayne had to be there for the biometrics to work. Unfortunately, he knew all about your little job. He knew and he had you caught. You were confused, at first, when all you saw when you walked in was an empty bank. It was just the tellers looking at you nervously, but there was a swish behind you and you whipped around, military training coming back to you from your brief time in the army as you took a fighting stance to see… the Batman?

“The Masked Marauder,” he mocked you in his autotuned voice. You scoffed, two could play at that game. You were posing as a man today, trying to throw the trail off of yourself. You turned on your voice modulator and laughed haughtily at him.

“The Batman. Fancy seeing you here,” you were unsure as to how Batman was involved with Wayne Enterprises, but you had no doubt he was there for you.

“Feeling a little weak yet? I can see you straining,” you were on guard as he approached you, coming close enough that you could see the stubble on his chin. If you could turn him around so you were closer to the doors you could use your powers to get out of there and make a quick escape. It was easier to change your own position with your powers and not an entire scene, but you could do it if need be.

But he was onto something. You did feel weak. You were tired, your limbs heavy.

“What did you do to me?” You asked, shifting on your feet but trying to keep the charade up. You were masked and cloaked, but he had a nerve-wracking effect on you.

“It’s new technology. Power blockers at every entrance. You’re powerless inside this place,” at his words you backed up, falling weakly towards the ground as your powers were seeping out of you. You tried to use them to get out of this situation, breath shaking and palms sweaty as the seriousness of the situation dawned on you. You were well and truly screwed.

It was only moments before the GCPD came and fixed you with a power-blocking collar, chaining you up in an armored vehicle and sending you on a long trip to Louisiana. You had no next of kin to notify, no friends to take care of your apartment. You were alone.

Belle Reve was a hell of a place. You were brought in under the cover of nightfall and were only given a brief explanation of the situation. You were in a metahuman prison. You had less rights than normal humans. You were being tried for multiple robberies and the associated injuries that people had gained when fighting back against you. You’d never killed anyone, not since the army, but it didn’t matter. The crimes had stacked up. You were looking at forty years in this place.

When they threw you into the cell you were going to stay in, you were relieved to see there was only one bed and it wasn’t occupied. Solitude, at least, was your friend. You could think. You’d have thought it would be less time in prison since you hadn’t killed anybody, but it didn’t seem like it mattered. You shrugged to yourself. It’s not that you had issues killing people, you were in a special metahuman unit in the army before you became the Masked Marauder. You had a different codename then, but working with them had made you a little crazy. You had to see your close friends and colleagues treated with less respect than dirt because of their metahuman status, and you had to see most of them killed in action. You barely made it out, and you came out with a raging hard on for disrespecting authority figures.

You were only in Belle Reve for six days before you met Harley Quinn.

“Live fast, die hard, baby. You gotta do what you gotta do,” was something you heard a lot out of her smirking mouth. If you were in another life, you’d have been instantly attracted to the beautiful blonde, but you had enough crazy in you to not want any more on your plate. Despite the lack of romance between the two of you, you still got close. “As thick as thieves,” Harley would say with a wry twist to her mouth. She loved puns.

“Chronos?” You whipped your head around at the sound of your military nickname. “What the fuck are you doing here you little slut?” Your eyes widened as you recognized one of your previous teammates. Another bad egg, turned away from the army and towards a life of crime.

“Who’s Chronos?” Harley frowned next to you at the lunch table you were at, she hated not knowing things.

“That’s what they used to call me,” you whispered, standing and facing the other woman. You were small in stature, and the Amazon-like woman towered over you.

“Annie,” you knew she hated being called by her real name. She was one of the cocky ones, thinking metahumans were better than regular old humans.

“You’re wrong,” another voice called. “Chronos is a dude,” that came from Blackguard, a weirdo that you were avoiding. You avoided most people, really.

“Chronos is not a dude,” Annie growled, suddenly looking at the smaller man. “You calling me a liar?”

“I think it’s time for us to get out of here,” Harley dug her fingers into your bicep and pulled you towards the rec yard.

“What’s up with you? You normally love people watching the fights,” you wondered, concerned when Harley passed her favorite guard without saying hi. (It was Colonel Flag, the fucking hottest guard at Belle Reve who you’d definitely formed a crush on. You couldn’t help it, he was compassionate and he didn’t spit on you or throw you around or humiliate you like the other guards.)

“You didn’t tell me you had a super secret past with a cool nickname,” she whisper-shouted when you got to a bench and she could slap you on the arm.

“It didn’t come up,” you shrugged sheepishly.

“What does Chronos even mean?” She asked and you were going to explain, but Colonel Flag sat down at the bench across from you with a warm smile.

“Harley, Y/N, just the two people I wanted to talk to,” he then raised an eyebrow at the bruising grip Harley had on your arm. She let go and he frowned at the angry half moon marks her nails had left there.

“Not now, Ricky,” Harley pouted. “Y/N’s been holding out on me! She has a cool secret life and never told me about it!”

“I doubt you ever asked,” he followed up in a deadpan way and you stifled a chuckle. It was true. She could be forgetful and also unobservant. She didn’t exactly ask you about your life a lot. You thought it might be an act, she did have a PhD, after all.

“She even has a cool nickname. What does Chronos even mean?” She asked again, but side-eyed Colonel Flag when he narrowed his eyes at you.

“Chronos? I thought they called you the Masked Marauder. You’re in here for theft.”

“They must not tell you all the deets,” you raised your eyebrows at the man. “Before I was a criminal I was a part of an elite army group of metahumans. But that went to shit and I’m considered a war criminal in several countries. Never got the pardon for working as a part of the US military because they wanted to keep my unit under wraps,” you frowned. You couldn’t ever leave the country because of it.

“Well you’re not going to like the proposal I have for you, then,” he looked like he was regretting coming over to you and you threw a smile on your face.

“What do you need, Colonel?” You asked, tilting your head, but Harley was bouncing up and down in her seat.

“Oh! Task Force X? Is it a new mission?” She looked so excited you nearly didn’t listen to her words. But you did.

“Task Force X?” You asked him, narrowing his eyes. Maybe that’s why he was so nice to you all this time. He was buttering you up. “I don’t think so. I’m not dying today.”

“You get ten years off of your sentence for every mission you do-” You cut him off.

“You had me at ‘ten years off of your sentence.’ Say no more. I’m in,” you grinned, shark-like, at him. He had the wherewithal to not look confused at your sudden change of heart.

“It’s always fun, like weeding out the weak!” Harley exclaimed as you were ushered out of the briefing with Amanda Waller, a woman who terrified you and chilled you to your core. You felt okay though because Rick was going to be your commanding officer. It had been three weeks since your conversation with him outside in the rec area. Three weeks and your relationship had shifted just enough to make you feel safe in his capable hands. If it wasn’t the genuine human respect he gave you, or the dirty looks and reprimands he gave the guards who manhandled and mistreated you, it was the lingering fingers brushing against your back when he led you places and the warm smile he had just for you.

“Flag,” you smiled softly as you passed him on the plane.

“Chronos,” he smiled back. You knew it was commonplace to call each other by their names (Bloodsport, Blackguard, Chronos, etc), but you felt a twinge of fear. This was your first time using that codename on a real life mission since you left the army. But, when Rick came up with a fancy electronic screwdriver and unhooked your power-dampening collar, you felt such a high. You were ecstatic, your limbs felt light, you felt like you could go a million rounds against Mayweather, you wanted to fuck-

“Am I missing something? Isn’t Chronos a dude?” Blackguard asked, again, and you scowled.

“Chronos is a myth, man. This is clearly just someone with the same name, right?” Boomer nodded towards you and you gave him a tight grin. But before you could respond, Rick did.

“She’s definitely Chronos, and you better hope her powers aren’t mythical,” you grinned at that. He had your back. However, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to save them all if it all went to shit. For several reasons.

You hadn’t used your powers since arriving at Belle Reve, so you didn’t know if you were at 100%

You only had certain amount of power over large situations, so you’d likely only be able to save yourself and a few others

You didn’t care enough about these fuckers and they didn’t care about you. Your priority was to get out alive with Rick and Harley

That’s when Harley made her first appearance to the team. She was apparently good friends with Boomer and you mentally added him to your list to keep alive.

After you set off, things happened quickly for you. You made eye contact with Rick (yes, you were mentally calling him Rick now, because you wanted to fucking date the shit out of him), and made small talk with Harley as Blackguard freaked out about Weasel. But when you dropped and made your way to shore, you stuck close to Rick. He had your back and you had his.

As it turned out, Blackguard had set you all up, giving your location to the enemy and getting his face blown off for his efforts. You watched as your elite team of killers was picked off one by one. Harley had run off and you were panicking that you didn’t have an eye on her. You needed her to get out of this alive.

“Follow me!” Rick shouted, nodding his head towards his intended destination - the forest.

“But Harley and Boomer are-” you shut your mouth as Mongal’s actions finally took their toll on Boomer. But maybe you could fix it, if you could use your powers-

“No, we have to get out of here, or we’re next,” Rick grasped at your arm and dragged you into a full out sprint towards the forest, gunshots echoing behind you. You slapped his hand away once you were deep in the forest, though the sky was darkening you cut your eyes to his.

“Harley is all I have,” you spat.

“She’s my friend too, you know,” he frowned. You’d never used that tone on him before. “She can handle herself,” as much as you were loath to admit it, he was right. She was crazy but she could get out of nearly any situation. You sighed and bent over, hands on your knees as you calmed your breathing.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” you muttered, but you gasped when a sudden pain shot through your right bicep.

“That was a warning shot,” you heard a voice call out in accented English.

“A warning shot?” Rick shouted as he crossed over to you, pulling you close to him and inspecting the wound. It went straight through, but it was bleeding badly. “Warning shots are supposed to be in the ground, not at people,” he spat, considering running but you were in too much pain and losing too much blood. “Don’t use your powers in front of them,” his lips brushed against your ear and you nodded imperceptibly. You wouldn’t want to show your hand.

“Take the colonel,” a woman’s voice called and you glanced at him, wide eyed as they dragged him off of you.

“Hey, hey!” He shouted, reaching out as you fell to your knees, putting pressure on your wound. If you could stifle the bleeding until they left you alone you could use your powers to fix it.

“Leave the girl,” the voice passed by you and you stared at Rick, panicking but unable to stop them as three men held him back and dragged him away. You couldn’t help but think this was the worst case scenario. The enemy was taking your leader but you had lost too much blood to put up a fight.

As the rest of the enemies passed you, you sat back on your heels, but one of them roughly bumped into you, making you lose your grip on your arm. The blood flow was back at full force and the world turned black around the edges. You were alone. You put your left hand face up in front of you, and your right hand an inch above it face down. Your hands were parallel to each other and you tried to gather your strength to use your powers, but you couldn’t. You hadn’t used them in so long and you had lost a lot of blood. The last thought you had before you lost consciousness was of Rick’s panicking face.

You awoke to gentle hands cleaning your wound with what you assumed was water and opened your eyes when you felt a tight bandage wrapping around your arm. It was a young girl, younger than you.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” she smiled softly.

“She’s awake?” A gruff voice came from behind you and you craned your neck to see a team of people behind you.

“Let’s get going then” another man said. “You patched her up, she can go on her own from here.”

“Who are you?” You asked the girl.

“We’re the Suicide Squad,” the dark skinned man growled. “Here to collect our Colonel.”

“No,” you sat up, quietly thanking the girl for patching you up. “I’m a part of the Suicide Squad,” you squinted in the early morning darkness. Was that… DuBois?

“Bloodsport?” You asked cautiously. Were these all other prisoners from Belle Reve?

“Who are you?” The guy in red and white asked you… Was that Peacemaker?

“They call me Chronos, but you might know me as the Masked Marauder,” you spoke cautiously.

“The thief? Why would they have a thief on a mission like this?” Peacemaker asked and you shrugged.

“My powers are useful for other things.”

“Chronos is a myth though, right?” A smaller man walked over to you, in a suit you didn’t recognize.

You shook your head. But that wasn’t the point, you had picked up on something DuBois had said.

“You’re looking for the Colonel?” You stood and approached the group, which apparently included a shark man.

“Yup, Colonel Flag was taken by enemies and is alive at their camp. He is our first mission,” DuBois spoke and you nodded.

“I’m coming with you. Colonel Flag helped me get out of the bloodbath at the beach. The enemy camp people shot me and took him away,” you frowned at the thought and the girl - Ratcatcher 2, she had specified - gasped.

“Why didn’t they take you, too?” She asked.

“I think they knew I wasn’t important. They noticed immediately that Flag was a military officer and took him away.” Likely to be tortured, you thought to yourself but didn’t say aloud.

“Well, let’s get going then,” Peacemaker said brightly and the group of you made your way to the enemy camp. You were lost in your thoughts on the way there. You weren’t sure whether or not you would kill anybody. Maybe hurt them or knock them out. You hadn’t killed since your time with the military. But they’d taken Rick and left you for dead. So you had very little qualms hurting them.

Turns out, it didn’t matter. Bloodsport and Peacemaker made what was almost a competition out of who could kill the most people in the sneakiest ways, but it got bloodier and bloodier as the rest of you approached the glowing tent. You heard laughter and glanced in, borrowed gun pointed in as you parted the flaps of the tent. But you immediately put your gun down. Rick was shirtless and all patched up, laughing with a woman who you’d seen the dark of the night before. You couldn’t help the rising feeling of jealousy, you’d never have that with Rick. The easy jokes, the equal ground. You were a prisoner, and you would likely die as one. But you couldn’t help the breathy “Rick,” that came out of your mouth when you realized that he was okay, and he wasn’t being tortured by enemies. He snapped his head over to you and stood.

“You’re okay,” he made his way over to you in three long strides, as if he couldn’t wait to be near you, and your heart swelled at the thought.

“So are you,” you whispered, and took a moment to look him over and let your body sag a little. You’d been so worked up that you had barely felt the pain of your wound.

“I didn’t know you were important to each other, I wouldn’t have let them shoot you,” the woman sort of apologized with a half smile and stood. “Let me get you something for the pain.”

It was then that she noticed the very silent camp, commented on it, and that’s when you looked down at your feet. Whoops, you’d let Bloodsport and Peacemaker kill an entire camp of rebels. People who were technically on your side. Waller had given you bad information.

Rick brushed a hand down your good arm and gently held you, pressing his thumb into your elbow as if making sure you were okay, that your pulse was strong.

“I was so worried,” he muttered, and you were sure only you heard it.

“So was I,” you looked up into his eyes, and if there wasn’t an audience, you would have kissed him then and there. Alas, you had another mission. Well, two. The first was to get the Thinker. The second one was to get Harley, and that was a plan you were ready for. You were down to clown, as Harley might say. As long as you had Rick by your side, you could do anything you set your minds to.

The Thinker would be frequenting one of his favorite bars, and as you left the shark dude in the bus you felt yourself relaxing a little upon entry. You knew bars. You knew how to blend in. You glanced over your shoulder, you couldn’t say the same for your teammates. So, you slinked away and found your way to the bar. The leader of the rebel camp provided you with a pair of stretchy black skinny jeans and a MCR band t-shirt. You’d fought harder battles in more confined clothing, so this wasn’t too bad.

“Una cerveza, por favor,” you spoke fluently. You grew up in the country, but your family was affluent and taught you several languages so that you could travel safely and easily.

The bartender smiled and grabbed you a bottle, and you watched the team gather around a table. They stuck out horribly, and you shook your head. Maybe with a few drinks in them they would loosen up, you watched as Peacemaker ordered drinks and nursed your own. You used to like drinking with friends, but other than Rick (and the missing Harley) you didn’t consider these people your friends. You had a tentative relationship with the Ratcatcher 2, and you were beginning to begrudgingly like Bloodsport. But, Polka-Dot Man freaked you out, Nanaue had the English understanding of a kindergartener, and Peacemaker was a dick.

“You going to join the team?” You failed to notice Rick coming over to you, and rolled your eyes, taking a sip as you mulled over your answer.

“Only if they start looking more interesting. You look like a bunch of tourists. I’d like to gather intel,” you scrunched up your nose at Rick and sipped at your beer.

“Yeah, you really look like you’re gathering intel, darlin’,” it was Rick’s turn to roll his eyes. “Sitting here, sipping on a beer and staring at us.”

You scoffed. How dare he call you out. But it was true, you were busy judging the team to actually get any good information.

“Fine, I’ll join you,” you swigged the last of your beer and glanced at the bartender. “¡Uno más!” You exclaimed, and the man smiled at you before grabbing you another ice cold bottle.

“You speak Spanish?” Rick raised an eyebrow at you.

“I speak a lot of languages,” you shrugged and took a swig of the drink before making your way to the now empty table. It seemed like your compatriots decided to go dancing. That left you with Rick.

“Oh yeah, and how did you come to know so many?” He seemed genuinely interested, though you were hesitant to talk about your past.

“My parents were diplomats and wanted me to be able to travel with them, so they had me learn Spanish, French, German, and Russian by the best tutors money could offer,” you shrugged, sort of stilted, at his curious glance.

“And I thought you were a thief because you were poor,” he shook his head with a smile. “Waller has very little info on you so I wasn’t sure.”

“My parents were cruel, and utilized their money to help bad people get into power,” you looked down at your lap. “I resent the things they taught me. And I tried my best to right the wrongs that people like them did.”

Rick sobered up and placed a hand on your arm.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he frowned and brushed his thumb over your skin. “I knew a little bit about your thievery and who you robbed and why, but it makes sense now. You were trying to help. I get it,” he sighed and took a sip of his drink while you downed yours. You hated talking about your family. You wanted to move on to something else. Anything else.

“I don’t want to talk about me anymore,” you sighed, brushing your hair out of your face and looking up into those beautiful eyes.

“What would you like to talk about then?” he whispered, not willing to break the reverie you were in. You were close, closer than you should be.

“I want to talk about you, Colonel,” you smirked and placed a delicate hand on his thigh. He dragged his eyes from that hand slowly up to your face.

“What do you wanna know, beautiful?” He smirked and blinked those pretty eyes at you. You’d both had too much to drink. It was a little scary making the first move, but you found him incredibly attractive and you were 99% sure he returned your feelings.

“I want to know,” you leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. “What those lips would feel like against mine,” you wondered aloud, and his sharp inhale was all you had to go on before a gentle hand was turning your face to his. The kiss was gentle, tentative even, but that’s not what you wanted. You wanted everything that Rick Flag could give you and you tightened your grip on his thigh, hoping to convey your thoughts, when everything went to shit. Peacemaker jerked Rick away from you and Cleo pulled you towards a darkened corner of the room.

“They’re asking for IDs,” she hissed, pulling you towards where you saw Abner had the Thinker.

“But what about-” she shushed you as you glanced back, making strained eye contact with Rick. Maybe you could use your powers to get out of this. But… You looked at the Thinker. This was the mission. You looked back at Rick. Would you get your brains blown out to save him?

You made your way to the exit, finding your way to the van and getting out of there. You were only vaguely paying attention while you were in pursuit of the truck holding your … friends? You panicked for a moment when it crashed, and when you pulled to a stop you sprinted out of the van and over to the fiery wreckage, thoughts racing about what could have happened to Rick when he, Bloodsport, and Peacemaker burst through the doors like some sort of boy band.

You couldn’t care less though as you threw yourself into his surprised arms and pressed your lips to his.

“That was stressful and I didn’t like it,” you muttered against his lips, barely noticing Bloodsport rolling his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Rick smiled and pulled away to look down at you. “This is pretty nice.”

You scoffed and grabbed at his hand, not willing to let go just yet, and dragged him to your vehicle.

“Shut it,” you muttered as you all gathered. All he responded with was a light chuckle.

Your next mission was saving Harley, but as it turned out, she was no damsel. You were on your way into the place she was being held when she walked down the street towards you.

“Hey, guys! Whatcha doin?” She was smiling brightly and you rolled your eyes at the situation before hugging her.

“We’re here to save you, obviously,” you muttered and she looked from you over your shoulder to Rick.

“You came back for me?” She whispered and Rick came over to you, Bloodsport rolling his eyes in the background.

“Yeah, it was a really good plan, too,” Rick muttered, but still hugged back when Harley threw herself into his arms.

“Well I can go back in and let you save me,” she offered and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Not necessary, Harley. Now that we have you we can get back to the mission,” you patted her on the back and nodded to the rest of your team.

Now, you could say that you acted heroically and saved the day, but you and your ragtag team… You were amateur heroes. It was a shitshow. You were setting up explosives with Nanaue when you had that bad feeling again. The one you had when you were going into that bank in Gotham. Maybe it was your intuition, but you knew some shit was about to go down.

“Keep at it!” You shouted at the King Shark and raced your way down the stairs to where Peacemaker and Rick were headed. If you remembered their part of the plan correctly, they were with the Thinker, but something went wrong when you were about halfway down.

“Fuck!” You shouted as you heard a great BOOM. They’d set off the explosives too early. Maybe you should have stayed… You looked up at the dust coming down from above. Your brain was telling you to get out before the building collapsed on you, but your gut was telling you to make it to Rick.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you chanted as you raced down the stairwell, crumbling concrete raining down as you danced around to avoid it. Your stomach cramped in warning, and you crouched into a ball as the floor beneath you gave out and you fell several floors. When your falling came to a halt you took stock. There was rubble above you, but not crushing you. Your breathing was heavy and your heart raced as you clawed your way towards the fluorescent lighting. You grunted and groaned as your fingernails cracked and your fingers bloodied, but you were not about to die here.

You crawled out into the open and peered through the dark, dusty hallway. You didn’t see anybody, but you heard a scuffle and made your way towards the grunting and smashing sounds. The alarm bells started going off in your brain again, and you started running. Your feet pounded against the jagged edges of concrete on the ground but you didn’t stop. You whipped your pistol out when you came to the source of the sounds, but you froze.

Your eyes took in the scene very quickly, and you knew there was a decision to be made. You saw Cleo’s figure in the dark corner, eyes shining in the dusty haze. The others hadn’t seen her yet. At first glance, Rick was atop Peacemaker, and your initial thought was that he was winning this fight. But his eyes, wide and shocked, locked onto yours for merely a moment before he collapsed forward, a dead weight, and all of your breath left your body.

You also saw Peacemaker’s eyes shoot to a computer chip that had scattered across the floor right before you came in. Right before they shot over to you.

But you knew this: Peacemaker didn’t know who you were. He had no clue what you were capable of. He roughly pushed Rick’s body off of himself, but you were faster.

You put your hands in front of you, parallel to each other, and green mist started swirling around between them. You hadn’t had to use your powers to alter a scene this big or intense before, usually just using them on your own body, but you could do this. For Rick.

Suddenly everything slowed down, Peacemaker was still lying on the ground, Rick was face-first in the rubble, and Cleo was crouched in the dark, hand reaching out to the chip.

But you were alive as your powers raced through you. You had seen yourself in a mirror once as you used your powers, and you could imagine how you looked to them. Glowing green veins covered your skin as you altered the fabric of the universe itself. A wind picked up in the room, swirling in tandem with the green mist in your hands. You only needed a few moments. You didn’t need to go back and stop the fight, you just had to stop Peacemaker. You contorted your fingers and molded the green mist to your liking before throwing your arms wide, the green mist expanding to encapsulate yourself and the two men. You didn’t need to include Cleo, she wasn’t involved. The wind whipped around, the green mist blinding everyone but you, and things started to go into motion.

It would all happen very quickly for everyone involved. Just a rewind. But for you, you had to painstakingly watch as Rick’s body rose above Peacemaker, and you had to watch as the ceramic in his heart was drawn out. You had handcrafted this reality and you were forced to watch as your handiwork took place. But you had gotten to the moment you needed. They were near the end of the fight, Peacemaker had slammed Rick into a wall, and with a wave of your hand, the mist disappeared and everything was clear.

“Wait, what?” Peacemaker shot his eyes over to you, but he was too slow in his understanding. You had already whipped your pistol out of its holster and shot him twice in the throat. He grasped at his, trying to stifle the bleeding and crumpling to the ground, but your eyes were focused on Rick. A very shocked, but very alive Rick.

“What did you do?” He asked, and you weren’t sure if that was disgust or wonder in his voice, so you turned, walked slowly over to Cleo (who had witnessed the whole thing through a haze of green), and picked up the chip.

“I believe you were looking for this?” You asked, holding it out in front of yourself to him. He gulped, walking over to you, but your strength was draining from with a display of your powers. When he pulled the chip out of your hand and tucked it into your utility belt, you wavered, edges of your vision darkening as you slowly knelt to the ground.

“What are you doing, we need to get out of here?” Cleo shouted at you, but you waved her off.

“I just need to sit for a moment,” but your voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

“No you don’t,” Rick hauled you up by your armpits and lifted you into his arms, princess-style. “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered and followed Cleo out of the rubble and into the daylight. You squinted, the bright sun blinding you after being underground for so long.

“Shit,” you muttered, shoving your face into Rick’s neck to avoid the light.

“So,” he sounded very casual and you tensed up. “I really thought you weren’t going to use your rewind powers at all, what happened to make you use them?” You bit your lip, not sure what to say.

“Peacemaker killed you,” Cleo answered for you and Rick stopped walking. You winced and looked up at his face.

“I panicked,” you whispered, not sure how he was going to react. But when he turned his head to face you, it was as if he was looking at you for the first time.

“You saved my life?” He asked and it was your turn to gulp.

Okay, so maybe you had feelings for Rick. You knew that. He was a hot piece of ass, and he was kind, and he respected you. And you kissed at the bar and after the van chase. So he definitely knew you liked him. But did he know your feelings were deep enough to save his life and endanger your own in the process? Well… Now he did.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to lose you to that prick,” you tried to shrug it off, but Rick gently let your legs fall and your feet touch the ground. You weren’t sure what was happening until he reached out and pulled you into the warmest, most all-encompassing hug you had ever experienced.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he whispered into your hair, and you let yourself sigh and sink into the hug.

“Yeah well now you owe me one,” you muttered jokingly, trying to slightly ease the seriousness of the situation. He squeezed you tightly once more before pulling away and smirking.

“Anything you want, you can have,” he smiled that sunlight-bright smile at you and you blinked at him once before returning his smile.

“You can take me on a date once I’m out of prison, how does that sound?” You asked and his smile widened.

“I can do that.”

“That might be a lot sooner than you think,” Bloodsport had walked over to you and (you assumed) Cleo had explained everything to him. You blinked.

What did he mean by that?

Apparently he meant he was going to threaten Waller and keep the information hostage. It wasn’t exactly what Rick wanted, but he got out with his life, and you didn’t have to go back to prison. You were thinking about it as you settled into your new apartment, only two weeks after fighting Starro and killing Peacemaker, your first kill in years.

You were sitting on your comfy couch watching reruns of Adventure Time when Rick called you.

“Hey,” you answered warmly, and smiled at his voice when he responded.

“Hey, yourself. What’s up?” You drew a blanket over your lap and muted the TV.

“Just relaxing. What’s up with you?”

“I was thinking, how about I take you on that date tonight? I’ll pick you up at seven?” If your instincts were correct, and they usually were, he was nervous about it. He was unsure you would actually want him, considering how sheltered and uneven your relationship had been before. You were quick to dispel that.

“That sounds lovely, Rick,” you couldn’t help but bite your lip in anticipation when he hung up a few minutes later. You also couldn’t help the excited squeal you let out and the little dance you did. Things were finally falling into place.

#rick flag imagine #rick flag fanfiction #rick flag dc #rick flag x you #rick flag x reader #dceu #rick flag #harley quinn #peacemaker #ratcatcher 2 #starro #polka dot man #nanaue #king shark #bloodsport

[ladylingua]

I went to buy makeup at Sephora for the first time in years, and everyone was so helpful but the specific ways in which they were trying to be helpful was so not helpful to me lol

First, I went to get foundation matched, so the sales associate did her thing and got me some potential shades. I saw one I thought was best right there and wanted to just buy it, but she insisted on giving me samples to take home and try a few times each so I could be sure. Which, OBVIOUSLY is so good and nice, right? Except I am so bad at follow up, as soon as she said “Try it and come back!” I knew it would be literal months before I saw her again. Absolutely no way I would have the executive function to do this task and come right back to buy it. So yes, I tried the samples, figured out what foundation I wanted, and then reverted back to using the same wrong shade expired covergirl foundation I was using before until I finally got the wherewithal to return to Sephora and buy the actual foundation a few weeks after the samples ran out. Plus I’m not great with budgeting but was too embarrassed to explain that I had the extra cash TODAY to buy fancy makeup, but who knows if I’ll have the same amount of extra money when the samples run out, which is the other reason I was hesitant to leave and return.

So anyways, I finally went back, and this time a different sales associate helped me because I wanted a bronzer too, the first woman who helped me had already matched one to me that I wanted and they were out. So I asked this guy for a suggestion of a different bronzer that would match my skin. He starts telling me what would be perfect for me would be this product that Sephora no longer sells and if I go across the street to Bloomingdale’s they would have it, but what I really should do is go to Bergdorf’s, ask to speak to the manager of the makeup section and tell her that he sent me and she’ll hook me up because she’s the best at teaching contouring and using this product in New York and she’ll make sure I look amazing and know exactly what to do

and like, that is again OBJECTIVELY so nice!! So kind!! So much more helpful than he needed to be!

But sir, absolutely no way I am now going to a THIRD errand when I barely had the energy to come here twice- and then to speak to a manager of one of the most expensive department stores on top of that?? To request a specialty service?? No fucking way, that is not happening. I would rather just buy a bronzer right there at Sephora that doesn’t match as well and just accept using it ineptly, because no.

And then finally I asked the original sales associate, who spent a lot of time matching me, if she worked on commission and she said yes so I write down her name because I wasn’t buying anything that day but wanted her to get paid for working with me. When I went back I mentioned her at the register, and the cashier told me that how it works is I’m supposed to take the customer service survey in my receipt and that’s how she gets credit for helping me. So I, a customer, have to spend extra time filling out this survey that I never would fill out otherwise, or else this employee won’t get credit for her work?? Are you kidding me?? A terrible system, for both her and me.

But on the upside I now have a foundation that matches and some kind of contouring powder (went to Bloomingdale’s, too afraid to consider Bergdorf) so I did finally achieve what I set out to do lo these many months ago. And I did do the survey.

[poptod]

The Breeding Kings, pt. 3 (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: The blacksmith.

Notes: I Love this story but i know yall arent that interested in it which is kinda yikes for me but theres no way im not finishing this fic whether its now or two years from now WC: 7.8k (again im so sorry)

+

By the time you and Ahkmen actually made it out of the pyramid, most of the stars had vanished, and the dawning light of the sun sparked a panic in the Prince's heart. He hurried you back to the shore, picking you up and setting you in the boat before pushing the boat far into the water. Constant glances over your head let him keep an eye on the shore, on the rotating guards at the gates, and where was best to tie the canoe back up.

In the end, he found a spot as far away from the gates as possible, securing the boat before helping you out of the rickety contraption.

"Have you school?"

"Unfortunately," he muttered beneath his breath, adjusting his belt.

With that he took your hand, jogging down the wooden docks until you came to the entrance. He ran through that as well, terrified of anyone recognizing him, and didn't leave enough time for you to think on it long. Ever respectful, he saw you home before sprinting back to the palace by himself, wind burning his eyes all the way up.

For the next couple days he took extra care in his physical health. Learning to calculate the time of day and its' relation to the curvature of the earth, while in the blazing heat of the sun, had not fared well on his sleep-deprived mind. When he returned home that evening, he slept over 12 hours in a dead faceplant on his bed. Upon waking he found Piye looming above him with a knowing expression.

"How much time have you been spending with that Yogi?" They asked in a clearer, less clogged voice than Ahkmen had been able to manage through the amount of beer he'd had recently, paired with how little sleep he had.

"Didn't come home one evening," he grumbled, raising his hand to wipe away the tiredness from his eyes. "Got a lot of sleep last night, though."

"I can see that. Get up. We've got some time yet before the weekend," Piye said with a clap that roused the young Prince.

"Good morning, my Prince," said Naguib, who slipped in through the door. "The Pharaoh's dinner with the emissaries from Ebla is tonight. He wants you there."

"I have other places to be," Ahkmen whined, his shoulders drooping as he looked up.

"So does he," Piye said flatly.

School passed by without him ever seeing you, a fact that disappointed him more than it saddened him. His mood got him into a small verbal bout with one of his teachers, and though Piye tried to hold him back, the school day ended with him in one of the study rooms watching Yafeu argue with his father.

Ahkmen huffed, resting the weight of his head on his open palm balanced on the table in front of him. Yafeu couldn't tell him that he wasn't allowed in the school anymore, but the Priest would do his best to make sure Ahk got the second best punishment.

"I expect more from you, Ahkmen," his father said quietly as they walked side by side back to the palace. "None of your brothers have the skills or the wherewithal to lead a country. That responsibility may fall to you."

"Kamun is the oldest, isn't he?" Ahkmen grumbled. "He's the one who's going to be Pharaoh."

"Nothing is set in certainty, my son. Now then, in a few hours the Eblans will arrive, and a dinner will follow."

"Does that mean I have some free time, then?" Ahk asked with a sudden, bright change in tone.

"I want you to get ready," Merenkahre said, frowning. "Not play around with your friends."

"I'll only be there an hour at most," he said, playing off his own innocence.

The Pharaoh paused in the street to look down at Ahkmen, before letting out a long sigh.

"Very well. One hour."

Ahkmen didn't wait to return to his room––he turned and immediately set back off down the road, dashing and twisting through the crowds that formed the closer he got to the temple of Osiris. He barely looked to see where his hands and feet were as he climbed over the familiar crates, landing back in your alley and ducking back into your home.

To his surprise, Piye was already sitting in your waiting room, their feet set on a high shelf with their butt in a pile of blankets.

"Oh, hello Ah–"

You entered the room with massive goggles on.

"-hhh whhhat's up?" Piye corrected with wide eyes.

"... not much," Ahkmen said slowly. "I have a dinner with my parents in an hour, so I can't stay for long."

"I do need one help," you said as you pulled your goggles off, examining the material in your glove-clad hands. "I need a.. a..."

You snapped your fingers, attempting to recall the name of something. Ahk and Piye waited patiently.

"A kaentam," you muttered before a curse. "It is the rocks that kiss."

Piye stared at you dumbfounded, their mouth half open.

"You mean a magnet?"

"I think, yes," you said, though you didn't look sure. "Panya and her rock are still not... I do not know the type of her rock. I need your 'magnet' for to find the – the name."

"Well it's not exactly easy to find magnets," Ahkmen said slowly, picking at his chin as he thought.

"No, yeah," Piye agreed in the same contemplating tone. "I know they're used in medicine, but it's a... an unconventional treatment. Kind of expensive."

Ahk stared at the ground, continuing to play with the skin of his jaw.

"I think I know where we might find some," Ahk said after a moment.

"What is it?" You asked, stepping nearer.

"Osiris' temple. Priests have areas for medicine, and we already know the layout of the place."

"It's late, though. We're not allowed to enter after sunset," Piye pointed out.

"That's why it's good we know the layout!" Ahk said as he stood. "Now let's go."

"Don't you have a formal dinner in an hour?" Piye asked, watching Ahkmen leave out the door with a quirked brow.

"Let's gooo!" Ahkmen sang from outside.

Anything to distract from the coming responsibilities––anything to earn your favor, to win you over in some fashion he was convinced he hadn't already won you over in. You followed him out with a smile, murmuring a small greeting and thanks before Piye also appeared from behind you.

"And onwards we go, to Osiris, to Osiris," Ahk sung as he scaled the crates, followed by you and Piye in order.

"We have obtained," Piye continued the song with a grunt, "forever and ever, what your Grace will gift us."

"You talk like your heads have nothing in their side," you said, to Ahkmen's great amusement.

As Ahkmen originally suspected, most of the temple's inhabitants were too preoccupied with the evening adulations to notice three children, however strange looking, entering the complex. Ahk entered first, donned in his usual golden fabrics, followed by Piye, who by themselves always looked out of place no matter where they were or what they wore, and then you, a child at Piye's side, dressed in an unfamiliar but royal fashion.

Murmurings and voices could be heard from the tall roof of Osiris' temple, where many of the hour priests gathered to scan the heavens. Already the brightest stars shone through the light of sunset, a fact Ahkmen was quite glad about, since it would keep attention off him.

"Yafeu's room here has many, many supplies," Ahkmen whispered as the three of you crept down the open hallway.

"How do you know that?" Piye asked.

"I was sent there so he could yell at me and he's got bookcases and chests worth of things in there. What a monetary bastard," Ahk said with a tut, chuckling from his own humor.

When he reached the door to Yafeu's office, he slowly turned the lock, letting the wood door swing open with a creak. He motioned Piye in, then you, before following in himself, locking the door behind him.

Although Ahkmen might've been privy to the private belongings of the high priest, you and Piye shared no such knowledge. Piye, who had to bow down slightly due to the height of the ceiling, slowly scanned the room, from the pots to the jars and tapestries hanging from the walls. A reed mat had been set on the floor, keeping away the dirt and sand anyone might drag in.

"Where does he keep his medical supplies?" Piye asked quietly, taking a ginger step forward as they scanned the shelves with their eyes. When they spotted nothing useful, they began to rifle through them with their hands.

"No clue. Let's start, shall we?"

The three of you set to searching the room, categorically searching the different shelves––Piye for the tallest two, Ahk for the middle, and you for the lowest. You tried your best to keep quiet, wary of those who passed by outside the door.

"Why do you need a magnet again?" Ahkmen asked after several minutes of silent searching.

"Panya's rock seems iron in a... clean.. way? It is.. not how you see it in earth, and I don't know it. But your magnet will," you made a motion with your hands of them colliding together, "if I am right."

"You must know quite a lot about metals," Piye said, not bothering to tear away from the work at hand. You and Ahkmen, however, had stopped to look at each other when he spoke.

"My family is... kaghruppakal, moving.. metal, to make into things," you said as you reluctantly returned to the baskets on the bottom shelves.

"Blacksmiths," Piye said.

"Thank you," you said. "My father father's had it learned by the Kings in my home. They give us a good home for years, but they give no... money. So when new King comes, we had no home after."

"What do you mean, new King?" Ahk asked with a confused furrow in his brow.

"It is long and I do not know the how to say in Egyptian, but a man killed the King and stole his name," you said quietly.

"Is that why you left your home?" Ahkmen asked. "There was a revolution?"

"More of a usurping," Piye muttered.

"A little, yes," you said with a nod, before falling quiet.

Ahkmen waited a moment to see if you would say anything else, and a moment to wonder if he would say anything else, but ultimately returned to scavenging through Yafeu's belongings.

Statuette.

More gold bracelets.

Ancient scripture.

"You have to leave for that dinner pretty soon," Piye said in a dull voice.

"I don't need to leave for anything or anyone."

"Ureka!" you suddenly cried, a toothy smile coming to you as you forgot yourself.

Ahkmen and Piye both shushed you, to which you quickly apologized in a much quieter voice.

"I saw them," you said, extending in your hand a pair of magnets stuck to one another.

"Oh thank Gods," Piye said in a rush of breath, their hands immediately falling from the tall shelves. "Let's get back and see if it reacts to your stone."

"No, no, I bring it here," you mumbled distractedly as you dug into your large pockets, pulling out the shiny metal.

He watched in bated breath as you raised the magnets to Panya's stone. The whole of the process meant little to him, but it was part of your job, and he enjoyed partaking in little bits of your life.

This handicapped understanding of your work left him rather confused at your excitement when the magnets stuck to Panya's rock. You gasped, marveling at the reaction. As you moved to your feet, you never looked away, holding it close to your chest.

"Irumpu," you said through your smile. "Iron."

"I'm quite glad you've figured this out, but for the time being, we need to get out of here without being spotted," Ahkmen said, putting his hands on your shoulders before gently moving you aside, and opening the door a crack.

Piye spoke in a mumble with you as he stuck his head outside, the cool air of night filling his lungs, distinct from the stuffy walls of Yafeu's office. There were few people in the courtyard, as most of the priests and workers were still preoccupied with their finishing tasks for the night.

He motioned the two of you over, leading you silently outside. You crept along the wall with quick feet, skipping out of the temple, and running back into your home in a smiling rush.

The rush of adrenaline in his blood soon dissipated, comforted by the familiar shades of red and gold always resting upon your crown. Still staring at the metal, you collapsed down in your cushion pile, moving to hold the ball above your head as you stared. Ahkmen chuckled at your behavior, taking a seat beside you as Piye fell in a similar manner as you did across the room.

"Happy?" Ahk asked teasingly.

"Very," you said. "I must to find who had made it. The old King shows my father father's how to make it, but I never ask. And," you snapped your fingers, "then it is gone. When they go."

"Your grandfather knew how to purify and mold iron?" Piye asked in a low but loud voice, sitting quickly up.

"Yes, and it is good for..." you made a stabbing motion, "things that make people dead."

"Weapons," said Ahkmen.

"Etuvaka. Not many know how it makes, and that is how – why we come here. Makes better money, more than a city. Our city, people know how to," you mimicked squishing and molding things in your empty hands, "do with iron, so it is all every shop. Here, it was my family, only my family."

"That must've been quite the business at the time," Piye said in a softer voice, still low as they contemplated your words.

"We make good money," you said with a nod. "But I know this not. I want... to see.. find the maker. Hear his words."

"You'll probably want to see Panya, then," Ahk said. "It was her who found it, right?"

"I think yes."

"Wonderful. You'll go find her, and I will take him home," Piye said as they stood, gesturing to Ahk with their chin. "Dinner, remember?"

"Has anyone told you how irritating you are?" Ahkmen said, but nonetheless obeyed and stood.

"Your father reminds me every day," Piye responded flatly as the two returned to the palace.

Ahkmen drummed his fingers against the table below him, leaning the weight of his head on his raised knee. His mother had forced him into his royal clothes––the actual royal clothes, not just the expensive ones––and the crown his parents had made him gave him headaches with its' weight. Pure gold was heavy.

Ebla was a trading nation from the north who supplied a small but important type of material rarely found in the desert; wood. That was what Merenkahre and the Eblaite queen spent two hours talking about. Wood. They brought other goods such as rarely-found textiles and handcrafted artifacts as well, but they focused on the wood. It made sense, since that was what Egypt required the most, but it still bored him terribly.

Piye was much luckier by his reckoning. They didn't have to attend duties such as these. All the things they had to do were fun, things like gathering ingredients from the markets or the side of the Nile, going off on quests to defeat mythical beasts.

The young prince huffed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from tapping his fingers too loudly. Walls of grandeur surrounded him, a good enough difference from your home that he was nearly shocked when he entered his own home, staring up at the towering ceiling. His style was slowly changing, as it usually did, to accommodate new aspects of his life; this had happened before on many occasions, as he suspected it did with many other teenagers his age.

A dream to look at. He would reckon your smile would match against any angelic beauty––anything holy was a common miracle in comparison to the subtle, entrancing magic of your laughter, his hand holding yours as he dragged you, pretending not to notice the racing of his heartbeat. A dream.

He wanted nothing more than to scoop you up and drown you in kisses. In order to avoid his own disappointment at his fantasy not currently being reality, he bit deeper into the inside of his cheek, pressing down harder on his open palm.

Hours later, he stared up at the canopy of his bed, the sheets tossed around his body till most of them hung half of the bed. His breathing was the only noise in the still room.

Until his breathing irritated him so fiercely he sat straight up in a huff, a frown on his forced expression.

"Fucking... thoughts," he muttered to himself, halfheartedly punching one of his pillows.

He could not manage to tear his mind from you. Every time he closed his eyes, he thought of you, and adrenaline built in him as he unwillingly imagined your face. Would you mind if he came to see you? It must've been past midnight. You worked during the day. He shouldn't bother you.

Ten minutes later he was fully dressed and sneaking out of the palace, a shroud of cloth concealing his identity as he moved along the shadows. He reckoned Piye, who also slept inside the palace, did not want to see you at this hour, and he left them to sleep.

Ahkmen wasn't sure what he was looking for in returning to you, but as per usual, fantasies spared no expense in the luxurious self-indulgence department, scenes playing behind his eyes of the two of you 'naturally' finding yourselves in intimate situations. Most of it consisted of him finally getting some sleep, this time with you in his arms or wrapped around his waist.

Despite his embarrassment concerning previously mentioned fantasies, they did inspire him to move faster, and before he knew it he found himself standing in front of your tent, hesitating for the first time.

Again his doubts plagued him. He comforted himself with the fact that he had come all this way, and it seemed a rather foolish idea to give it up now.

With that he entered, his eyes immediately falling to the one candle lit in the shadowed room. The usual rushlights set about the entrance room––where he and his friends usually sat about and did nothing––had disappeared, leaving much of the folds of cloths in shadows that casted stark against the single flame.

"Yogi?" Ahk said in a much quieter voice than required.

The sound of rustling blankets had his heart sinking in his chest. He had hoped, at least, that he wouldn't bother you from your sleep––most of him believed you would be up all night working.

"Aganu?" You murmured softly, high and quiet with the sleep pulling at your lips.

"Uh, yes," he said, trying to peek behind the curtain separating your bedroom front your shop. "I'm sorry to disturb you so late. I thought you'd be up, I – I can leave."

"No, no," you mumbled. "Is good. Come here."

He gulped, gingerly stepping forward and pulling away the cloth door. Behind it, you lay in a pocket of space built into your fabric wall, drowning you in luxurious blankets of red and gold. All that remained visible was your eyes, an adoring sight in his mind.

"Why've you got that light in the other room?" Ahk asked quietly, kneeling down in front of you.

"More not strong. It is very red," you said, poking your finger out to gesture to the room as a whole. "Good for night sleeping. Why are you coming here?"

"You mean your house or your bed?" Ahk said, stepping away as he became aware of his closeness to you.

"My house."

"Couldn't sleep," he said with a shrug. "Thought you might be able to help."

"Why?" You asked, before backtracking. "Wait, that is not the word I mean. Um... how do you want help?"

"I don't know. Maybe you have a potion, or just a better bed than I do," he said, chuckling.

"I have both."

"Hey, you haven't even felt my bed," he said in a teasing manner. "How do you already know your bed's better?"

"Because it is not hard."

Fair enough point––Egyptian beds were essentially a table built for the purpose of sleeping. Good for the hot weather, bad for the joints.

"I don't want to disturb you, though," he said quietly as you began to rise, sheets and thick blankets falling from your shoulders to reveal the naked expanse of your chest and stomach. He gulped, though fortunately not audible, as you stretched your hands up.

"It is no problem," you said, sighing deeply as your arms fell.

Rooting around in your bed, you found a large but thin blanket, wrapping it around your body before you left your comforts. You yawned as you stood, but faithfully wandered to your potion storage. Ahkmen had never seen any of your potions, as he didn't believe a hangover cure counted as one, and thus he looked eagerly over your shoulder when you knelt down. Glass and pottery clinked together as you searched.

"What kind of potions do you make?" Ahk asked, stepping back when you once more rose to your feet.

"To help bodies," you said, gesturing to your own body, "and soul." You tapped your heart.

He frowned. Obviously.

"Do you have like, a love potion?"

"Why you ask that?"

"Just curious," he said quickly.

"I have... khamam potion. You make a man drink it and they will.. have..." you trailed off, unable to explain fully. "Love to you? When they make the children."

"Sex?"

"Sure. They do the sex. Man or woman," you said with a dismissive wave of your hand.

"How do you make a potion like that?"

"You think I give it with no paying? I must make money, Aganu," you chuckled softly, bopping his nose with your finger, before sobering to speak. "This is a potion that will make you calm. Ready for sleep, yes."

"Oh, thank you," Ahkmen said, taking the small, clay bottle. "How much do I owe you?"

"Speak more about the sky."

He quirked a brow.

"That's your price?"

"I want to know more. I go to school to clean, not hear, but I want to," you said, taking his hands in your cloth-covered hands, and staring upwards. "I am alive to see and hear and I want to hear you."

You couldn't be aware of the effect of your words. Not with eyes that innocent. But, as usual, his heart raced painfully in his chest, overflown with an affection he had no choice but to hold back.

"... very well," he murmured, and led you back to your bed. You crawled in, surrounding yourself in blankets once more as Ahk sat on the floor, carefully watching your sleepy, fluttering eyes.

"The sky––well, more specifically the night sky, is a woman. Her name is Nuit. At sunset, her head in the west consumes Ra, and in the morning, she births him again. Her eyes are the sun and moon. Her lover, Geb, is the earth, but they are forever forced apart by Ra, who placed their father to separate them," Ahk said, reciting information he had long known. "His name is Shu. He is the air that lets us breathe."

"Why did Ra want them apart?" You asked quietly, muffled behind your blankets.

"Nuit became pregnant by Geb. Ra found it an abomination, cursed her to never give birth on any day of the year. But Thoth helped her––won a few games of Senet against Khonsu, god of time, and earned her five days in which she gave birth to five children."

"Who?"

"Osiris on the first day. That's his temple you work at. Then I believe it was.. Horus.. Seth, Isis, and her sister, Nephthys." He paused to yawn. "Those are the epagomenal days, at the end of the year. Pretty big celebration."

"I like to see this," you mumbled.

"I'll take you this next year," he said. "There's plenty of food and beer for everyone."

Your breathing was beginning to slow, and when Ahk noticed that, he fell into silence. Instead he stared at your closed eyes, your cheek squished into your pillow. Too much to look at. The better half of him yearned to reach out and touch you, but the remaining bits of his conscious reminded him that that was, beyond anything, an incredibly strange thing to do.

He was even more grateful for his decision to remain still when your eyes opened on an inhale, blinking slowly as you met his gaze.

"Tired?" You asked. "Potion does not takes long."

He chuckled, "yeah. I'm pretty tired now."

"What time does it take to walk to your house?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe thirty minutes."

"You are.. you will fall by then," you murmured.

"Asleep?"

"Yes. It is a strong potion."

You paused, scanning his body and its' position near you.

"Remain here," you said, soft as the silk you drowned yourself in. "For the night."

The rope around his heart tightened at your request. His imagination, somehow, had come to fruition.

"Where will I sleep?" He asked, fighting back another yawn.

"All places. Do what you want," you sighed. "Or you fall sleep in the street."

"Very funny. Scoot over."

You glared up at him, but eventually gave in, scooting closer to the wall to make room for him. He pulled his jewelry off him before sidling in, hoping to avoid hurting you accidentally.

When he turned to face you, he found his forehead crowning you, his nose just barely brushing against yours.

"Thanks," he murmured. "You didn't have to."

"I know," you whispered in a breath, closing your eyes.

Only a few hours later he was awakened by something prodding at his face. His eyes fluttered open, blearily finding Piye above him, poking his cheek with a fireplace fork. Ahkmen groaned, turning over on his side.

"Don't you ignore me, you royal pain," Piye said, prodding him harder yet. "Do you know how many lies I had to tell to your father?"

"Piye, it's way too early in the morning for this," he said groggily, throwing his arm over his eyes.

"It's midday!"

"I got here late," Ahkmen said as he slowly fell out of the bed, sliding onto the floor.

Piye grasped the top of Ahk's head by his hair, lifting his face and kneeling to meet him.

"I swear to the Gods if you had sex with a ci–"

"I did not," Ahk hissed, wriggling till Piye's grip loosened.

Reluctantly, Ahkmen rose to his feet, brushing the wrinkles out of his clothes and pulling your blankets off the floor, placing them back on the bed. The lumps in the cloth suggested your presence, but as he pulled them away he found the rest of the bed empty. He stepped back in surprise.

Piye looked over his shoulder, frowning as they, too, saw your absence.

"Isn't this Yogi's bed?"

"It was last night," Ahk said.

"I am here," you said from behind. Ahk whirled around, coming face to face with you struggling to pull on a large, ornate coat.

"Oh. What are you doing?" Ahk asked with a frown.

"I am placing my coat."

"We can see that," Piye said flatly. "It's hot outside. Why do you need it."

"Pockets," you said, opening your jacket to reveal a plethora of pockets sewn into the inner seams. "I do go to market now. I will see for the man that had made this."

You reached into one of your pockets, pulling out the block of pure iron some blacksmith had thrown away.

"Will I go to Panya? If she wants to?" You asked, pocketing the metal once more.

"Probably should," Ahk said with a yawn, stretching his hands high enough that they raised the cloth ceiling. Piye nodded in agreement.

"She likes to stay in control," Piye added.

"I can help you get there," Ahk offered expectantly.

"Oh! Thanks many," you said, grinning wide. "I do not know to find her."

"I better come too," said Piye, who crossed their arms. "He always seems to get into trouble without me there."

"You say that as though I don't get into trouble when you're with me, too," Ahk chuckled.

"I'm not in the mood today, Ahk," Piye whispered, gripping Ahk's upper arm tight enough to leave temporary marks.

"Then don't come along," Ahk whispered back. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

Piye glared at him but said nothing, walking swiftly out the door and closing the flap behind them. It left Ahkmen once more alone with you, awkwardly shuffling his feet as you prepared yourself, carefuly to remember all your tools.

"Thank you, again," Ahkmen said after a moment of silence. "For letting me sleep here."

"Yes, yes. Go now."

You pushed him out the door, following as you fixed the tassels of your pants. Thin ropes flipped every which way till you knotted them, tightening around your waist, before you set off towards the common streets. Ahkmen followed, though he couldn't see where Piye had gone.

Murmuring conversations surrounded him, circled by flocks of people heading towards Osiris' temple. Shoulders and feet pushed on him, shoving him about as he headed in the opposite direction, always searching for your scarlet red robes. They set you quite wide apart from the usual crowd, and thus the Prince used them as an identifier.

People cast looks in his direction as he continued to shove and push, a constant stream of shaky apologies tumbling from his mouth. He considered himself adept at moving through crowds, but he had clearly not gotten as much practice as you did, which combined with your smaller size, led you to stop far ahead to wait for him.

He panted as he reached you, pausing with a heavy chest.

"Feel you good?" You asked, quirking a brow.

"I don't do well when I haven't eaten in the morning," he said, his voice cracking as he bent over slightly, his hands on his knees.

"Funny Egyptian man," you laughed, reaching up to ruffle his already messy hair. "You are... too full of money."

"I wouldn't doubt that," he muttered, recalling the many luxuries his father had given him throughout his life.

"I buy your food, we will go," you said as you returned to walking, slow to allow him time to catch up.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said, waving his hand dismissively as he rose to follow you. "I can pay for it. Don't waste your money."

"Right?"

"... yes," he said, after having given up on trying to decode what exactly you'd meant.

As the two of you entered the main streets of the city, the conversations of strangers grew louder, more densely packed between houses and stalls full of goods. Through the street you now walked down, there must've been at least five different spice carts. Careful mountains of cumin and ginger were placed in the corner of nearly every stop.

Near the end, he found a small stall of a woman selling beer. He reached for you, pausing your step as he dug into his own pocket, pulling out a silver ring.

"One cup, please," he asked, to which the lady politely acquiesced. He set the ring down on her counter. "Will this do?"

"... one more than that," she said, her gaze flickering from the ring to Ahk's eyes.

He pulled out another ring, and with that she handed him the cup, taking the rings simultaneously.

"Have a good day!" She said as the two of you left.

Ahkmen sipped at his drink with a satisfied sigh, relaxing into the sweet, familiar taste. Your drinks were good, but far too alcoholic to be worth any sustenance.

"I want a little," you said, moving on your toes so as to see inside his cup.

"Sure," he said, and handed it to you. You returned it after a couple swallows.

"We look for Panya, yes?" You asked.

"Oh, right. I'll take you to her house."

Panya didn't live far away from the center of town, so in a matter of minutes you were already knocking on her door. What you didn't expect, however, was for the High Priest of Osiris' temple to answer it.

He eyed you up and down, your odd way of dress, the dot on your forehead, before his gaze fell to Ahkmen. It was then his eyes narrowed, coldly recognizing the prince.

"What do you want," he said, leering down at you.

"Your daughter," said Ahk, who was leant against one of the pillars outside Panya's mansion of a house.

"You may not have her."

"I –"

Before Ahk could finish, something tugged on the inside of his arm, pulling him away from the doorstep. You didn't seem to notice, busy conversing with Yafeu. He turned round, stumbling with broken balance before he looked up, meeting Piye's eye.

"What are you doing?" He whispered, glancing back to you and the priest.

"I've been thinking," Piye murmured, leaning down to lessen the space between them, "I don't think we should go around the markets just talking about a purified iron. I think it might land you in trouble."

"Why?" He scoffed.

"I’ve been at all my father’s meetings with the Pharaoh and his generals and they’re talking about iron. How to get it, how to use it, how to control it, everything,” they said.

“Well why’s that a problem? They did the same thing with wood.”

"Not like this! Iron, it – it's incredibly strong. If we had armor made of that, shields made of it, weapons made of it, it'd give us an enormous amount of military power, and with your father in rule, I don't think that's a good idea," they said in a growing volume before they remembered Yafeu was there, and quieted down again.

"What's wrong with my father?!" Ahk gasped.

"Nothing!" Piye hissed, eyes darting back up to Yafeu to see if he had noticed. "He just has a habit of oppressing people!"

Ahkmen snorted. His hand shot up to cover his mouth, quiet giggles wracking his body.

"I'm sorry," he wheezed, "that shouldn't be funny. Sorry."

"It's fine," Piye said with a long sigh. "You know what I mean. If word gets to him that this little immigrant over here has a key to finding how to shape iron, he isn't going to take a visit and credit them with the discovery. He's going to deport them, cover it up, and claim he learned it from the Gods. You know everything’s a game to him."

Ahkmen's breath caught in his throat as Piye laid out the consequences in plain, simple terms he could understand. That would be the end of your friendship, but more importantly, it was also the end of your livelihood. You were still young––around his age––and you didn't know much else except living in Egypt. If he were to take your word, your home to the east was far, far away, and ruled by an unjust dictator. You would not make the journey there alone, let alone when you actually reached your city.

"What do you suppose we do?" Ahkmen said after a minute or two of deep thought.

"I think –"

"We can go here," you said, passing by them with Panya and, unsurprisingly, Unas bringing up the rear.

"Wait –"

He went to stop you, but Piye stopped him first.

"Best you don't tell them. We're not from the palace, remember?" Piye muttered, before promptly following you off the steps of Panya's house. Ahkmen, however disgruntled as he was, followed as well.

"I wish I was poor," he grumbled, walking alongside Piye, who kept a fair enough distance from you and your customers.

Piye struck him with a flat palm against the back of his head. The weight in his neck rolled forward, kinking it awkwardly, to which he let out a yelp of pain.

"Don't say that. Others in your country, in this city, starve. They would give anything to be you."

His frown drew tighter, irritant clogging his thoughts. Every inconvenience angering. He breathed deeply, willing the feeling away, and sped his pace to catch up to you. Panya might've been up there, but her presence would be a small price for yours.

The markets approached faster than he realized, and soon he was once more surrounded by strangers bartering and advertising. Thin tarps of orange and dusty yellow spread from one side of the thin street to the other, sheltering merchants from the hot sun, and allowing them to hang different products on the lines. He ducked under rings of cloth and over piles of incense, shakily following your wavy trail through the walkway.

Heat began to redden his cheeks, and it was then he realized that you'd made it to the blacksmith area of market, near to the kitchens. Fire stoking bread and metal filled the open air, made much clearer by the absence of the shading tarps.

"Uh, Yogi," he said, grabbing your shoulder to stop you before you could enter. "I think we should keep on the down-low, this purified iron, people might start talking."

You looked him up and down.

"Okay," you said, turning back round to enter the shop.

It took until evening before you made any progress. Most everyone you met was skeptical of you, which wasn't surprising considering the size and age of your group. But the last man you came to was still working, even as everyone around him ate dinner, readying to leave for home or staying for music.

He had long hair––longer than Piye's, trailing down to his mid-thigh. Unlike theirs, his was black, and much stringier in comparison. The knotted rope used to hold his hair back as he worked was crude at best, and one he had to constantly fix. Ahkmen didn't see it, but you noticed he was much skinnier than most of the other blacksmiths, who had grown muscles over the years of their work.

You approached him much like you approached everyone; a bright, commercial cheerfulness that came across as dangerously fake. To those who had spent good time in the markets, it was easy to see through. Those who hadn't, however, couldn't quite decode why you were unsettling, other than you being foreign.

"What did you say this was for again?" The man asked, his voice a quiet, low rasp. He had seated himself amongst your menagerie, matching the height of Piye, who was of course the tallest member.

"We are trying to find the owner of an amulet," Panya lied smoothly, pulling off one of her many necklaces and handing it to the man. "Or rather, the maker."

He took the necklace with skinny fingers, twisting it round in them as he surveyed the whole of it.

"Gold, ruby.. copper," he muttered, pointing to each of the different beads as though you could understand him mumbling. "Silver?"

Panya gestured for the amulet back, which he gave, and she strung it back around her neck.

"Iron. It's the purest we've ever seen and we're looking for the source," she said, pointing to the rest of the group.

"The durability is incredible. I would love to have access to that kind of things in my buildings and such," Unas added.

"I know," the blacksmith said, his hair still drooping long in front of his face. "I have been searching for a way to purify the ore, but I cannot get my fires hot enough. I keep getting... what might be iron, but it never looks right. Then again, I – I don't know what the correct product would look like."

Well then, Ahk thought, that explains why it was in the junkyard.

You leant over to Ahk, moving to your knees so your lips met his ear as you whispered.

"Can I show him what we found now?"

"Um.." his eyes darted over to Piye, who was listening intently to the man's woes, "sure."

Tapping on the blacksmith's shoulder, you brought his attention to you and the heavy malformed metal in your hand. His eyes widened, near imperceptive behind all his hair, but certainly filled with shock.

"Is that my...?"

"It is iron," you said with a grin. "I live in a city where lots of iron everywhere. Here, not so much, but that is iron."

"Unas found it in the junkyard in the southern part of Memphis," Panya said, pointing a thumb to her friend.

"Shit," the man breathed out, combing a hand through his hair. "I don't know which one that was."

"Which what?" Ahkmen asked.

"Which heat level," Unas answered for him. "It takes a specific amount to actually purify different ores. Otherwise you might burn it into a charcoal."

"And the all other rocks and," you motioned grinding your fist into the palm of your other hand, "the rocks you smash until they are sand."

"Powder," Ahk said.

"Yes. I see, when I was 5, my father has powder in his furnace, in the iron," you said with a variety of questionable hand motions. "Red, and... a bright black. Shiny."

Ahkmen listened intently for the next hour and a half as you, Unas, and the blacksmith conversed about smelting techniques. Apparently, all of you had, at one point, attempted to smelt iron out of the ore, a fact that was made appalling because Egypt didn't have any iron. Most of the iron within the country was either imported or from the meteor, which was confined to only serving the royal family.

Even Piye eventually tired of the conversation that never seemed to stray from smelting, though you did for a short time discuss techniques for copper. Piye had an incredible sense of patience, so when they tapped Ahk to tell him they were leaving, Ahk realized he usually would've left ten minutes into the conversation.

It clicked quite quickly that he wasn't really listening––he was watching you, and that had somehow occupied him for a full hour and a half. A creeping sense of embarrassment had him hunching his shoulders.

"Unas, we should go, we have that thing in the morning," Panya murmured into Unas' ear, though Ahkmen still caught it.

"Oh, right," he said in a deflated tone. He stood, brushing off his skirt before facing the blacksmith. "Thank you for your time. Is it alright if I come back sometime? Might be better to have more than one person working on this."

"How old are you?" The blacksmith asked in his usual mumble.

"16."

"... okay," he said after a moment. "You're old enough."

"Oh, good. Well thank you, anyway," Unas said, before motioning to Panya to leave. He bowed his head slightly as he left the circle of conversation, following his friend back into the markets.

As she left, Panya turned to walk backwards, holding her hands out to you. You quickly caught her drift, and threw the ball to her. She thanked you from a distance.

"We should leave soon as well," Ahk whispered to you.

A few minutes later, the two of you were once more walking side by side, wandering down the now-vacant streets. Ahkmen had no idea where you were going, but was along for the ride no matter where you ended up. As you hastened your step, you took Ahk's hand, forcing him to match your pace with a giddy laugh.

"The night is clear," you said, walking backwards to face him without halting your step. "You will show me the star shapes, yes?"

"The constellations," he said with a soft chuckle, his body filling with a warm, lighthearted haze. "Of course."

You led him back towards your home but ignored the alleyway entrance, instead reaching the doors of Osiris' temple. The tall walls marked themselves steep against your small stature, casting long shadows in the moonlight, that tonight shone like a shell of the sun. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words died stillborn as you tugged him into you. His chest met yours as he stumbled clumsily.

"Be safe, funny man," you giggled, looking down at him as his head's weight rested awkwardly in the crook of your neck.

What little citylights remained in the dead of night faded away as you scaled the tower, your neck craned upwards to the heavens. No matter how tall the roof of the temple was, no matter how high you climbed, the stars never seemed to move any closer. Their distance must've been incomprehensible, but inconsequential when grasping Ahk's hand to help him onto the roof.

He panted softly as he stood on his feet once more, brushing off the dust that came from the temple walls. You left him to wander to the center of the stone plateau. His breathing slowed, attention centering on you as your eyes still stared up into empty space.

You turned, noticing the heat of his gaze.

"Speak to me," you said in a voice that moved like music. "You tell on Sopdet, yes? And.. Sah. Nuit and Geb."

"Lie down with me," he said.

You dutifully obeyed, sliding down next to him, your clothes and hair splayed out.

For a good hour he pointed up, tracing the outlines of constellations he had studied all his life. Since you didn't know their shapes on paper, he drew the images in the dirt and sand collected on the roof, showing you how random collections of dots made up women and beautiful creatures, the everlasting Gods in the sky.

"I want to be... something beautiful," he murmured, looking down at his own shoddy illustrations. "Like the stars."

"You had say that when you will die, you will go to the stars, right?" You asked softly.

"In death," he said with a small nod. "I will not be able to see this earth. I will be one amongst millions. It's strange, but... I wish I could stay here forever. A star close to home."

"You are scared of being nothing," you said. "But we are nothing. We are nothing to birds, or to other cities. We are already nothing and everything. It is what you choose to make of you––make more of your everything, or sleep in your nothing. There is happy things in both."

"No time wasted in happiness is truly time wasted?" He said, remembering a familiar anecdote from school.

"Yes," you said with a smile.

Silence filled the space for a few minutes, stilled by the slow breathing of Ahk's chest. He closed his eyes, exhaustion tugging at him, all of which he ignored.

"Aganu?" You said, nearly whispered.

"Yeah?"

"I like my hours with you," you murmured, wide, warm eyes staring bashfully at him.

"I do too."

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #rami malek character #ahkmenrah x male reader #ahkmenrah x female reader

[traumatized-motherfuckers]

CPTSD and Core Beliefs (Your lens, built on traumatic fuckery)

Alright, so you know I have this Patreon thing that I try to make worth your while in return for your economical help. One of the benefits is the good ole’ monthly ask me anything. And I love it. Because the questions are great. And they push me to dig into topics that I was procrastinating. This month’s AMA is a particularly good one! A question that needs to be addressed, anyways. So it’s perfect. Let’s aim for two birds with one stone.

Our good friend Cassie - you know her by now - asks, how do you identify core beliefs and start to change them? Which is a very simple and very complicated question.

  So, to take a step backwards, what she talkin’ bout?

  Well, one of the internal issues that complex trauma sufferers have to rectify is their belief system. Between our core beliefs and our inner critic, we have a lot going on in between our ears to keep us downtrodden and destitute.

  We’re talking about what I call Fucked Up Core Beliefs here… which are your trauma-born core beliefs. Again, called FUCBs because when you discover them, you’ll likely whisper to yourself, “wow, that’s actually really fucked up.” These sentiments are like the lenses that you surgically stitched onto your face several decades ago in response to your upbringing, as your little mammal brain tried to understand its place in the global hierarchy and how to be chill about it.

 The framework you built from your early development and beyond, that all information still filters through today - both on the way in and on the way out of your head. The words that stream through your brain consciously or subconsciously to shape the ways you appraise… everything. Yourself, your life, your past, your future, other people, and everything that happens in between.

  So, essentially, talking about the ways you interpret your existence and the collected pool of knowledge from where you make decisions, and therefore the ways you act. If this is starting to sound like a big deal - it is!

But it don’t come with a big flashing sign. The Challenge

These beliefs are challenging to figure out because:

  One, they were adapted early on in your life in an effort to understand the circumstances around you or directly downloaded from the sentiments expressed in your environment. When you were first establishing your perspective of the universe and trying to figure out how to navigate it based on the clues presented.

  Plus, the harder part is… because of the early adoption, you’ve already accepted the idea for so long that it doesn’t even seem like a “belief” to you - you’re not choosing it and it’s probably not apparent to you - it’s just the secret narrative running in your head that corrupts all later data. Not cognitive thoughts that you’re directing on purpose. You probably don’t have recollections of the time before you believed such and such to question what you believe - these ideas are solidified in your head with as much certainty as the alphabet.

  So, you might believe you’re a worthless piece of shit as a function of the neglect and abuse you experienced, a way to explain the mistreatment to yourself from a young age… OR you might believe you’re a worthless piece of shit because mom, dad, sister, and society directly told you so. But either way, many years down the line, it’s difficult to pinpoint either of these originating factors as memories fade or to even question the validity of the thought… or to even notice the thought.

  Two, if your family of origin was always repeating the same sort of thoughts and you later associate with people who make you comfortable to be around (i.e. probably have some similar views of the world), you have nothing to compare your beliefs to.

  Your environment teaches you what’s normal. There’s no reference for what is and isn’t healthy, fair, or functional if everyone is drinking the same kool aid. And, unfortunately, in traumatic environments, folks seem to congregate around the fucked up beliefs to protect them with a mutual unspoken agreement. Accept the accepted narrative of the group or be outcast. The same story is replayed on repeat from all ends of your social circle, so why would you even begin to think there’s another way to look at things?

So, if mom, dad, cousin, uncle, grandma, neighbor, peer, teacher, and media are all telling you the same reality exists, how would you ever even begin to have the wherewithal to think otherwise? The thought probably never crosses your mind. The sky is blue, grass is green, and the world is a miserable place where everyone is trying to take advantage of you.

  Three, again, I cannot over-express how insidious, subtle, and generalized these things can be. Fucked up core beliefs affect how you see and process everything. Again, like lenses or an instagram filter permanently applied to your corneas. So, there’s not necessarily one life-effect linked to one-FUCB for easy detection or one event that will cause a clear-as-day defined belief to come shooting to the top of the pile. More like, you very slowly realize you have an unhealthy view or twenty about yourself and the world that have sorrrrrtof impacted every single area of your life now that you spend years considering it.

  Thinking you’re a worthless piece of shit, for instance, has led to you taking low-level jobs with chaotic schedules, living with an abusive partner, and settling for living in the same environment with the same behavioral patterns that you’ve known your entire life. It’s also allowed you to give up exercise, eating right, staying sober, and trying to make any life-improvements. Why bother spit polishing shit? And here you are, wondering why you feel awful about yourself and don’t enjoy anything you’ve created in your life.

  But. It’s not that simple to sort out, or else we would have done it already. You probably haven’t ever purposely considered how commonly this impression is operating below the surface of your actions. Realizing that the belief “I’m a worthless piece of shit who deserves nothing” and trying to change it would be like pulling out the wrong Janga block - everything it has been supporting suddenly comes tumbling down and you’re left with a real fucking mess to rebuild from the bottom up. And, to top it all off, no one ever even taught you how to create a sturdier structure in the first place.

  Fourthly, from some of my own learnings, I’ve come to the conclusion that the core belief, itself, doesn’t even have to present itself at any point to be making a difference in your life. They are so deeply ingrained in my brain that my thought center just naturally uses them as a jumping off point, without even directly touching on the words that might ping my brain as unusual. Just like we can subtly detect risks in our environment that set off our warning bells without ever creating a conscious thought to go with the arousal, I feel like I can apply a core belief to my world without ever noticing the accompanying stream of consciousness.

Sometimes I feel like fucked up core beliefs have become so accepted over time that they’re feelings more than cognitions. As if they’ve become so reflexive through repetition that you have muscle memory - an intuitive response that bypasses your logical brain recognition threshold and jumpstarts shittily-related thoughts… and those will actually register on your thinking scale. But at that point, you accept the novel-feeling thought and never note that it was actually spawned by a very old recording.

  Which is to say, you might have to work on identifying your fucked up core feelings before you can get to the thought deeply buried underneath. Taking a meta break from the episode to tell you, I’ve never thought about that so thoroughly before. But Fucked Up Core Feelings definitely sounds like a solid description of my world. I guess we also have FUCFs to go with our FUCBs from now on. Anyways.

  With all of this in mind, I’m sure you can start to see why these fucked up core beliefs are a big problem. Hell, if you’ve listened to this podcast for more than a few episodes, you’ve definitely heard that I’m still challenged by my own. Like, when I say that I’m freaking out because no one should listen to me and I feel like an imposter - I believe that I’m not good enough to share information with people. That I’m too flawed to even express myself. This is a problem for, say, podcasting. Or, living. And I have to fight it all the time.

  Long story short.

  Your core beliefs are sneaky, they can be comprehensive, and they are hardwired into your brain as your default system for analyzing everything on the planet. Again, kind of like looking for goggles strapped to your face, but in reality you had lasik surgery about 30 years ago.

  So, if you aren’t constantly on the lookout for core beliefs and actively working against your pre-programmed ways of assessing yourself and the world around you… they will get out of control, cause a fair amount of avoidance and defeat, and set you back several steps in your mental health management… plus, potentially your entire life, if you make any big decisions out of this unhealthy mindset. Which you will, because that’s how the brain works. I’m almost certain that you have some experience with this already.

If you ever think things like: The world is a dangerous placePeople are cruelI’m not good enough I’m not smart enoughI’m not enoughI’m brokenOther people don’t like meThere’s something wrong with my personalityI’m not allowed to… (live like others, have nice things, be happy)I’m not one of those people who… (has money, has good luck, gets what they want)Shit is just harder for meNothing ever works outLife is always hardI can’t.

Then you’ve had some fucked up core beliefs floating around in your head.

 These are some super broad ones for the sake of demonstration, so don’t disregard highly specific beliefs that might relate to your particular circumstances or upbringing.

  If you haven’t ever noticed yourself thinking these big shitty picture things… check again in all your deepest nooks and crannies. I think a lot of us TMFRs operate from some version of the narratives above - plus, much worse. Like I keep saying, these beliefs might not be in your conscious thoughts, so much as they’re directing the show from behind the curtain.

How do we pull it back? Discover the beliefs ........

Keep reading or listen up at t-mfrs.com

https://www.t-mfrs.com/podcast/episode/532f2b1c/core-beliefs

#cptsd #complex ptsd #complex trauma #complextraumarecovery #healingcomplextrauma #complextrauma #complexptsd #cptsd problems #cpstd #just cptsd things #actually CPTSD #cptsdsurvivor

[aurorawest]

can you also do a director's commentary on "Fool for You"? 🐠 this is one of my favs 🥰

Yeah! Thank you for asking about this one! Since it’s over 6k words I’ll just grab the interesting parts, I hope that’s okay! Link on AO3.

First of all, I will just say, I was shocked by the response to this fic. I wrote it for Froststrange Week earlier this year, and it was by far the fluffiest fic I wrote for that event. It’s one of the fluffiest things I’ve written ever. I was actually nervous to post it...and I’ve written some very dark stuff that didn’t even give me pause before hitting the post button on AO3, haha. But this one? I distinctly remember my palms getting sweaty (gross) and having to walk away from my computer after I posted it, because I was so freaked out. But people liked it! It was probably my most popular Froststrange Week fic.

Onto the fic...

Loki craned his head, staring upwards as the massive shark moved smoothly and silently through the water overhead. He’d never seen anything like it, despite his one thousand and sixty years in the universe. It moved off, disappearing over rocks dappled with slow, turquoise sunlight.

“It’s a whale shark,” Stephen informed him, staring down at an informational plaque posted along the walkway. Loki had read all of them so far, but he’d stopped dead in his tracks in the glass tunnel when he’d seen the shark, too awed by it to move. Ahead of them and behind them, the screams and excited voices of school groups echoed, but the two of them were in a lull between throngs.

The prompts for the day that I used were ‘firsts’ and ‘aquarium date.’ The aquarium part was a no brainer for me, because I head canon that Loki is a big nature lover, and that he particularly loves the ocean.

Rays sailed through the water alongside the shark. Those, Loki was more familiar with. They’d had them on Asgard. Extinct now, of course. All of Asgard’s species, all its plants, animals, insects, all of it, were extinct. It was a depressing thought.

Okay, well, this is a fluffy fic, but obviously I’m incapable of writing pure fluff. It’s Loki, so there has to be some angst.

Always prone to depressing thoughts, Loki was. He looked at the whale shark again, then at Stephen, leaning over the plaque and reading it—mostly for Loki’s benefit, so the two of them could talk about it. That made Loki’s heart swell. His sadness would always be with him, but his happiness sat next to it, bright and blinding. Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, Guardian of the New York Sanctum, human sorcerer and ridiculously, heart-poundingly beautiful man, was responsible for much of it.

Loki is really, really in love. And he can finally be free about admitting it.

Turning around, Stephen met Loki’s eyes and said, “So, the Georgia Aquarium was a good choice?”

In preparation to write this fic, I googled what the world’s best aquariums were. I knew the Georgia Aquarium was a big deal (both from living in north Florida for a time and just...being a person who likes zoos and aquariums), but I wanted to see if there were others. Obviously, Stephen can go anywhere, so for their first date, he would take Loki to the best of the best. The Georgia Aquarium does consistently appear at the very top of aquarium lists (others were Monterey Bay and one in...Dubai, I think?).

I spent a lot of time on the Georgia Aquarium’s website. It’s a huge place and has lots of different aquariums, so I had to choose the one they would spend most of their time at. The website has webcams on a lot of the aquariums, so I actually watched them while I was writing.

[...] This place made one want to learn about Earth’s oceans, which might make them less prone to destroying them. Since he’d taken up permanent residence on Earth, Loki had learned to love it—and he’d grown increasingly aware that humanity was rather short-sighted about the planet they lived on.

Loki the environmentalist.

Then again, somehow he doubted that if Hela had been better educated about Asgard’s mollusk population, she would have decided not to take over and kill everyone.

This line always makes me laugh.

[...] “Good,” Stephen said. “I figured you’d like it. But, you know. First date and everything. I wanted to get it right.”

The squirming in Loki’s stomach turned to a full explosion of butterflies. First date. Could two people have a first date when they’d already exchanged avowals of love? Hadn’t that been the first date? Or perhaps their first date had been years ago, without either of them quite knowing it?

It’s always a balance for me to write these fics that take place in the ‘future,’ as compared to where I am in the chronological writing of this verse. I just finished fic #6 in my series, which takes place in 2027. This fic takes place in 2030. The avowals of love Loki refers to hear is from the end of the last fic in the series, ‘The General Mess and Imprecision of Feeling,’ and is when the two of the officially get together. They unknowingly going on their first date years ago is a reference to the fact that the two of them have been doing date-like activities with each other for years, just with neither of them admitting it. One of my other fics for Froststrange Week is actually one of these instances (‘far away from here and closer to somewhere else,’ where they run into each other in Hong Kong and get drunk together). In fic #8 (which I’m working on now), they end up spending the day together in London. In fic #9, they spend a lot of Thor and Jane’s wedding together.

He craned his head up to stare at the top of the glass tunnel, 

They’re in the Ocean Voyager aquarium.

suddenly not knowing what to say, feeling as though he might make a fool of himself. A sea turtle swam by slowly, the underside of its shell gleaming like the moon. The truth was that he’d probably made a fool of himself in front of Stephen so many times that it no longer even registered to him.

Or maybe… Loki looked over at him. Stephen was watching him, a look in his eyes that made warmth spread through Loki. Maybe Stephen didn’t actually find Loki foolish. Maybe he never had.

The idea of Loki being a sentimental fool is something that pops up pretty constantly in my fics. Here, Loki is thinking of times he’s actually looked stupid in front of Stephen, real and imagined. He has the wherewithal to recognize that maybe a lot of them are imagined, and that even the real humiliations don’t make Stephen view Loki as a fool.

“How did you know I would like this?” Loki asked.

[...] “Remember the time we went to the Museum of Natural History?”

“Yes.” Loki raised an eyebrow at him. “You really played tour guide quite often, didn’t you?”

Giving Loki an amused look, Stephen said, “It seemed like the decent thing to do. I had royalty living at my house.”

[...] “Silly me,” Loki said. “I thought it might be because you had a bit of a thing for me back then.” Stephen shot him a crooked smile. It wasn’t agreement. But it certainly wasn’t denial, either.

Stephen definitely did have a thing for Loki back then. Loki had a thing for him, too. By the time Loki leaves the Sanctum, they’re in love with each other, though neither of them has quite realized it yet. Stephen realizes much sooner then Loki (surprise).

[...] If Loki was being honest, he’d been mildly terrified that he would arrive at the Sanctum and Stephen would do something—look at him in some way, speak to him in a way that was just a bit false—that Loki would know that Stephen had thought about it and decided that they’d made a terrible mistake and he was looking for a way to extricate himself from their new…relationship. Romance. Whatever it was.

This is Loki’s constant fear. It takes him a long, long time to stop worrying about it. It’s his fear with everyone, though. Boil Loki down to his bare essentials, and you get a giant heart and massive abandonment issues.

Loki snorted with laughter and then grinned at Stephen. “Your expression, honestly, Strange. I’ve seen you face far greater foes with much less fear.”

[...] Shrugging, Stephen said, “Kids. Not really my thing.”

“It’s not as though you need to bring them home.”

[...] “I enjoy the chaos that children cause.”

“You might be the only person here who’s enjoying the decibel level of that pack of kids,” Stephen said.

Loki actually really likes kids! And Stephen doesn’t at all.

Loki flashed a grin at him, thought about making a joke about having children, and then dismissed it. It would be a joke, because the last thing Loki wanted right now, possibly ever, was a child that he could pass all his hang-ups to. His own upbringing had been…a challenge. He doubted his ability to overcome it.

My main interest in the two of them ever having a child lies in exploring Loki’s issues with his own father.

[Stephen reveals his big surprise...is that he booked an aquarium sleepover] It was more than Loki didn’t know what to think. What was an aquarium sleepover? Sleeping here? They allowed people to do that? Had this cost extra money? Stephen didn’t have any money, so why would he spend extra on something like this?

You really can do aquarium sleepovers at the Georgia Aquarium! It’s actually not that expensive, but Loki knows that Stephen’s only income is a stipend from Kamar-Taj. Stephen has nothing at all left over from his pre-wizard days and he depends entirely on that stipend.

[...] The two of them continued through the aquarium, visiting each gallery in turn. Even though Loki was quite sure Stephen’s interest in all of this was limited, he never gave any indication that he was bored. He seemed, actually, entirely taken by Loki’s enthusiasm, and that was a feeling that Loki had certainly never experienced. 

I really tapped into that brand-new relationship feeling for this fic, haha.

The number of healthy romantic relationships that Loki had experienced was…pretty close to zero, so there had never been someone who had been interested both in sleeping with him and in seeing him enjoying his interests.

It actually is zero. Loki has never had a healthy romantic relationship. He’s hedging here because the romantic encounters he’s had that approach healthy count to him as relationships.

They ate dinner at the aquarium café, which was serviceable but nothing special. At least, the food was nothing special. It was the first time Loki and Stephen had eaten dinner together as a couple. Gods. Loki felt like an adolescent. He was eating a veggie burger and Stephen was eating chicken tenders, with drinks they’d filled themselves out of a fountain machine, and somehow it was the most romantic dinner he’d ever had. Stephen’s knee pressed against Loki’s under the table and he leaned forward like he couldn’t stand that the table top had put a couple feet of space between them.

In other words, Loki could have been eating just the ketchup packets that had been provided to him on his tray, and he would have been happier than he’d ever been in his life.

This is one of my favorite parts of the whole fic. Anyone who’s ever been crazy about a new romantic partner has had this experience, I think.

[Stephen conjures butterflies for the kids they encountered earlier] Suddenly, thousands of blue butterflies burst from within the half-spheres, swirling in a bright blue stream across the ceiling and amongst the children, whose delighted shrieks made their teachers wilt. The butterflies flitted, azure and lapis, iridescent, bobbing on air currents, until they turned to wisps of light and disappeared.

I rarely make use of the whole butterfly thing with Stephen, primarily because I tend to associate it with another Stephen ship (which is one of my NOTPs), but...it’s nice, right? I wanted to use it. A butterfly also appears in Doctor Strange, so it’s imagery that seems to be sort of associated with him.

[left alone in the gallery for their sleepover...] Loki looked around. “Shouldn’t there be other people here?” he asked.

Stephen looked immensely satisfied with himself. “Nope. We get the whole gallery to ourselves.”

Furrowing his brow, Loki asked, “How? Did you buy all the tickets?” This seemed as though it would have been exorbitantly expensive.

Still looking enormously pleased, Stephen said, “I might have played the Sorcerer Supreme card.”

“No one knows what the Sorcerer Supreme does.”

“Okay, fine. I said I was an Avenger.”

My head canon is that Stephen is pretty disdainful of the Avengers. He definitely doesn’t want to be part of the ‘team.’ He’s a loner by nature. Definitely the guy who hated group projects, because he was the one that got stuck doing all the work. This loner quality is something that Loki and Stephen have in common.

[...] Loki buried his nose in Stephen’s hair and breathed in his scent, his shampoo that smelled like sandalwood, the cologne he had definitely put on today, cedar and faintly citrusy. Norns, he smelled good.

Loki first associates the smell of sandalwood with Stephen in Sleight of Hand (it’s right at the end of chapter 12). His cologne makes an appearance in my fic ‘Afterimage,’ which is the fifth fic in my series.

[...] Loki took the sleeping bags from Stephen and undid the ties on them, which were knotted far too tightly for Stephen to loosen.

Stephen actually being affected by his disability is always important for me to include.

[...] Loki laughed. Maybe none of the other Masters thought Stephen was funny, but Loki had always found his sense of humor addictive, sly and surprising, and perfectly suited to Loki’s own.

This is a callback to Stephen’s and Wong’s exchange in Doctor Strange:

“People used to think I was funny.” “Did they work for you?”

[...] There were other things in the bag—a change of clothes for tomorrow, toothbrushes, toothpaste, some over-the-counter medications. When Stephen went to the bathroom to change, Loki snooped more thoroughly. Razor blade, shaving cream, nail clippers, a little bottle of mouthwash, a bottle of cologne. Loki decided to pop the cap open and smell that, then tried to tell himself that the feeling that washed over him could be described in some other way than ‘a swoon.’ There was nothing in the bag that implied Stephen thought they’d be doing anything tonight but sleeping.

I really love this because it’s really not particularly above board for Loki to snoop through Stephen’s bag...but it is a very Loki thing to do. And pretty human. Especially because he’s looking for condoms and lube. Of course he is! They’re spending the night together...are they Spending The Night Together?

[...] Stephen looked at the foot of empty space separating the two sleeping bags, then glanced up at Loki. “Are you comfortable with…” he began, then trailed off, before trying again, “I mean, do you want to be…further away…?”

“Do you?” Loki asked. When Stephen hesitated, Loki took a guess about what the honest answer was, then reached out and tugged Stephen’s sleeping bag until it was right next to his.

Stephen is big on enthusiastic consent. Loki is far more willing to take his chances and guess based on body language.

Eventually, they drew apart, and Loki couldn’t help suspecting it had something to do with the way Stephen seemed to be keeping his hips pulled back just a little. Temptation. If Loki reached down…

But no. Instead, he very deliberately folded an arm under his head, resting his head on his bicep. Stephen did something that looked like it was probably a clothing or anatomy adjustment to accommodate a situation, but Loki didn’t comment. Quite honesty, he had his own situation down there, and it just felt like good manners not to say anything.

I honestly have no idea what guys would do in this situation. Just guessing based on both of their personalities. Is a first date too soon to admit, ‘Hey, you just gave me a boner?’ It feels like it is?

Neither of them spoke for a minute or two. They simply stared at each other. Then, Stephen said gently, “I know you’re worried.”

“Worried?” Loki raised an eyebrow. “What do you think I’m worried about?”

Stephen’s gaze didn’t waver. “This.” When Loki pressed his lips together, Stephen added, “You think I’m going to change my mind. Right?”

No one has ever gotten Loki the way Stephen gets him. And Stephen is very patient, very gentle, and very like...you know when you pspspspsps and hold your hand out to a cat? That’s Stephen with Loki, haha.

[...] “The reasons are myriad, of course [for Loki’s insecurity]. I’ve made poor choices. But yes. In part, it’s because I’m…challenging. And people change their minds.”

Oh hey look, it’s the author projecting.

[...] But Loki was greedy. He didn’t want to say in a few months, or a few years, This was great while it lasted. 

There’s something kind of sad to me about the idea that Loki can’t even view his love for Stephen as an entirely good thing. He’s a sentimental fool, he’s overly romantic, he’s greedy. And if I wanted to go this route, I could easily make Loki very co-dependent in this relationship; it would be easy to turn it really unhealthy. But I don’t want to, haha. It makes sense that Loki would feel like he has to gorge himself on Stephen’s adoration of him, because he’s never really had this before, not from someone he wants to be with (other people have loved him, but he hasn’t loved them back).

He would already have to give it up too soon, because he would outlive Stephen by such a long time. And he already knew there would never be anyone else.

There isn’t. Stephen will die, and Loki won’t ever be with anyone else. Luckily for him, he gets Stephen back eventually.

Stephen leaned forward and kissed Loki softly; the most tender, most heartfelt kiss Loki had ever experienced. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, his lips warm against Loki’s.

It was difficult not to deepen the kiss, difficult not to kiss Stephen harder. He’d never needed anything to be true as much as he needed this to be true, or at least it felt like it. Don’t worry. But Loki always worried. All the good things in his life still felt so fragile, as though they could implode at any moment.

Though—he supposed he was getting better at not actively sabotaging them himself.

This is part of Loki’s arc in my fic. Stephen and he aren’t together until Loki heals in a lot of other ways. One of them is not trying to blow things up so he can control their destruction.

Thank you so much for asking!! Sorry for the delay in responding.

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

#froststrange #strangefrost #loki #stephen strange #Anonymous

[glowyjellyfish]

Gather round, children, for the legend of Grimwood Abbey

(that’s the tiny pre-MCC I mentioned the other day. I only came up with this concept, oh, over a year ago. Dropped it to play a nice easy modern Megahood. I don’t have much wherewithal.)

...so I have spent two days on the weekend so far just working on getting my CC sorted out so I can consider starting this. Yesterday the big issues were a. realizing it was super inefficient to delete stuff in-game one by one even though it’s nice to be able to see it, and becoming paralyzed with indecision about whether to take the time to hunt down unidentified files by hand, or continue spending time deleting dozens and dozens of recoiled by hand… eventually I did a little of both, but boy I gotta use some kind of tooltip renamed now huh… b. I am not good at Delphy’s Download Organizer. I don’t understand it. Why is there no “how to use” documentation. So then I set it to scan for orphans or duplicates, stare hopelessly at the results unable to figure out what is the best course of action, and then quietly quit it to yet again… move files around manually. Don’t get me wrong, I was able to use it to shove several file types into correct folders, but my real issue would be so easily solved if there was a thoroughly explained duplicate scanner that I was able to trust. Ugh, I probably should have started by moving all the files to one big folder and sorting them from there but WHATEVER.

Because, you see, like many simmers, I have been collecting my cc since roughly 2004. I legit cannot remember if I have lost the whole thing and had to start over, but this collection can certainly be traced back to my first laptop that could run the Sims 2. For the longest time, I merely collected a big pile of everything shiny and cool that caught my eye, resulting in a big mixed-up mess combining modern and medieval fantasy and sci-fi and random fandoms and steampunk and everything I ever enjoyed. That… was not sustainable. I tried keeping individual folders within Downloads for specific genres, with the idea that I could swap them in and out for different hoods. Alas, that was too time-consuming for my taste, and I ended up with the same basic downloads folder but very lightly sort of organized but not really.

Sometime within the last ten years, I started trying to cultivate different downloads folders of broad genre categories, all neatly saved on a big flash drive. That’s all well and good, but copying and backing up that shit took away precious hours I could be using to play. Not only that, but it was very rough trying to separate my downloads folder properly—some stuff worked well for multiple genres! So I ended up making copies of the whole downloads folder to build these alternates, which I could then whittle down to only the stuff I actually wanted in there. This medieval alternate downloads folder therefore also contained the folder I’d labeled Medieval CC in my last attempt at organizing, and just to be sure I copied everything over and back repeatedly. And you know how it goes—every time I got excited about the idea of an MCC, I had to go out and download anything new or shiny. And oh yeah, had to stock up on defaults because now I could be using a solely medieval downloads folder! And this new CC would get plonked right into the DL folder, nary a care for organization because I needed to play before I lost interest!

So I had at least two, possibly three copies of all the same content in a collection of medieval CC that’s been building for, let’s call it 15 years more or less. I can’t trust the download organizer—like sir are you showing me all of them? do I throw all these out or leave one behind?—and doing it by hand is extremely tedious, carefully removing all txt and preview files to improve my load time. And actually playing a year-old story concept is delayed yet again.

I’ve got a Megahood set up that I can start converting to medieval whenever I get my act together, and I still that that sounds like fun but also waaaay too big a project for me (latest issue: wait if the capulets and montagues are traditionally alike in dignity is it wrong to make the Capps gentry and the montys merchants? But if I make them both gentry it’ll be an entire damn subhood of nothing but gentry!). I also have the same old MCC hood I started building a year ago, restarting after years of having the concept ready (this one is Algary and it is the one i was building a castle for; it has a few interesting rolled families to start with such as the gentry family having no sim older than teen and me choosing to set that up as the direct heir and some cousins, and a peasant family that involved two elderly ladies who were in love and joined households after their obligatory husbands died, pooling resources to care for their families, but one of them was gonna feel obliged to head off to the church and repent while the other cared for the kids and became a midwife). And then there’s the new guy, Grimwood Abbey, whose concept is only a year old but I sure hope I can follow through on it because it is quite small. Even then I can’t decide yet whether to start with one household (everybody living together for protection!), two households (the church vs the knights), or several households (each knight beginning in their own household with their squire). The latter would make it easier for each knight to earn their own money and compete to purchase gentry approval from the church… but idk.

Anyway. After all that I am really hoping I am about ready to actually play a bit. Even just making some sims and buildings. Today I need to progress further in weeding out CC, try to find a way I can do that more efficiently, maybe find some nice standardized set of makeup and default eyes and skin to use rather than the haphazard collections I barely touch (I prefer to lean toward maxis match over Shiny Realistic skins where everyone has auto makeup, but I’m sure there is something nice out there that suits my needs), and I unfortunately saw some nice medieval clothes I don’t have while downloading a whole fresh set of Sun&Moon Star Factory stuffs (which, I had multiple copies of! Didn’t know what was updated and what was outdated or what! So I threw out everything I had and re-downloaded the entire collection, which may have been a bit drastic but it definitely worked. Also, why is there no complete user guide for this. A “how to get started” or something. Whatever.), so I also gotta download that. Then maybe I can make a test sim to make sure defaults and stuff work okay, and then maybe download some medieval lots to speed up the building process? And then I can play one of my various hood concepts finally actually? Maybe?

TLDR: I am getting frustrated because I have so many downloads, many of them duplicates within folder within the main folder, that it’s taking me all weekend just to straighten them out (and even then I might not be able to finish, despite it being a 3 day weekend where I live). I swear, it would be faster just to throw it all away and start over, except I can’t do that because I am clearly a CC hoarder and I might need a piece of CC that can no longer be downloaded.

...thus goes the preliminary legend of Grimwood Abbey and the horror story of Getting It Set Up. Someday, someday...

#the sims 2 #medieval sims #grimwood abbey #boy I hope somebody enjoys reading my long winded rambling complaints #it’s okay someday I might have actual sims content to post #simblr #I guess #I feel like I have not discovered the correct way to tag this yet

[iam93percentstardust]

Wave a Magic Wand Over this World

First of three fics for @heamarvel‘s Hallmark event prompt 11, in which Tony wonders if his relationship with Steve moved too fast:

“Don’t bring Steve,” Sunset says. “He’s boring.”

“Don’t bring Steve,” Ty says. “He won’t understand.”

“Don’t bring Steve,” Justin says. “He’s holding you back.”

And Tony tries to argue. He likes Steve, he wouldn’t have married him if he didn’t. But as it becomes more and more apparent that his friends don’t like Steve and Steve doesn’t like most of his friends (with the exception of Pepper and Rhodey, both of whom live out of the state), he stops asking his husband to come along. He wouldn’t say that it bothers him exactly. He doesn’t expect Steve to ask him to come along when he hangs out with Bucky and Sam (neither of whom much care for Tony) and he knows that spending all of their time together isn’t healthy for their relationship. It’s just that—

Well, it does kind of bother him a bit.

Maybe it’s that, when he goes out with his friends, they spend so much time bashing on Steve. He tells them to stop, and they do for a bit, but then they pick it right back up after Tony’s got a few drinks in him and isn’t entirely thinking clearly and so doesn’t have the wherewithal to tell them to stop again. Maybe it’s that, most of the time, when he goes back home, Steve easily disproves whatever his friends were saying about him. But sometimes, Sunset says that Steve’s boring and Tony goes home and crawls into bed beside Steve and Steve says that he wishes Tony wouldn’t drink so much. Sometimes, Ty says that Steve won’t understand and Tony looks up from babbling about his thesis to see Steve staring into the distance with glazed eyes. Sometimes, Justin says that Steve’s holding him back and Tony thinks about how his patents and the money left to him by his parents are the only thing keeping them from sinking below the poverty line.

Sure, Tony was the one who had encouraged Steve to leave football behind and go into art. He was the one who’d seen that Steve was miserable playing sports, seen that his passion lay in painting. He was the one who’d urged Steve to quit the team, change his major.

And maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if they didn’t fight all the time. But they do. Steve and Tony are two very opinionated people, who rarely share the same opinion—at least, not on the important stuff. They’re always on the same wavelength about the important stuff. But they don’t want to eat at the same places or watch the same movies or go to the same places. For god’s sake, they don’t even have the same friends! Isn’t that supposed to be the hallmark of a couple, that they share the same friends? And they’re both so terribly passionate that their differing opinions lead to knock-down, drag-out fights that end in either Steve or Tony sleeping on the couch before the other one gets too lonely in their bed.

They never say that they’re sorry. It’s just not something that they do.  Sometimes, Tony wonders if it would be better if they did. But they’re both too proud to admit that they were wrong, so they just say that they’re lonely and they go on from there.

Tony doesn’t even know what set them off this time.

No, that’s not true. He knows exactly what set them off. They’d been decorating the tree. Every year, no matter how busy they are, they always decorate the tree while some sort of Christmas movie plays in the background. They’d left it late this year until Christmas Eve. It had been Tony’s turn to pick the movie, except when he’d turned on Die Hard, Steve had groaned.

“Die Hard isn’t a Christmas movie,” Steve had said.

Tony had maybe gotten a little too deep into the eggnog and so he’d childishly insisted, “Is too,” and the fight had gotten worse from there.

Steve had yelled. Steve never yells—he knows how much Tony hates yelling—but he’d yelled today. Tony had flinched, the way he’d always done when people yelled, and the ornament in his hand had dropped from numb fingers and broken neatly into nearly a dozen pieces. It had been one of Steve’s, an ornament from his childhood made by his late mother. Steve had been furious, had accused Tony of taking such good care of everything that belonged to him but never of Steve’s things. It had gotten worse. Steve had raised his hand too quickly, too sharply. Tony knows—he knows—that Steve would never hit him but in the heat of the moment, when he was already thinking of Howard, he hadn’t thought. He’d just reacted and so he had flinched back and raised his own hands to protect himself.

The look in Steve’s eyes had gone from fury to horror so fast. He’d started to stammer something out; what, exactly, Tony doesn’t know because he’d fled the apartment.

And now, hours later, he’s sitting in a bar pouring out his sorrows to the bartender, Louis or Lockley or—he peers closer at the nametag—Loki. He feels like he’s burning so he presses his glass, cold from the ice, to his forehead.

“Maybe I made a mistake,” he mutters. “Maybe we moved too fast.”

Loki hums and sets another drink in front of him that Tony promptly knocks back. “Would you do it differently?”

Tony stares at him. “What?”

The bartender gives him a very thin smile. He says more slowly, “If you could do it over, would you do it differently?”

“I heard you the first time,” Tony snaps. He thinks about it. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. How do I know it would be better?”

A shrug. “You wouldn’t. That’s the game, I suppose.” He sets one more drink down in front of Tony. Tony goes to grab it like he’s done the last five but Loki catches hold of his wrist. “Don’t drink it yet. You need to think about this. If you tire of that life and wish to come back to this one, you’ll have to find me again.”

He releases Tony’s wrist. Tony grabs instantly for the drink. He doesn’t know what Loki’s talking about and he doesn’t really care. He just wants to forget that the last several hours happened so he tips his head back and swallows the drink in three gulps. It tastes different, burns different, and the way the light caught the liquid was odd but he’s more than a little tipsy by this point and the comparison doesn’t register in his befuddled mind.

Loki’s smiling sharply at him. Tony doesn’t register that either. “So is Loki like a family name or something?” he babbles. “Like the god of mischief, right? What kind of—“

He doesn’t get to finish his question as Loki snaps his fingers and the world dissolves around him.

Someone is knocking on his front door.

Tony groans and slowly blinks his eyes, immediately throwing his arm over his face. Someone—Steve probably—left the curtains open last night and the morning sun is streaming through the windows. He rolls over closer to Steve’s side of the bed. 

“Steve, honey, can you get—" He stops and then props himself up on his elbow. Steve’s not there. In fact, Steve’s entire side of the bed is cold. He sits up further. He doesn’t know this bedspread. Where’s Steve’s mother’s quilt? Did he—is this someone else’s—oh god, he couldn’t have.

He throws the sheets off of himself and breathes a quiet sigh of relief that he’s still in his clothes. He takes another look around the room. It’s still his bed, still his dresser, the closet’s still in the far corner, and above him—yep, still the same old water stain. But he’s missing Steve, missing Steve’s things. The quilt’s the first clue but the easel under the window’s gone too and the jewelry box on the dresser. The painting Steve had done of a sleeping college-aged Tony’s been replaced with a photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge.

The knocking on the door gets more insistent. “I’m coming, for fuck’s sake!” he shouts. 

There’s a pause before the next knock. Then—“Anthony Edward Stark, that had better not be you!” Pepper yells back.

He strides to the door, ignoring the pain in his head, and flings it open. “Who else would it be?” he asks, completely nonplussed.

Pepper’s all but vibrating with anger. “You promised me,” she snaps. “You told me you wouldn’t check yourself out of rehab again.”

That gives him pause. “Rehab?”

“Yes, Tony. Rehab.” She pushes past him and drops a stack of paperwork on his kitchen counter.

He’s still stuck on—“Like rehab rehab?”

She glares at him. “For the third time this year. I get that your ‘friends’ like to go out partying but do you have to go with them?” He can all but hear the air quotes around “friends.” He tries to move on from the rehab thing though he’s still turning it over in his brain. He’d only ever been to rehab once, during the first few months he’d been with Steve. Steve had said it was the scariest moment of his life, seeing Tony in the hospital because he’d given himself alcohol poisoning. Tony had poured every drink in their apartment down the drain the next day and then checked himself into a clinic. He still drinks but it’s nothing like what it used to be. Three times in a year is… a lot and doesn’t make any sense.

He glances at the paperwork. “What’s all this?” he asks, trying not to sound as lost as he feels.

“For the board meeting tomorrow,” Pepper says brusquely. 

“Board meeting?”

The angry line between Pepper’s eyes disappears. Her frown now is more concerned than upset. “The end of quarter report?” she asks. “Tony, are you feeling okay?”

He can’t let her know that he has no idea what she’s talking about. “Are you sure I have to be at this meeting?” he asks, brushing off her other question. He thinks it’s a much better idea that he stays home tomorrow and try to figure out what’s going on.

Pepper snorts. “You’re the CEO. Yes, you have to go.”

That can’t be right. He’s not the CEO of anything. He’s a grad student, living off of what little bit of money his parents left him after they died until he can get access to his trust fund. He’d let Stane take SI in return for being left alone for the rest of his life.

“Oh. And why are you dropping off my paperwork?” he asks, hoping it’s not a weird question.

Pepper frowns again. “How much did you drink last night? It’s my job, come rain or shine or even Christmas.”

It’s Tony’s turn to frown. “I made you work on Christmas?”

“It’s okay,” she assures him though the twist to her mouth says otherwise. “Not like I have anywhere else to be.” She straightens the stack on his counter. “Those need to be signed by tomorrow. Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

This, at least, he knows. Obviously, it means something different in this world—universe—whatever. But back home it’s an inside joke. “That’ll be all, Miss Potts.”

She bows her head and starts to go.

“Pepper,” he says suddenly. “What happened to Steve?”

“Steve? Do I need to track someone down for an NDA?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “No. Sorry. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

She smiles. Tony gets the oddest impression it’s a rare thing. “Merry Christmas, Tony.”

The moment she’s gone, he dives for his tablet. It’s a lot sleeker and more technologically advanced than what he’s got in his world. In fact, it kind of looks like something he’s got in planning stages right now. He flips it over to see SI’s symbol adorning the back. That would explain it he supposes. It’s his idea put into development. He flips it back over and powers it up.

He starts with SI. There’s a wealth of information on what happened four years ago when Howard and Maria Stark. He reads headline after headline: “Prodigal Son Comes Home,” “Obadiah Stane Arrested for Murder,” “Tony Stark Heads Stark Industries.” He’s more hesitant to search for Steve but he does.

To his immense surprise, there’s just as much information about Steve as there is about SI. Steve, it seems, didn’t quit playing football. He’d been recruited right out of college to play for the New York Giants and never left. It doesn’t seem right. Surely, someone must have seen how miserable Steve was playing football but when he turns on his TV, there’s Steve giving an interview with Jimmy Fallon about his latest season.

Steve’s smiling but he looks absolutely dead behind his eyes. It’s clear that he holds no love for the sport no matter what he says.

“Oh Steve,” Tony murmurs, utterly heartbroken. Steve had loved being an artist and Tony had loved that Steve had loved it. 

He resolves to figure out what’s going on, not for himself but for Steve. He knows that he doesn’t deserve his husband, knows that Steve’s far too good for him, but Steve doesn’t need to be in a world where he’s this miserable.

But before he can really get down to research, his phone rings. He debates picking it up. As soon as it stops ringing though, it immediately starts again.

“What?” he snaps into the phone.

Justin Hammer’s smarmy voice comes through the speaker, cheering, “Tony!” Tony’s never much liked Justin, too sycophantic for his tastes. But he’d come with Ty and Sunset and Tony does like both of them so he’s stuck with Justin.

“What do you want?” he says wearily.

“Heard you got out of rehab. Good, good,” Justin simpers. “Listen, me and the gang—you know, Ty and Sunset, maybe a couple other people—are going out tonight. You’re coming with, right?”

Tony frowns despite knowing Justin can’t hear it. “Don’t you have other people to hang out with tonight?”

“No. Why would we?”

“It’s Christmas,” he says slowly.

Justin laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Such a kidder!” he says to no one in particular. “We’re better than that, Tones.”

Automatically, Tony says, “Don’t call me that.” No one calls him Tones, except Rhodey. Not even Steve calls him that.

Justin just laughs again. “This is why we’re such good friends.” Tony gags. “So listen, Ty’s got a new bar for us. Totally not our usual style but he says the waitresses are tens all the way.” And then he hangs up before Tony can tell him no.

He wants to tell him no. He does. He’s been thrust into a new world with new rules, a world without Steve in his life—and god how much that hurts—and he wants to take the time to ease his way into it. But he wants to know who this Tony Stark is, this Tony Stark without his Steve, without his great love. This Tony Stark who relegated his Pepper to a mere assistant. This Tony Stark who’s in and out of rehab. He wants to adjust to a life without Steve but he wants to know who he’s become more.

~

Maybe it’s because he’s thrown off balance that he sees it this time. Maybe it’s because there’s no Steve to be a buffer here. But he sees it now and he wonders how he could have ever missed it.

How could he have missed Sunset’s cattiness? “I love your dress!” she gushes to a girl at the bar, who glows with a compliment from the Sunset Bain, and then promptly turns to Tony to tell him how ugly she really thinks the dress is, no matter if the girl can hear it or not.

How could he have missed Justin’s lechery? Justin leers and touches and grabs for what isn’t his and the waitresses shy away but it doesn’t stop him. Why would it? He’s rich. They should be grateful they’re getting attention from him at all. Or, at least, that’s what he sulkily tells Tony after the owner comes to tell him to either sit his ass down or get thrown out.

But worst of all, how could he have missed Ty’s…everything? How could he miss Ty putting drink after drink in his hand? How did he miss those dark blue eyes watching him hungrily? He feels…slimy every time Ty’s eyes linger on him.

It’s then that he realizes—Steve’s not the one holding him back. These three are. He’d be willing to bet just about every last penny that he has that they’re the reason he’s spent so much time in rehab.

“I can’t do this,” he says suddenly and stands.

“What?” Ty says and stands with him.

Tony takes two steps away from them. “I can’t—I don’t—" He stops. “I’m going home,” he says firmly. And he is. He’s going to find that bartender—because it has to be him who put him here—if it’s the only thing he does this Christmas.

Ty tries to walk with him but Tony backpedals away quickly. “I can get back on my own,” he assures them.

He’s not entirely certain about the last part but he’s far more certain that he doesn’t want Ty anywhere near him when they’re on their own. He doesn’t know if Ty would actually try anything. He hopes not. Judging by that hot gaze though, he’s pretty sure that he would.

He turns and starts to make his way out of the bar but stops almost immediately. It can’t really be, can it? There’s no way that Ty actually picked this bar, this one out of the thousands in New York. But there’s no denying that raven black hair and flashing green eyes. He gets closer to the bar, hears Ty shouting after him that he’s an alcoholic, which is certainly true in this universe. He’s got no intention of buying a drink though.

“I don’t know what you are,” Tony snaps, “but you had no right to do this to me.”

Loki sees him approach and smiles smugly. “What do you think?” he asks, not even bothering to deny it.

Tony sneers at him. He’s sure that there are universes out there where he never even meets Steve and does perfectly fine. But he lives in his universe and in his universe, he has Steve and the truth of the matter is—he doesn’t want anything else. Sure they fight but he loves Steve dearly, certainly more than he loves anything else. He thinks that, if he were to be rid of the poisonous influence Ty and company have become, he’d probably be a lot happier, a lot more content. Steve should have been enough for him and he doesn’t know why it took him being thrown into another world for him to see it.

“I hate it,” he says flatly. “Send me back.”

Loki nods absently. “You’ve made your decision, then?”

Tony’s nod is a lot more decisive. Loki holds up his fingers and snaps them.

~

Tony doesn’t even wake up. One moment, he’s in the bar talking to Loki and the next, he’s standing outside his apartment. He goes to unlock the front door but it doesn’t click when he turns the lock. It isn’t locked. Cold fear sluices through him. This isn’t like when Tony was growing up; he doesn’t live in a great section of town anymore. But he has to know what happened so he pushes the door open.

“Steve?” he calls softly.

The lights are still on. The ornament is still broken on the floor. The only thing that’s changed is the absence of Steve’s jacket from the hook by the door and his keys from the bowl in the kitchen. He tries to call his husband but immediately hears the phone ringing from the bedroom so he hangs up. Steve didn’t even take his phone. He must have left in a hurry.

Tony’s pretty sure he knows where Steve went.

Or, at least, he hopes. It would be pretty shitty for him to come back after this whole thing only to realize that Steve’s gone out to Sam or Bucky’s tonight instead of out looking for him. 

Best he can do right now is wait. He takes another look at the broken ornament. It’s not so bad as he’d first thought. There’s a lot of pieces but none of them are little and they’re all pretty straight cracks. With a little bit of superglue, he’s pretty sure he could fix it enough so it doesn’t even look broken. He sits down to start repairs, ending up so engrossed in his work that he doesn’t even hear the front door open, just that it closes. Instantly, he looks up.

Steve looks utterly wrecked. Red-rimmed eyes, hair so tangled it looks like a bird’s been nesting in it, the whole works. He’s gaping open-mouthed at Tony working on the ornament.

“Hello,” Tony says quietly.

Steve abruptly shuts his mouth and runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up more. “You came back,” he says hoarsely.

Tony quirks his head in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks honestly. Yeah, he’d mused to Loki about whether they’d moved too quickly but he’d never once entertained the thought of not coming back.

Steve huffs out a laugh but it comes out entirely unamused. “Why would you?” he counters. He looks down at his feet and takes a deep breath. “Sweetheart, I yelled at you. I promised you I’d never yell at you and I did and honey, I wouldn’t blame you if—you fixed the ornament.”

The sudden subject change throws Tony off but he follows Steve’s gaze to the repaired ornament. He feels a small glow of pride as he looks at it. He knows he’s detail-oriented, that he’s got steady hands but this—this is the best work he’s ever done. The ornament looks good as new, like it had never fallen from his hand. It sits there, still sealing from the repair work, but as beautiful as it’s always been. He smiles as he looks at it and then looks back up at his husband.

“I did,” he agrees. He stands and moves to take Steve’s hands in his. They’re half-frozen. He gently rubs them to start warming them up. “Your mother made it. Of course I’d fix it.”

“But I—”

“Steve,” he says simply. Steve shuts up. He leans up on tiptoe to press a soft kiss to the corner of his husband’s mouth. “I was always going to come back.”

He’s not sure if it’s the words or the kiss that does it but Steve slumps against him, arms encircling Tony’s waist and burying his face in Tony’s neck. Tony wraps his own arms around Steve’s big shoulders, feeling him shake under him. His neck’s getting a little wet and he just knows that Steve’s crying. It’s a little terrifying. Steve always seems like this big stoic, strong type of person. It’s always Tony who’s the emotional one and, as a result, he’s never been very good at comfort but he’s going to try for Steve.

“I know we’ve had a bad couple of months,” he murmurs. “But I’m not giving up on us. We’re better than this.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve sobs into his neck. “I promised I wouldn’t yell.”

“Steve, baby, you can’t possibly hold yourself to that. We’ve got seventy years together. You’re bound to yell at least once.”

“You thought I was going to hit you.”

“No,” Tony says firmly. “I never thought you would hit me.”

“Honey, you flinched.”

Tony hesitates. “Yeah, I did,” he says reluctantly. “But that wasn’t because of you.”

“It was because I reminded you of Howard,” Steve says dully, knowing Tony so well. “That isn’t any better.”

“It’s not like I’ve been perfect! God, Steve, the things that Ty and Sunset would say about you and they wouldn’t listen when I told them to stop so I just stopped telling them and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have let them talk. I should’ve shut them up.” He stops, realizing that Steve’s gone tense against him. 

“But I’m done listening to them,” he continues quieter. 

“You don’t have to ditch your friends just because of me,” Steve says, pulling back to look at him.

“They’re not my friends. They never were. I gave them passes because we grew up together but they’re as toxic as Howard was and I’m done with it.” He presses his face into Steve’s chest. “I don’t want to be around people who don’t like you,” he sniffles, starting to feel a little emotional himself. He pities the Tony Starks who don’t have a Steve in their life. Steve’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, even if these last few months have been kind of bad.

He can hear the hesitancy in Steve’s voice when he asks, “Am I as toxic as Howard was?”

Tony shakes his head emphatically. “You’re so good. I don’t know what I did to deserve you but I’m so glad I did it.”

“I yelled,” Steve reminds him again.

“Yeah, you did. But, Steve, it’s the first time in four years you yelled at me. You know how long it took Rhodey to snap? Three days. Steve, honey, baby, we can work through this. I know we can. Come on, it’s Christmas. Isn’t this supposed to be about new beginnings and shit?”

Steve laughs, a deep rumble that Tony can feel under his cheek, and he knows that they’re going to be okay. “I think that’s New Year’s.”

“They take place within the same week. We might as well just roll them into one.”

Steve pulls away entirely. “They’re not the same.”

And Tony grins because he can sense the beginnings of an argument. But it’s okay because they’re going to get through this one and the next and the one after that. But first—

He darts back in and presses a lingering kiss to Steve’s lips. “I love you,” he says, leaning back just far enough to feather the words across his husband’s mouth.

Steve beams and kisses him again. “I love you more.”

“Well, I love you 3000 so there,” Tony says childishly and dances away when Steve tries to grab for him.

“Put on a Christmas movie,” Steve tells him, “and if you insist on Die Hard, then fine, and let’s finish the tree and then, Mr. Stark-Rogers—” He pauses and drags a heated gaze down Tony’s body. Tony thinks of how Ty had stared at him and how dirty he’d felt afterward. This is nothing like that. This sends shivers up his spine and makes him squirm where he stands. “Then, I want to see you put on what’s in that box you think you’re hiding under the bed.”

“Steve!” Tony squeals. “That was supposed to be a present!”

Steve looks entirely unrepentant and frankly rather smug. “Should’ve picked a better hiding place then.”

Tony picks up one of the popcorn strands and throws it at him. Steve catches it easily, tosses it aside, and then tackles him to the couch. He runs his nose along the length of Tony’s, hands fitting to the sides of Tony’s hips.

“I love you,” Steve murmurs, placing tiny kisses along his jawline. “I love you so fucking much. I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving that to you and it’ll be the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Tony hums and loops his arms around Steve’s neck. He closes his eyes, relaxes his head back into the throw pillows, and lets Steve litter kisses across his throat and what little bit of his shoulders he can reach before his shirt stops him.

“Tree,” Steve says finally, regretfully, and rolls off the couch.

“Or, and hear me out here, we could not and just go straight to bed,” Tony says, stretching. God, he’s so fucking happy. He didn’t know that just getting rid of the trash in his life could make him this happy.

Steve’s eyes catch on where his shirt rides up but he still shakes his head. “Tree and then—”

Tony hops up. He presses one last kiss to Steve’s lips and agrees, “And then.”

#alle writes #mcu #heamarvel #stony #stevetony #angst with a happy ending #tw: alcohol

[literaticat]

I'm wondering what you heard this week about the activity/interest level of editors and publishers. How do you think agents' submissions numbers are looking compared to numbers before the pandemic? How do you think agents are feeling about their jobs? Do you expect to see many agents leaving the profession? Thank you!

There are reasons for fear amidst this unprecedented time, obviously, but there are also reasons for optimism.

Here’s the good news:

See, books are slow to make, and publishing is a long game. We have to sell books this year in order for there to BE books two and three years from now -- and two or three years from now, there won’t be a pandemic, hopefully! Therefore, books are still selling. I can’t speak for any other agent, but I’ve sold books every week since the stay-at-home order (pth pth pth).  While I’d say numbers across the board are down from the same time last year, business hasn’t ground to a halt or anything. Some books that are already in progress are being delayed, for one reason and another – but books ARE being sold, edited, designed, and yes, even published, during this time. Also, this is royalty season and there are LOTS of things for agents to do at all times that have nothing to do with the negotiating of deals, so our actual jobs are still quite busy.

Additionally, this “long game” business means that agents who sell a fair number of books and have a backlist that earns royalties are somewhat insulated from the vagaries of short-term bad economy. First of all, if we are commission-only, our income fluctuates all over the map anyway, so we’re used to it, and also, I’m getting paid now for stuff that happened months ago or even last year and earlier - so even if I were to have a few months where I didn’t sell anything, while I would definitely be ANNOYED, and it would SUCK, I also might well be earning money during that time regardless.

That said: Submission strategy is somewhat different, as I’m sure buying strategy is on the editor’s side. I find myself thinking about the future and, you know, I have no idea what it holds, but I don’t think it will be just the same as the old world. So thoughts about what the new landscape will look like, and what kinds of books will stand the tests of both time and dramatic societal upheaval are certainly on my mind. I would say I’m submitting very JUDICIOUSLY, bearing in mind that editors probably are stressed on a number of levels, as I am. Theme-wise, I personally am avoiding extremely dark and upsetting books in this moment -- I tend to think that most editors of my acquaintance would prefer distracting fun, joy, and optimism. (As would I.)

Here’s the bad news:

At this exact moment, there are editors and agents who are sick themselves, or have family members who are sick, or who are recovering but still not doin too hot. There are editors and agents who are stir-crazy from being trapped in studio apartments for a month, or scared, or depressed, or just feeling EFFING DISCOMBOBULATED (that’s me!). There are editors and agents who suddenly have to learn to homeschool and figure out how to balance full-time-toddler-entertainer with working from home. You get the idea. We’re people.

Additionally, publishers are tightening their belts. Which means some editors are being furloughed or laid off, or cut down to a four-day-a-week schedule or staggered off-on schedule, for the duration of the crisis. Small publishers may have acquisitions frozen entirely for a time. More measures such as these are sure to come if the crisis continues. I have no doubt that my editor friends are Le Freaked about all of this.

As for agents? Well, all the belt-tightening publishers are doing affects us as well. Not only because if editors are gone or acquisitions frozen, there are fewer places to sell books – but also because some publishers are reacting in predictable but screwy ways, such as wanting to put book payouts into more installments so they don’t have to pay as much on contract signing, which is quite problematic, particularly for newer agents who do not yet have a robust backlist. (I can get further into this at another time if anyone is interested but it deffo involves math and it’s not very nice, so it can be a topic for another day).

Point being: As much as publishers might be saying, “it’s business as usual” -- it’s certainly not business as usual! It’s weird! Things are getting done, but it’s weird, OK?!

Here’s the long-term view:

Publishing is an ecosystem. Creators, readers, bookstores, schools, libraries, publishers and agents all have a symbiotic relationship. There is NO DOUBT that this pandemic, and the economic distress that comes in its wake, will have a negative impact on this ecosystem, and already has had. It would be naïve to pretend otherwise.

But. Publishing HAS survived pandemics, disasters, depressions and world wars. I am 100% positive that the book industry in general will emerge from this and be OK in the long term… but individuals may well not be. Some bookstores won’t make it. Some publishers will shutter. Some editors will be laid off, and some creators and agents will have to adios to greener pastures.

We do what we can. If you love books and you can afford it – keep buying books! Preferably from a local independent bookstore or B&N! We really really REALLY need bookstores to still exist when this is all over, the margins are already razor thin, and if the bookstores don’t make it, that’s a HUGE PROBLEM for EVERYONE in publishing.

Keep promoting books and authors you love! If you ARE an author – PLEASE keep talking about your own book and the books of your friends! I promise – we all actually REALLY DO want to hear good news and things that are NOT doom-related! I PROMISE that you are not already talking about books too much!

If your friends are doing virtual launch parties or “at home” book events or fundraisers or whatever – GO TO THEM if you can! Talk them up on social media!

If you are an author who is lucky enough to be able to concentrate for more than ten minutes at a time – Work! On! Your! Amazing! Books! This WILL end. We WILL want to read your brilliant work at some point, even if it isn’t today. And if you’re an author who can’t muster up the wherewithal for writing, amazing or otherwise? THAT’S OKAY, TOO. No pressure, babes! This WILL END.

[stevecoleridge-posts]

Day 6 ..Friday          Struggling .. which is why i did nt see the news or spend time on Social Media yesterday..          I thought it would be a breeze and after a little concentration id have it down .. but no , even the first part…known as lumpedy lump was proving tough , because of the triplet  walk up from the V to the 1.. and i think thats the part Jimmy Reed himself is playing…   If you ve read previous episodes you will know i refer to Honest I Do….the song.   Im learning it on a You Tube lesson , now a lot of people who think of themselves as pros , seem to think there s some sort  of stigma ro learning stuff on You Tube, but i know a French guy , of Spanish descent , who is a really hot Flamenco guitarist who has mastered nearly all the Palos , and all on You Tube  They are right, if you dedicate yourself to different songs at the same time, but it s like working form home…you need time and discipline ..and take the lessons very slowly and don’t move on till you can play it 20 times with your eyes shut..preferably standing up .. then move on up. Yesterday  was the first time i managed to do this.   There is a different tone on Social media today .. angrier , more prone to blame others, more censorious…and on one group forum i saw they were going to ban Humour..well , i don’t personally know the Group leader.. but it does nt take much imagination to know she s not someone you d want to be quarantined with.    The only thing to fear is fear itself.. well i certainly don’t think that applies in this situation, quite the reverse, the more frightened we are the less we will venture forth on errands that are not strictly necessary..i was on my way out the door , literally, when my mobile rang…it was the charming woman from the bank.. she d got my message .. id gone way over my limit.. which was why i could nt withdraw funds…She , and i won’t name her, is working from Home and sorted it all out on her laptop..no need for me to go to town..      Is nt that great?..well , I thought it was..and a good thing too,as she has not been provided with any masks..and we are talking about a Bank..if they cant get basic stuff like that no wonder the Government  are nt testing people .. they don’t have the wherewithal…it is nt as though this has nt been on the News everyday since December the something.    .I remember listening to Radio Four as i was driving through Slough, in December,… don’t ask … the M4 was closed..and i was listening to a woman in Wuhan describing how her parents were dying in the Street.. that really got my attention.   It did nt seem to get the attention of the people in charge here however, as when the inevitable arrived nearly three months later , they had done nothing to prepare for it.   The Spanish Disease is politics, it creeps into every corner of life and spreads its poison , a bit like you know what,..and in the past when people got fed up with their venal politicians there was a Military Coup , and then they realised maybe life was better before with democracy … and the cycle starts again. This model has been exported successfully to Latin America.. with the possible  exception of Mexico. and Costa Rica   Its all very well for us stodgy Northerners with our bad weather , to criticise, but Sun affects people,and when things are good they seem so much better  in the Sunshine..but something about Sunny weather produces Volatility, and an @ i won’t fix the roof as its not raining @ World View… and Italys  colossal death rate is the price to be paid .. not that it is nt sunny in China..or South Korea..but they do a lot more than just fix the roof..and to put  it down to Confucianism .. well  maybe best not to start on that.   Australia will be interesting, they have lots of sun , but its a pretty organised place ..and i don’t see them making this sort of Balls up.. also they have the experience of natural disasters,,and pulling together, and will not let Politics interfere…any country that had leaders with  names  like Abbott and Costello doesn’t waste too energy on petty politics.  The Current Classic example of petty minded, spiteful, pointless,  negative ,oppurtunism , is the  attempt on social media and what sup groups to denigrate the Royal Family organising people to rattle saucepans at a given time, because apparently the current King s father had a rather large amount of money in a Swiss Account..well, it was Saudi Money , not money stolen from the Spanish taxpayer, unlike the billions stolen by the previous administration , the PP .The idea for this stupidity was inspired by the Custom of applauding the Medical profession every night at eight o clock.. an excellent morale boosting , bringing everyone together kind of gesture..well everything has its opposite and this is an excellent way to breed more discontent and fracture an all ready pretty fractured society.. it beggars belief and you really have to have lived here to see these Barca Madrid  idiocies at first hand.   Barca Madrid is a term used to describe the divide and conquer ,us and them , attitudes that have stopped Spains progress since the collapse of their Empire, culminating in the most vicious Civil War in recent European History, and one would have hoped  that after 40 plus years of Democracy it would have disappeared , but sadly, like in the USA and a lot of other democracies , it seems to be on the increase.The anger on Social Media which results from the claustrophobic frustration of a lockdown will hopefully not boil over into something with unpleasant political consequences, which would be very sad , as after Francos death and the adoption of constitution that is the envy of many countries, Spain was a beacon of hope in the last quarter of the 20 th century… how the mighty are fallen .. one hopes not.. SPANISH LOCKDOWN DAY  7   Slept really well , but then  I remember reading that people on Death row sleep 16 hours a day so possibly not a good sign.   Last Night i watched the Spanish news ,on the main channel and things are looking up , relatively speaking, in the sense that testing has arrived ..someone, or some country, has sent several thousand, or may be half a million test kits.. which is obviously excellent news , and testing in  Galicia is going full steam ahead. There was the obligatory item about a vaccine..which I think one can take with a pinch of salt. .Military erecting field hospitals next to various main hospitals…the eight o clock applause of medical staff…all in all well put together not too desperately pessimistic, and generally not as disheartening as Facebook.. afterwards i felt like some light relief so we watched eleven episodes of 2 and half men,  in Spanish ,to cheer ourselves up before going to bed.   ..   Today i decided to live a normal day .. if such a thing were possible , so , after taking Tina for a walk i got the Old TV and DVD working and put on Marty Schwarz s Intermediate Blues Guitar Course part one…and it started raining .. so that was encouraging as it took away any temptation to venture outside.. except for firewood that is.   I worked through the course without rushing , but also without too much pausing , as i d done those lessons before, and all that repetition of Honest I do  is paying off..   On going outside for firewood i could not ignore the noise of the generator that kicked in yesterday evening, as we ve had not Sun for several days, so i decided to fill it up with diesel, and see how much 15 hours constant running had used,only half the 20 litre can to fill  up the tank…but was it full to begin with?..anyway it s very rare to have 4 days without sun , so even if it did use  13 euros of diesel  Im not going to freak out as that was expensive diesel.. and I’m entitled to use the cheaper stuff .Of cause i spilled Diesel over my hands , and shoes , and when i spent a good 5 minutes trying to wash the smell out i realised this was the ultimate anti virus test.. so i will leave a bowl of Diesel outside every time i go to town and use that as first part of the disinfection process , yet another excuse not to go to town.    My neighbour M.  rang and suggested i look at his scheme on Facebook to institute Food Deliveries , so one does nt have to go to the Supermarket in person  and infect and be infected… a good idea of course , but like so many , i don’t see it happening…I pointed out several objections , lack of drivers, expense, one would need a sort of Uber program which will probably not be ready for a year .. etc..and the Supermarkets are making so much money i doubt they need this sort of input.I promised to look at it later , which I will , as Lunch was ready.   We ve run out of  Bread ,Oranges and Chocolate, Aurora has broken a nail and the nail bars are closed till further notice…but otherwise  we can probably get through till Monday without suffering too much ..on the other hand Monday is probably the worst day to go shopping..Im toying with the idea of going to the small Supermarket, at 8 am Sunday morning, and hopefully having it to myself , as i cant face the idea of a queue. I know English people are supposed to love queueing but i must be an exception, and queuing nowadays is a High Risk Activity.    The Sun is out and i did one of the jobs from a month old to do list… pumping the water out the flooded pump room , it all went very well , and i felt  very worthy , and now , with the Sunshine it s time for a walk , with Tina , of course.   I return , feeling optimistic .. and the phone rings, i assume it s my neighbour asking if I’ve read his article.it isn’t , it s C another near neighbour, with some very bad news .  The police are in Quarantine…and the Army will soon be here. No Tobacco..as they will close the Tobacconist.  A completely different ball game  I rang M, and gave him the news…I f he d had  a kalashnikov  he d have been checking the magazine  I rang another neighbour  F, whose office is next to the Police Station , to warn him. .When the Rumour , comes to your Town , It Grows and Grows, Where it Started No-one Knows…*Robbie Robertson   I rang my source in the Town Hall G…no , it s only one cop , and he has nt got the results yet..   I rang M  again…he had spoken to his friend who is a Guardia Civil .no , it was nt a Cop it was a Guardia Civil..he also told me the Cuban woman who cleans houses had been stopped, by the Police and they checked the receipt for her shopping    I rang the first neighbour and corrected the original story        I opened Facebook .. and there was the original story , which had started a firestorm of comments along the likes of whats your source? etc as though we were in the Watergate hearings, not only that,  the people reading the story imagined it referred to Mojacar , not Carboneras , and were all frantically ringing the Police Staion , The Town Hall and each other to see if it were true.    The tones of the respective comments went from shrill outrage that anyone should suggest such a story without due documentation , to fear , to I knew this would happen, all these irresponsible idiots .. blah blah   It began to increasingly resemble an episode of Dads Army with a false alarm about a German Landing.., which Facebook does anyway    There is the Captain Mainwaring..@While i was out today making sure everyone was behaving themselves i saw these irresponsible panic shoppers,  and these people walking around without a good reason @     The Fraser .. We Re Doomed     The Air raid Warden…Its all the fault of the Ruling Class, and rules are rules etc     Jones ..Dont Panic... in a tone of complete hysteria    Pikes mother…Be sure to wear your gloves , motorcycle helmet , hazchem suit, mask..galoshes, .Do you have your hand sanitiser , all clothes must be burnt on reentry etc     By this time Auroras original alarm had been replaced by hilarity, as she was sitting by the fire hearing one side of these conversations..     I went out for some more wood and we relaxed by watching a Documentary about the Boeing 737 MAX..complete with simulation in the Pilots cockpit    The best part was the CEO of Boeing trying to justify his 30 million Dollar salary at a Congressional hearing..…i wondered what the Shareholders thought about that , i know what the victims families thought , as they were being interviewed and did nt sound too impressed

[demisexualnathanvuornos]

Natalie Dupree (Emily Rose) Harry’s Law 2x11 Gorilla My Dreams (2012) 2/ 2

Jugde Lucas Kirkland: Guardianship of a gorilla? Are you serious? 

Mike Horace: A gorilla she stole. 

Harry Korn: She did not steal him. He escaped from a local zoo, he ventured onto her property, perhaps intuitively, since he - 

Judge: Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. You are? 

Horace: I’m Mike Horace, Your Honor. I represent the Cincinnati Presbyterian Good Fellows Zoo. 

Judge: That’s a lot of names. 

Horace: Well, my client owns this animal,  and I would ask - 

Harry: That presumes the animal is capable of being owned. I would ask Your Honor to afford the gorilla the status of personhood for the sake of this proceeding. 

Judge: I’m is this a joke? 

Harry: Your Honor, I’ve looked into this creature’s eyes. Apes are a lot less inhuman than we would like to think. Our DNA and theirs is 98% a match. The gorilla we’re talking about today uses an iPad. He knows sign language. He thinks. He reasons. He communicates. 

Judge: Counsel, counsel has any court in this country granted personhood status to an ape? 

Harry: No. But other countries have. And here at home, the great ape protection act was reintroduced to congress in 2011. The day is coming, Your Honor. There’s a qualitative shift happening in the way we view the animal world, especially when it comes to apes. 

Tommy Jefferson: Your Honor, I, too, looked into the eyes of this beast, and I felt a kinship. How about you hear from our client, Natalie Dupree, who’s been living with this beast for the last month. 

Horace: Ms. Dupree does not have any standing to assert - 

Harry: She has foundation. She studied primatology in college, she’s been the primary caretaker of this gorilla. If we’re to consider the best interest of the ape, which I would submit we should, Natalie is uniquely qualified to bear witness on that. 

Horace: This woman committed a theft. And and we’re to reward her by giving her a day in court? 

Harry: This isn’t about her. It’s about the ape. 

Judge: All right. Where is this animal now?  

Harry: At my client’s farm.  

Judge: That’s not gonna fly. I’m gonna hear from your witness, but in the meantime, the gorilla goes back to the zoo. That’s all.

*** Natalie Dupree: [signing and English] It’s just going to be for a short time, Wentworth. Okay? We’re going to get you out. But you need to go back, just for a short time. Okay? 

Tommy: [trying to sign at the same time] Everything will be okay. It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna fight for you. We’re gonna fight. And everything’ll be okay.

***

Natalie: Well, I had just come home from work. I had some groceries in my hand, and I got this feeling, like I was being watched. And I looked over at the hedges and there were these big eyes sort of peering out at me. 

Tommy: Were you frightened? 

Natalie: Of course I was. There was a gorilla in the bushes. I was scared to death. 

Tommy: And then he came walking out at you? 

Natalie: Very tentatively. I could see that either he was afraid himself, or that he somehow was sensitive to my fear. That’s what I remember being struck by first, was his powers of perception, if not empathy. 

Tommy: So then what happened after he came out of the bushes?

Natalie: Well, he kept walking forward. And from his body language, I could tell that, like I said earlier, that somehow he sensed I was afraid. And so he took my hand, ever so gently, and he caressed my palm, like what he did with you and Harry. And then then he signed “Hello”. I think I gasped. This was this was like straight out of a Disney movie. 

Tommy: So Ms. Dupree, where did you think this ape had come from? 

Natalie: I’d seen the reports on the news about the zoo escape, so I knew that his name was Wentworth, that he was very docile. 

Tommy: Now I understand you brought along some video. 

Natalie: Yeah, I did. Just a little footage, just to give you an idea.  

Tommy: I’m going to roll it, and then you can tell us what we’re seeing.  

Natalie: Okay. So I brought him an iPad ‘cause I’d read the chimpanzees and orangutans were using them. And that’s what he did to the first one. But then, a day later he’s doing puzzles and finger painting. 

Judge: Ms. Dupree, you haven’t manipulated this footage in any way? 

Natalie: Judge, orangutans are using these things to video chat with other orangutans in different zoos. Oh, he likes opera. 

Judge: How smart, in human terms, would you say he is? 

Natalie: I would say he’s the equivalent to a two or three-year-old child. Oh, and I I probably should’ve edited this out, but it gives you a sense. He wasn’t toilet trained at the zoo, by the way. He learned that in two days. People magazine. 

Horace: You have reason to think he’s been mistreated at the zoo? 

Natalie: Yes. Yes, he’s the only gorilla there. 

Horace: That’s mistreatment? 

Natalie: In the wild, gorillas lead extremely social lives. They have friends, they have family. They love, they laugh, and they’re active. In your zoo, he sits alone all day and does nothing. 

Horace: But he could never be set free. He doesn’t have the skill set to survive in the wild. 

Natalie: Yeah, but there are sanctuaries, there are other zoos where there’s other gorillas. At least he’d have some sort of social and emotional life. I’m sorry, but it’s cruel to stick him in isolated captivity in Cincinnati Presbyterian. 

Horace: Because he can use an iPad? 

Natalie: No, because it’s inhumane. He has an IQ of almost 90. 

Horace: But where do we draw the line? Dogs, especially service dogs, have displayed extraordinary intelligence. Should we grant them personhood status? What about ducks? I’ve been told ducks are smart. You lease your property out to shoot ducks, right? Isn’t that how you first met Ms. Korn, and Mr. Jefferson? 

Natalie: Look, I’m not an animal activist. I eat meat, I wear leather and yes, yes, I make a little money leasing my land out to duck hunters. But this case is about great apes. They’re different. 

Horace: We use apes for biomedical research. Are you against that? 

Natalie: 100%. 

Horace: Children dying of leukemia this research could cure them. But you say, no, better the ape be happy. 

Natalie: Mr. Horace, if you want to make the argument that sacrificing an ape is worth saving a child, then go on ahead, but that’s not what we’re talking about, are we? We’re talking about the cruel and abusive treatment of sticking an intelligent being in a zoo and charging people admission for entertainment. And last time I checked, that did not cure leukemia. 

Horace: But it’s an animal, you’ve come into this court asking the court to treat him as a person. Now if we actually do that, what do we say to the next guy out there who happens to love dolphins?

Mike Horace: Look, uh, my client, too, loves this animal. And not just because people pay admission to see him. But he is an animal. To somehow call him a person, even for the sake of a legal proceeding why? Because, uh, he’s pretty smart? A lot of animals are. Dolphins, dogs. Because it feels emotions? Well, so do elephants. Elephants will mourn the loss of family members for years. Like it or not, we do practice speciesism. We eat animals because they taste good. We kill them for clothing, sometimes vanity. We use them for medical testing. We whip their behinds coming down the home stretch. We coop them up, and we own them. We own them. Under the law, these animals are considered property, under the law, this animal is the property of the Cincinnati Presbyterian Good Fellows Zoo. It’s as simple as that.

Harry Korn: Well, I’m glad you called it for what it is: speciesism. ‘Cause that’s what it is. Following Mr. Horace’s logic suppose a being from another planet showed up, IQ of 300, had the wherewithal to reverse climate change and told really funny jokes. I mean, he’d get no rights here ‘cause he’s nonhuman? We could just throw him in a zoo and charge admission? I don’t think that’s what any of us want. And yet, under Mr. Horace’s argument, the law is the law. Your Honor, the law evolves as we learn. Always has. I understand there’s a slippery slope problem. Today it’s a gorilla; next it’s a dolphin. Soon people will be trying to stop me from shooting a lousy duck. Which I look forward to. I like shooting ducks. I don’t know where we draw the line here. But if we have a being of real intelligence, capable of showing compassion, one that possesses self-awareness, has language skills, a being that lives a social and emotional life, I have no problem drawing the line there. And as I said at the beginning, I’ve looked into this gorilla’s eyes. I challenge anybody here to do the same and not see something a little human. But in the end, it’s not about the ape’s humanity, is it? It’s about ours. How do we, as a species capable of feeling and crying and caring, how do we lock up another being that This ape laughs. He learns. He reasons. He plays jokes. He grieves. He worries. And right now, he’s worried sick about having to stay at the Cincinnati Presbyterian Good Fellows Zoo. Judge Lucas Kirkland: I certainly agree with you, Miss Korn. The law is evolving on this, and we’re seeing the legal rights of animals expanded by the day. But the problem with granting actual personhood status is: what’s the test? Can’t be IQ. As we’ve seen, certain animals have more intelligence than some humans. Emotion? Well, how do you measure that? Maybe it’s the empathy chip. But most of our successful CEOs are missing that one. This is why speciesism has always been very pragmatic, at least from a a legal standpoint. I completely support, even cheer, the continued expansion of legal rights for animals, especially when it comes to the great apes. But looking at where the law stands today, animals, even the great apes, are considered property. And the property in question belongs to the zoo. The motion for legal guardianship is denied.

***

Zoologist: He’s been a little grumpy today. 

Natalie: Tell me about it. 

Tommy: Hey, where’s that tiger I shot at? You got him here? 

Harry: Would you get over the stupid tiger. 

Natalie: Hey, Wenty? 

Zoologist: Oh, he can sulk with the best of them. 

Natalie: Oh, yeah, I’ve seen it. Hey, Wenty.[signing] Will you come over here, please? Hey, stop being childish. I want to talk to you for a second. 

Tommy: Show him your ass, Harry, that’ll get him over. 

Harry: Show him yours. 

Natalie: Hey, honey. Hey. [signing] We’re gonna try to get you out of the zoo, okay? We tried very hard, and we’re gonna still try. But you just you have to live here just a little bit longer. 

Harry: [signs same?, points towards Natalie] What she said. Do you think he knows we’re really trying? 

Natalie: Wenty? Wenty?[signing] We’re gonna get you out somehow. All right? We’ll we’ll get you out. 

Harry: What was that? 

Natalie: He, um. [signing] I miss you, too.[/signing] I really think we should go home. I don’t want him to see me cry. Bye, Wenty. [signing] We’ll be back. Okay? I’ll be back.

#natalie dupree #harry's law #emily rose #emilyroseedit #nocticola art #nocti's caps #long post

[pjbehindthesun]

chapter 22: if the sea was whiskey

Friday, November 2nd, 1990

Why’s the apartment so dark at this time of night? It’s barely 9:00… maybe she went out? I guess I can’t blame her. I did say I’d be back around 7, so maybe she gave up on me. Losing track of time is only human, right? I’m about to flick on the living room light when I stumble on something and ram my elbow into the wall as I try to catch my balance, OW, son of a bitch... oh, it’s just her boots. And her bag. Weird. It’s not like her to drop her shit in the middle of the floor like this, but there’s a definite trail leading from the door to the couch. There's no other sign of Cora out here, except for a pile of records and a couple of empty beer bottles on the floor by the bookcase. What the fuck, C? I can’t even see which records they are in this lighting but she’d better not have scratched any of mine. Either way, none of this is like her at all. Usually I’m the one who forgets to put the records back, not her. On a hunch, I look from the hallway into our bedroom, where I can see her fast asleep in bed on her stomach. Ha, long day or something? Oh well, at least the lack of a welcome committee gives me a chance to get settled back in without any hassle.

Back out in the living room, I set my own bag down in a corner and check out the window to make sure that a certain pair of tail lights have already made their way out of our parking lot and back down the street. Distance is good.

On my way back to our room, the blinking light on the answering machine catches my eye. With a glance back in her direction, I figure that if me shouting and almost breaking my neck on her clutter didn’t wake her up, the messages won’t either. The first message is from Sarah, the lab technician in Cora’s lab, asking if C’s going to come in at all today and take her samples out of the oven or if Sarah should handle it. Weird, did she not go to work today? Whatever, I’m not one to talk.

“Hey, Cora, uh…you there?” Her friend Stone’s mosquito-like voice is next. God, I hate this fucking guy. He’s just trailing off, in no hurry, using up my tape. Why’d you even call her if you don’t have anything to say, idiot? “sorry, guess not, I’ll, uh... try later. Seeya.”

I really hate that guy. I’m 90% sure he’s hung up on Cora, but I’ve got to leave the 10% possibility that he’s just a really annoying little asshole who irritates the shit out of everyone he meets. I guess both things could be true, but I get a really smarmy feeling whenever he’s around, like he’s always staring at my girlfriend. And judging me. Or maybe it’s just the bug eyes that make his face look like that all the time, I don’t know. I just know C spends way too much time with him. Lucy’s voice saves me from thinking too much about it, though, calling to ask Cora if she wanted to get dinner when “the guys” are done with practice. Obviously that ship sailed too. But the whole idea of band practice sticks in my craw. God, all these grown men with delusions of rock star grandeur, how the hell did she become friends with people like that? I’m the first to admit that I think her whole grad school thing is kinda lame and exploitative. It’s like she’s on a path to become the most overworked and underpaid genius in the world, and I know she could do so much better than that. But at least she has an actual career path. None of these Peter Pan Syndrome poster boys in their thermal tights and coffee shop slacker jobs can say as much.

There was nothing on the tape I couldn’t just tell Cora myself in the morning, so I delete all the messages and get ready for bed. It’s still pretty early, but I’m fucking exhausted.

Back in our bedroom, I notice something that I’d missed before: an almost-empty whiskey bottle on the floor under where her arm’s hanging off the mattress. Wow, babe, great job with the coping mechanisms… she really must have been lonely, huh? I missed her too, though. I should have called home more. Fuck, I’m sure I’m gonna hear an earful about that in the morning. I don’t even have a good explanation in place for why I didn’t call her. I should probably work on that. It’s just nice to have my work life be my work life, and my home life be my home life, and not mix them up. There’s a whole social aspect of a work trip that’s really refreshing in the way it disconnects me from whatever mundane shit is going on at home, and it’s easy to get caught up in that. It doesn't make me a horrible person. Losing track of time is human. Wanting to get away is human. Maybe it was uncool not to call her all week, but if I’m being totally honest with myself, I needed the break. Stuff gets stale with one person after so many years.

She’s still really gorgeous, though. Damn it. I forget that sometimes, but it’s hard to miss right now. Occasionally I’ll still get that flash of excitement, just like the way she totally dazzled me when we first met. I still think about that night a lot. She was all innocence and nerves, a good little girl hanging out with the wrong crowd, and it was almost like she looked up to me. It was fucking irresistible. She’s changed a lot over the years. I mean she looks about the same, but she’s a very different person now. Is it weird that I still feel exactly like I’m the same? In a lot of ways, I still think and feel exactly the way I did when I was seventeen. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. God, I’m too tired for this existential shit, I need sleep.

There’s one last thing I manage to accomplish before pouring myself into bed next to her to sleep off the travel fatigue, and it’s to get a glass of water and some aspirin set up on her bedside table for the morning. It’s a lot easier to make fun of her for her hangover if I’ve done the nice guy thing first.

***

Saturday, November 3rd, 1990

Ow. Ow. Ow. Oh, sweet merciful Jesus Zombie Christ. Oh, bad. Bad decisions. So many bad decisions. Am I dead? Please tell me I’m dead. That would make things so much simpler.

Nope. I can sit up and squint around my room. Definitely not dead. Whoops, definitely need to throw up. I barely drag myself to the bathroom in time to make it into the toilet, and feel instantly better when I’ve got it all out of my system, although now all I can focus on is the pounding headache the bourbon left behind. And the awful taste in my mouth. I brush my teeth and wash my face, moving like a sloth, shaking with weakness, wincing at every sound, and unable to look at my own reflection. I've had about enough of that girl. When I slump back to the bedroom, I notice two important things that weren’t there yesterday: my boyfriend, and a glass of water he thoughtfully set out for me. I manage to overpower a fresh urge to vomit. So many bad decisions.

Alex is sitting up in bed, dangling his long legs off the edge, and wearing a smug grin as he watches me down some aspirin and chug the entire glass of water like I’ve just crossed the desert.

“Morning, beautiful,” he mocks. “How do you feel? You look like a million bucks.”

I sit down next to him and let him wrap me up in a hug, even though his touch makes my skin want to get up and crawl onto the floor and out of the apartment altogether. Is that because of what I’ve done, or what he might have done?

“Yeah, well, I feel like counterfeit money that’s been eaten and then spat up into a gutter by a rabid raccoon. Hi.”

“Hi.” He kisses my cheek and smooths my hair down. “Fun night, I take it?”

I look into his amused light blue eyes, wishing involuntarily for the nth time that they were a different pair. Warm, green. It’s such a reflexive, broken-in wish at this point. So much about my life could be so different. But what would I even say to Stone if he were here? What am I supposed to say to Alex, for that matter? Christ, I don’t know which of the three of us I’m angriest at. I just know that I don’t have the emotional wherewithal to be honest with Alex right now about everything. My indiscretions and his. Later. I can do it later. I just need to regain my strength, that’s all, then we’ll have to figure this whole thing out.

“Uhm, no, I mean, I guess… kinda overdid it, maybe.”

“Just you?”

He’s still watching me with laugh lines around his eyes, so I know he meant the question innocently enough, but nonetheless, it triggers a landslide of guilt when I think about how narrowly I need to answer him. Just me last night, sure, trying to drink memories out of my head of the night before. Trying to drink all this Stone madness out of my system. A spectacular failure, obviously.

“Yeah, just me,” I grumble, hoping to pass the turmoil off as more hangover nausea.

“Party animal. You missed a bunch of calls, you know.”

“Really? I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

“Babe, the way you were sleeping, I don’t think you would have heard a nuclear holocaust.”

I’m pulled back to the warmth of the moment I woke up on Stone’s shoulder, and the affection in his eyes as he teased me for sleeping through the movie’s air raid sirens. Stone. In my apartment, washing my dishes, kissing my hair, painting my face on the bathroom sink… and then, everything that happened at his house… it all feels like a dream I’ve woken up from. I wish I could go back. God, how did so much happen in one week? What is Alex going to say when I tell him? My head is killing me. New topic. “Uhm, so who called?”

“Sarah had some lab shit to ask about --”

“-- oh fuck, my samples --”

“-- yeah, although I think she probably took care of that. And Lucy wanted to know if you wanted to get dinner. She obviously missed the memo about your liquid diet.” He snorts and nudges the bottle on the floor with his foot. “But it sounds like she was hanging out with Jeff and those guys, so she probably won’t hate you forever for ghosting on her.”

“Comforting.” But I feel a little better at the sound of Lucy’s name. I need to find her as soon as I can today, she’s the only person on earth I actually want to talk to right now.

“Oh, and what’s-his-face called too. Stone.”

So much for feeling better. So much for being sure I was done puking for the day. “Stone called?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Did you talk to him? What did he say?”

“No, he left a message.”

“I should probably go listen --”

“Oh, I deleted them all, sorry. He didn’t say anything though, just kinda rambled a bit and said he’d call back later, or some shit like that.”

I nod, keeping my eyes on the floor, waiting for Alex’s usual grumbling about Stone, but it doesn’t arrive. I’m thankful for that, because I’m not sure I could stomach it right now. The two of them hate each other so much. How is that possible? How can two people who are so important to me be such total opposites? Which one of them am I supposed to have any faith in? A wave of exhaustion washes over me just thinking about it. Until I remember. The one thing that might help me figure it out.

“Oh, uhm, Patch called yesterday.”

Alex gives me a sly glance. “Yeah? What’d you guys talk about?”

“Oh, we didn’t talk, he called when I was -- uhm, while I was out. But he said something interesting.” He continues to eye me with that knowing expression but doesn’t take the bait, so I charge ahead. “$500?”

“I shoulda told you, probably,” a toothy grin breaks over his face. “But you don’t have to pay back any part of it, I mean, I wrote it from ‘us’ but it was my choice, so you don’t owe me anything for it. I figured if I told you, you’d tell him, and I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Why’d you do it?” I ask, feeling weak.

He sighs. “I know, it was dumb, all my talk about you smothering him and stuff, but I couldn’t let him move without giving him a little help. You know how hard it is to start in a new city, and he doesn’t have anyone there, I just wanted him to have what he needs. I’m proud of him for starting over.”

“Right.” Well, there’s my answer. “Uhm, he said he wasn’t going to cash it.”

“Little brat.”

My throat closes in on a sob and manages to lock it down while I stare at Alex. That kind of devotion, it’s completely overwhelming. Whatever Stone saw, it was a misunderstanding, obviously. He just doesn’t get Alex and me, he never has. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking this past week, letting this thing with Stone get so out of control, but this is where I need to be. I have no idea how to make this broken thing work, but I need to figure it out. Alex didn't do anything to deserve what I’ve done to him, I owe it to him now more than ever.

“Let’s get some greasy food into you before you keel over. I’d offer to cook it if I didn’t think that’d make matters worse,” Alex teases as he pulls me in to lean on his shoulder. “Mama’s?”

I nod again, although I’m still fighting the urge to recoil from Alex’s touch, and the wish that it was Stone’s instead. God, get over yourself, Cora.

***

I’m just locking up my apartment door and heading down the stairwell to go to the grocery store and run the rest of my weekend errands when I hear two familiar voices echoing upward that stop me in my tracks on a single stair. Cora and Alex. Laughing about something.

“Hey, guys!” I greet them as they round the corner, trying not to look too suspicious.

“Hey Luce, what’s new?” Alex says in an easy, warm voice that tells me Cora hasn't said anything to him yet about wanting to break up.

“Oh, nothing,” I answer Alex but stare at Cora, who’s giving me a cornered look, “what’s, uh, what's going on with you two?”

“Willie Dixon here swam to the bottom of a sea of whiskey last night,” he nudges Cora, who does seem a little sickly now that I look at her more closely, “so some hangover food was in order.”

“You alright, Cor?” I ask, and she nods and bites her lips in. Uh oh. That’s a we need to talk face if I’ve ever seen one. “Hey, are you busy right now? I just got this new dress but it’s kinda trendy, I’m on the fence about whether I’m gonna keep it. That is, if you don't mind me borrowing her, Alex?”

Alex rolls his eyes before kissing the top of Cora's head and bounding up the next flight of stairs. “Don’t know why you’d ask her, dresses are to Cora as lipstick is to pigs.”

With his footsteps retreating and Cora already heading down the hall to my door, I’m free to glare daggers at his disappearing shape. What. A. Dick.

“Coffee?” I offer once we’re inside, but Cora makes a beeline for my bright orange chair, her favorite in my place, which is hilarious because of how horribly it clashes with her hair. She flops down, cross-legged and sullen. Yikes. I’d offer something stronger than coffee, but it sounds like she's been there and done that already.

“Or not. So uh,” I take a seat on the couch, “you guys seemed pretty cozy. I take it you haven’t talked to him yet?”

“Nope,” she scratches at a pull in the fabric, right in the middle of one of the teal flowers underneath her knee.

“All that liquid courage wasted, then, huh?”

“What? No, uh, the booze wasn't a liquid courage thing. It was just a being stupid thing. I got myself drunk hours before he even came home, sat around, listened to some records. I was asleep by the time he got in.”

“Wow, you were really stressed out about talking to him, huh?”

“No, it wasn’t that,” she scowls down at the flower before glancing back up. “How’s stuff with Jeff?”

“We’re good, I don’t know, the usual.”

“What do you mean, ‘you don't know’? That sounds suspect.”

How much do I really want to tell her about this? I've got reason to believe she's just trying to deflect from her own situation, but hey, I have my own shit to talk about too, right? “It’s nothing big, he’s just kind of… needy lately, I don't know what to make of it.”

“Needier than usual?” Cora arches an eyebrow.

“Hey, he’s not needy!” I retort, my hackles immediately raised in defense of my guy.

“Oh sure, outside of the whole 'needing to constantly fuck like bunnies’ thing, no, he’s a veritable rock, an island.”

This grin won't stay inward no matter how much I force it. Jeff and I may have had a weird moment the other day, but in the grand scheme of things, it still amazes me how peaceful my life has been with him in it. He just makes it so easy to want to be with him all the time. Part of me keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for some crazy thing to happen like in all my other relationships, but this one's just so straightforward, so pure.

“I really love him, Cor.”

My friend's wan face suddenly bursts into a bright smile. “Sorry, I was only joking, you guys are sickeningly perfect, you know? Have you said it to him yet?”

“No, not yet, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I just…” I stare up at the ceiling, no longer trying to keep the joy off my face, “I trust him so much, you know? To do his part, to be kind, to have good instincts, all of that stuff. It's never been like that with any other guy. Maybe that's why it was so weird when he seemed kinda shifty the other day, it was just different by comparison.”

“Seems like a pretty good problem to have,” she grins. “I love you two, okay? I mean, I stand by my pledge to disembowel him with the headstock of his own bass if he so much as disappoints you with a movie night selection, but… he makes you happier than I think I’ve ever seen you.”

“Stop it you bitch, you're going to make me cry.”

“You're such a baby.” She sticks her tongue out at me, and I know that's all the sap I’m going to get out of Cora until the next full moon, so I decide to change the subject. “Anyway, needy or not, he had his own plans for today. He went mountain biking with Stone.”

And just like that, her whole demeanor changes from warm and open to completely closed off. “Damn, I should have slipped him a twenty to cut Stone’s brakes. The perfect crime.”

“You’re weird when you’re in love, anyone ever tell you that?”

“I’m not in love with Stone,” she scoffs.

“Oh? That’s news to me.”

“Yeah well, it’s been a busy news week.”

“Don’t tell me you guys are in some stupid fight again.”

She gives a shifty glance sideways and then intones, “okayyy, we’re not in some stupid fight again.”

“...Cora?”

“Just following orders.”

Exasperated before I've even heard the backstory, I collapse backward on the couch, although between the two of us, I’m the one who least needs to talk my problems out on a couch. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

“There’s nothing to hear, Lucy, he’s just an asshole, I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what, exactly?”

“The whole Stone thing, the whole Alex thing, I don’t even know what I was thinking, but I had it all fucking backwards. That’s all, there’s not much to tell.”

“Like hell there’s not! What happened?” And how could it have happened in only two days? 

“Nothing. I talked to Stone, we said some shit, we had a big fight, I realized I had him all wrong, that’s the end of it.”

“And when did you and Stone do all this talking, exactly?”

She toys with her bottom lip and mutters something I can’t quite hear, so I sit up and give her my best no-bullshit face until she spits out, “yesterday morning, at his place.”

“And what were you doing at his place yesterday morning?” I sound like a cross-examiner, which makes me feel a little guilty, but we have to get to the bottom of this.

She winces. “I kinda… sorta... went over there the other night.”

“YOU WHAT?! Way to bury the fucking lede, Cora! What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

“Love me forever even though I’m a fucking idiot, I thought that was our deal.”

“God damn you. Move over.”

She budges a few inches to the side in the giant armchair so I can squeeze in next to her. “Okay. Tell me everything.”

“I swear, there really isn’t that much to tell,” she whines, looking more wretched than ever.

“I’m going to murder you if you say that one more time, you spent the damn night with Stone! That's a big deal! How did that even happen?”

“I called him Thursday afternoon sometime, I don’t know, I was just… I was feeling so bad about the whole Alex thing, like it was all over and I had to just sit around and wait for him to get home before I could do anything about it. It was such a shitty, angry, powerless feeling. So I stupidly thought that what I needed to just air it all out with Stone.”

“And did you??”

“Yes. I mean, no, not right away, we hung out for a while. But eventually, yeah, we got around to it.”

“I swear to fucking god if you don’t start getting more specific with a quickness…” I hold my hands out menacingly toward her throat.

“Okay okay, I don’t even know, we… we were just hanging out, in this tree, and --”

“Excuse me? You were in a tree with Stone? Are you sure this isn’t a drug trip?”

“-- you wanna hear the story or not? It’s not a big deal, we went for a bike ride to Volunteer Park, there’s this one really beautiful tree he wanted to show me --”

I don’t dare interrupt her again for fear of derailing the story even further, but I’m secretly overcome with love for Jeff when I think about our first date at the park conservatory. And it's mixed with a newfound appreciation for Stone. He may be an immature little snot about a lot of things, but he understands the way to Cora’s heart, that much is clear. After so many years of wanting to share beauty like that with Alex and striking out, it must have meant the world to her.

“-- and we were talking about random stuff and we… well, he… kinda just said it. And then I said it back. The whole ‘I love you’ thing, you know.”

My jaw drops. “He said he loves you? He used the word love?”

“Yeah. A bunch.”

“And you said it back?”

“Yeah,” she screws up her mouth before going on, “and then we kissed, and then went back to his house, and then we kissed and stuff for a while longer, and then we fell asleep. So that’s how I ended up waking up there yesterday.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Shaw, you ‘kissed AND STUFF’? I need a breakdown, what kind of stuff? Did you guys have sex?”

“JESUS, Lucy, no, we just kinda...made out... and stuff, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” I mock her apathetic tone, “but what does ‘stuff’ mean, you vague little shit?”

“I don’t know… just stuff…”

I’m gonna have a coronary, this is too much. “Yeah but what stuff? How many bases are we talking about here?”

“It doesn’t even matter, we had that stupid fight in the morning so it’s never happening again.”

“Don’t think we are not coming back to the ‘and stuff’ eventually, woman, but fine, have it your way for now. Tell me about this fight.”

She unpacks the whole soap opera. Her anxiety about having cheated on Alex, Stone’s suspicions that Alex has been cheating on her, the two of them taking all their frustrations out on one another, and not even in the fun way. And all I can think is poor, stupid Stone. He’s great for her in a lot of ways, but he’s got a lot to learn, the way he blurted everything out like that. And he can’t say I didn’t try to warn him.

“So, what now?” I nudge her with my shoulder when she’s finally done pouring her heart out.

“What do you mean, what now?”

“Are you gonna talk to Stone? Seems like you guys have to try to fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix, Lucy, he’s just a lying, manipulative asshole, like they all are. Excuse me, except for Jeff Ament.”

I ignore her dig because I'm too busy analyzing what she's just told me. Somehow I don’t doubt Stone’s accusation one bit. Alex being a cheating bastard would make a lot of sense. Alex bailing on Cora all the time, not calling her when he’s out of town, never wanting to hang out with her friends… I’ve always been the first to try to give him the benefit of the doubt, but that’s over now, there’s just too much evidence. And somehow she thinks Stone’s the lying asshole? Ohh, I’m going to castrate Alex the next time I see him. But that needs to wait, at least until Cora understands why.

“Cora,” I say carefully but clearly, and she listens with wide, wary eyes, “it’s your life, and I’m only going to say this once and then shut up. Stone is a lot of things. But I think you’re wrong about this one. I think you’re too focused on staying put in your relationship even though you’re fucking miserable, and I think you need to apologize to Stone for taking all of that out on him. It’s not his fault you went over there in the first place, you can’t blame him for that. And it’s not his fault Alex is a bad enough boyfriend to raise that kind of suspicion --” she sits bolt upright and tries to cut me off, but I talk over her “-- even if it’s possible that Stone just got the wrong idea. You have to admit it’s not a totally outlandish theory.”

“But whether or not he's right isn't even the point. He lied about it, Lucy,” she persists, sounding genuinely heartbroken all of a sudden. “I thought I could trust him. I honestly thought I had something different with Stone, but it's all the usual self-serving crap.”

“Yeah. I know. Boys are dumb.”

She slumps back into the chair and lets out a “hmph,” I assume of agreement.

“Sooo? What kind of stuff?”

***

“Are you sure you don't wanna go somewhere else? We come here all the time.” I don't sound convincing in the slightest, but I’ve gotta give it a try.

“Wonder why that is,” Jeff rolls his eyes and barges past me through the front door of Cyclops. Oh, excellent, Jeff Diction’s practicing his sarcasm. Whatever, forget him. Just please let her be working tonight. Hey, that Emily girl who works here is nice and seems eager to please... maybe if I bat my eyelashes at her enough, she’ll be able to sneak me Cora’s shift schedule. Not that I want to cause a scene at her work, in fact that's the last thing I want. I just want to talk to her really quick, make sure she's doing alright. We definitely don't need to dissect the whole fight just yet, though. A cooling-off period is probably in order. She deserves a little space, she has every right to be upset.

The place is busy, and Emily looks genuinely apologetic as she says, “I’m really sorry, you guys, Cora’s section is totally full, it's going to be at least twenty minutes.”

“That's okay!” I shout, a little too loudly. Both she and Jeff stare at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head, so I try to pass it off as an effort to be heard above the cafe noise. “You're busy tonight, obviously, we’ll just take whatever opens up for 3. I think we’re expecting one more.”

Emily scans the seating chart and then checks over her shoulder. “There's a table over there in Paul's section?”

“Perfect, you're a doll.”

Jeff gives me another weird look before following the little blonde hostess to our new spot. Reluctantly, I trail after. It's extremely strange to be on this side of the restaurant. I don't think I’ve sat over here since before I met Cora.

“Can I get you folks anything else?”

And just like that, as though thinking of her had summoned her, I hear her voice and whip around to see her standing right there. She's just appeared at the corner of the bar to settle up a table, and either she hasn't noticed me yet or she's determined not to look at me. I think I can hazard a guess. I try to will her to look my direction without making too much of an ass out of myself, but it doesn't work. She turns her back to me after taking orders for another round of drinks and heads toward the bar.  

I join Jeff at the table and let out a huge sigh as I sit down. Jesus, everything hurts. Either I’m coming down with something or I’m getting too old to bike that trail.

“You okay, man?” Jeff scowls.

“Yeah, I’m just tired.”

“You probably feel like shit, same as me, I always forget what a fuckin’ workout that trail is.”

“Yeah, remind me to check later that all my teeth are still in my head, I think a couple of them mighta rattled out when we hit those rocks.”

He chuckles and then looks up when the front door bell chimes. “Oh hey, Mike made it.”

I turn around too fast for the liking of my aching neck, but see McCready chatting up Emily before she points him in our direction.

“Gentlemen,” he beams as he sits down.

“What's with you?” I mutter, not in the mood for any kind of conversation, least of all whatever big secret he’s obviously hoping we'll drag out of him.

“Nothin’, just had a good night.”

Something tells me this is about a girl. It takes all my effort not to snap at him to just spit it out, because some of us spent the night alone with our mistakes echoing through our heads. Some of us. Not naming names.

“You gonna tell us or not?” Jeff prods as our server, this nondescript Paul-looking person, sets a pitcher of beer and some glasses down in front of me.

“Selene came over again last night,” Mike finally crows, looking disgustingly proud of himself.

“Bully for you. Didn't you already get there on Halloween?” I ask, surprising even myself with my sour tone. They both give me confused looks before carrying on like my outburst never happened, which suits me just fine because Cora's back out from behind the bar now, so I can watch her in peace. My bandmates are dissecting what counts as a one night stand, and whether one night stands can be repeating occurrences, and whether you can really be dating someone if you don’t have her phone number or her address or have any way to get in contact with her, and I'm trying to tune all that bullshit out and send telepathic waves across the room to Cora. I'm sorry, I’m sorry, hey, look at me please, I know you know I’m here…

Her eyes snap over to me suddenly and I actually jump. I’m sure I can feel Jeff and Mike staring at me now too, but as long as I have her attention I need to make the most of it.

“Can we talk?” I mouth silently but as exaggeratedly as I can to make sure she understands. “Please?” I add, probably wildly conspicuous. Oh well, I don't care who notices.

“No,” she scoffs, again totally silently, before turning around to get back to her work. I close my eyes for a moment and sigh, wondering how I could be stupid enough to expect anything else after the way we left things, and open them again to see my friends watching me with gaping mouths.

“Dude. What the fuck is going on with you two?” Mike asks bluntly, looking back in Cora's direction.

“Nothing,” I mutter into my beer, trying not to think about the way my throat is starting to ache.

“Seriously man, what happened this time? She looks like she wants to kill you,” Jeff points out helpfully, watching Cora go about her job and occasionally glaring in our direction.

“I mean it, it’s nothing, we just…” they’re both staring at me like I’m insane, so I already know they’re not going to drop it until I give them a morsel of the truth and I’m too tired right now to fight about it, “fine, just don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? She kinda stayed over at my place last night.”

Mike’s eyes bug out of his head and Jeff’s jaw drops even lower.

“You dog!” Mike howls, punching my shoulder and making me wince.

“What do you mean, she kinda stayed over?” Jeff needles me, “was that your idea or hers?”

“Hers. She called me.”

“So she broke up with Alex?”

“Not exactly.”

“So what, you’re the other guy now?”

“Not exactly that either.”

“What does that even mean, dude?” Jeff’s obviously losing patience. I know the feeling, even as regret over the way I acted gnaws at my insides.

“I don’t know. Nothing really happened, though.”

Jeff and Mike respond at the same time, respectively, “yeah, right,” and “I call bullshit.”

“I don’t give a shit, call it whatever you want. Nothing happened. I mean, it wasn’t nothing, I guess, but…”

“You guess??” Jeff presses.

I throw my hands up, feeling cornered and wishing I’d never told them this much in the first place. So much for getting them to leave it alone. “I don’t know… it wasn’t… like, okay, she stayed over, so obviously it’s not nothing, you’re both big boys and I don’t have to explain how that works. But it’s not like you think. Mostly we talked, and just kinda hashed out everything that's been going on with us, and then we sorta fell asleep.”

Mike pounds the table, making my head throb. “You mean to tell me, the girl you’ve been drooling over for months now shows up at your place to jump your bones, and you have a fucking diplomacy summit followed by a slumber party?”

“You know, Mikey, it’s really a shame we don’t let you write more lyrics,” I sneer, leaning my face on my hand to try to stop the pounding at my temple.

“Laugh it up, Gossard, at least I got laid last night.”

“Yeah, well, call me old fashioned, but getting laid kinda becomes less appealing if I know the girl's likely to hate herself in the morning.”

Once again, Jeff and Mike respond at the same time like a pair of wind-up toys released at the same moment.

“Well, that narrows your options down to zero.”

“Shows what you know about getting laid, Stone.”

The two of them break down in fits of laughter, and I’ve had about as much as I can take. “Hilarious. I gotta take a leak, so think up your next stand-up routine while I’m gone, will you?”

I feel lightheaded as I make my way around the bar in the center of the room to the black-painted narrow hallway where the bathrooms are. One of them’s occupied, but the other one’s free. I’ve always thought it was cool that this place never bothered to assign gender to bathroom doors. I grab the free room to do what I came to do, then make a sad attempt to blow my nose, and I’m just opening the door as a familiar redhead rounds the corner and nearly crashes into me on her way back to the kitchen.

“Hi,” I breathe out, feeling dizzy again.

“God, Stone, you look like shit,” she scowls, surveying me up and down.

“Thanks.” I almost point out that she looks a little worse for wear too, but that observation probably won’t help my case.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me…” she makes to duck past me, but catch one of her arms carefully in my hand on her way by.

“Wait. Can we please talk?”

“Here?” she asks, looking around the claustrophobic hallway incredulously.

“I don’t know, wherever, just…”

I don’t get to finish my sentence, because at the sound of a voice approaching around the corner, Cora places both hands on my chest and shoves me backward into the bathroom, closing the door behind us.

I laugh while trying to inhale after she's just pushed all the air out of my lungs, and it ends up turning into a harsh cough. “What gives?”

“Shh! Thought I heard Mike,” she grumbles under her breath, frowning over her shoulder at the door, still not taking her hands off me.

“No, he’s at the table,” I answer in a quiet voice, “why?”

“I just don't need to hear his commentary right now.”

I can't help it, a smile tugs on half of my mouth as I watch her worried expression. “Oh, no, two adults conversing in a hallway, heaven forfend, alert the town elders.”

“Well, if you’re going to be an asshole about it,” she starts to let her hands fall, but I catch them in mine, running my thumbs back and forth over them. She drops her gaze to our hands, still frowning but not pulling away.

“I'm sorry,” I say, almost whispering. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhmm.” She twists her hands free and meets my eyes. “I'm fine.”

“Okay,” I steel myself, “and uh, Mike sort of already knows, you know.”

“You TOLD him??”

“Hey, if your objective was not to be overheard, are you accepting constructive criticism at this time?”

“Shut up, Stone, who else did you tell?”

“Just Mike and Jeff, just now, when they wouldn’t let it go. They kinda picked up on it. I barely told them anything, don’t worry. No more than you’ve probably already told Lucy, anyway.”

She narrows her eyes, and I know I’ve got her, so I’d better not press my luck. “Look, Cora, I just wanted to see how you are, okay?”

“I’m fine,” she repeats coolly, tossing her hair over her shoulder and pursing her lips.

“Okay,” I say slowly, “uhm, and I wanted to say I’m sorry. For, uh, for how I acted.”

“It’s alright, you don’t need to apologize.”

“I don’t?” Her voice is so detached and level, it's worse than being shouted at. Where’s the venom-spitting Cora from the other day? At least I know how to deal with her. This is something entirely new, this distant feeling. I really, really hate it. “What about the whole lying to you thing?”

“No, it doesn’t matter, I think we just need to move on, okay?”

“Move… move on?”

“Yeah. So you lied a little, big deal. Everybody lies a little. I think we both thought that… this… was something it wasn’t. And whatever you think you saw Alex do, it was all just a misunderstanding.”

What? She's not actually defending that guy to me, is she? I have to try hard not to let my annoyance into my voice. “I mean, I’d be glad to be wrong about this, and if I am then I’m sorry, but I know what I saw.”

Cora goes on as though I haven't said anything. “Anyway, I should never have come over there in the first place, so really, I’m the one who should be sorry and not you. I think we just need to act like it never happened.”

“You’re not serious,” I murmur, feeling an unwelcome numbness take over my brain.

“Serious as cancer,” she shrugs. “I was stupid, I lost my head for a little while there, but it was just a mistake.”

“Cora, don’t do this, come on, whatever it was, it's not a mistake...” I’m too worn out to try to say anything more eloquent, so I reach out to put a hand on her arm again, running it up and down gently, trying to get through to her however I can. When she doesn’t recoil, I take her other arm as well, trying to draw her in a little closer, but it’s like she’s stuck to the floor. She closes her eyes, looking pained.

“Stone…”

“Yeah?”

“I have to get back to work.”

Without another word, she works free of my hands and steps out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. I have to lean on the sink to stop from shaking. Jesus, I’m a mess, I just need to get home.

#i wrote it quickly. so make of it what you will and excuse the inevitable typos #chapter 22 #behind the sun #fanfiction #fanfic #stone gossard #jeff ament #mike mccready #pearl jam

[apparitionism]

Helicobacter 7

I hate having to disclaimer on the basis of real-life work, but here is my disclaimer: I have a lot of real-life work, so this part may seem a little thin. It’s more like the first half of a two-part part, but I have no wherewithal to get the second half of it into shape, and half of a thing is better than none of it, unless you’re talking about, say, an appendectomy. Or any piece of machinery, really, because what good would half a lawnmower do you? So what I’ve learned, in writing this intro, is that a story conceptually resembles a sandwich more than it does a lawnmower. Or a root canal. I mean, I hope so. I am clearly very tired right now, which seems like the perfect time to turn my attention back to writing words for money. Previous layers of this cake: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, and part 6. (P.S. I realized, well after I had come up with the character of Rick’s girlfriend, that some might be inclined to cast that role a particular way, given the blond guy’s previous job. I swear I didn’t have her in mind, but if she works for you...)

Helicobacter 7

This is becoming a habit, Helena thought as she stood at Myka’s door, flowers in hand.

But really, could any behavior constitute a “habit” when it had been performed only once before? And she had come bearing two bouquets that once before, so this time was observably different... although the total number of flowers was, she had to admit, something close to similar—well, she couldn’t very well let Rick think she was in any way less committed to her performance. They should have had a secret handshake, she and Rick, a yes-I-am-still-lifting-the-Volkswagen handshake.

“Just a minute,” she heard Myka call, and “No hurry,” she responded, so that Myka would know it was she and not Rick. So that perhaps Myka would find herself pleased that this person at the door happened to be she. And not Rick.

Some habits, Helena reasoned—because she had to do something to occupy herself, and so why not reason?—were healthy. For example, looking at nature. But standing at Myka’s door and holding more flowers than hands of moderate size could comfortably carry most likely did not rate as one of the healthier... the flowers were at least representative of nature, however, and Helena reckoned it would in fact be more beneficial to her long-term health for her to spend the evening looking at them than for her to spend it gazing in futile non-pretended pretense at Myka.

She was deviating from form a bit in any case, in that this time she had brought Myka a book as well. She had, two days ago, thought to bring only the book, but she had imagined being right here, having knocked, waiting to be let in, holding a flat, inadequate book in her hands. Two-dimensionality: it seemed too minimal, and certainly not legible as any sort of artistic minimalism. So now she held aggressively three-dimensional flowers, and the book bided its thin time in her bag.

Myka pulled the door open and, before her eyes met Helena’s, immediately launched a “Sorry, sorry, sorry...” litany. But then their eyes did meet, and Myka fell silent and still. Helena suspected that she was having a reaction similar to Helena’s own: a realization that they hadn’t been near each other since that night when Helena had acted the prudent fool and sent Myka away. That, coupled with a similar realization that standing and looking was itself a pleasure in which they could, right now, indulge.

Helena had the same thought that she had had the first time she’d stood here, staring: that Myka looked well. This time, she looked genuinely, entirely well and not just comparatively so. “You look so well,” she said, and Myka’s smile said that she remembered. “And beautiful,” Helena added, because she could, and because Myka did—alive and bright, face flushed from hurry, from something in the kitchen, from... excitement? Anticipation?

“That’s even better than looking well. Your hands are full again,” Myka said..

“They are.”

This time the handoff was easy; Myka took the flowers in both her hands and breathed into them, closing her eyes. Then she looked back up at Helena, not staring but gazing. “I knew it was the kind of thing you did,” she said. “Since my mother isn’t here. There’s no need to impress her.” She stepped back, and Helena crossed the threshold.

“I know,” Helena said, then let herself lean closer to Myka and whisper, “which is why I’ve brought you a book as well. Because she isn’t here to frown upon it.”

“That’s just me. She thinks I’m being lazy, giving books.”

“Feel free.”

“I kind of do,” Myka said, and she paused... with significance? To give Helena an opportunity to speculate as to whether she were saying something more general about freedom? But then she went on, “Because that’s what I got for you this time too. I don’t have it out here, though.”

Helena tried not to let her curiosity show. “That’s all right. Set the flowers down, and we’ll do mine.” She hadn’t wrapped the book in paper. That seemed too formal, and besides Myka had not wrapped the Wallace. So Helena handed her this new offering face down, as a physical reprise.

Myka smiled at that, too. She turned over the thin, flat, nearly square hardback and read aloud, from the cover, “The King’s Fountain, by Lloyd Alexander.” She looked up again. “A children’s book?”

“It is about a fountain that is not built,” Helena said. “Abigail and Steve discovered a spiritual affinity and were koan-ing me over it. The fountain, I mean. The one we are not building.”

“Is ‘to koan’ really a verb? “

“It is when they do it,” Helena said, very nearly falling into a renewed pout as she recalled it.

“To you,” Myka said. The smile was in her voice rather than on her face.

“To me.”

“Poor baby. My list of people I need to chew out for being mean to you is getting longer and longer.” Now Myka was looking at her with that indulgence. “Poor baby,” she repeated, as if that were what she had said to Helena for years, in just these sorts of situations, to tease but also to soothe.

Helena cleared her throat. “I tried to find something that also featured children who did not exist but could not combine the two, and this is at the very least beautifully illustrated.”

Myka looked at the book again. “The cover’s lovely. Oh, Ezra Jack Keats. I didn’t know he and Alexander ever collaborated.”

“I’m surprised I’ve managed to bring you new information.”

“I’m not. I bet you know all kinds of things I don’t.”

“In any case,” Helena hurried to say, “in the course of my attempts, I’ve come to realize that children who do not exist and yet are beautiful are indeed conceptually unsettling. Rivaling lobsters in their ability to invade the REM sleep.”

“I thought you didn’t have anxiety dreams about fairy children.”

“I hadn’t.”

“Poor baby,” Myka said again.

Now they found themselves stuck looking at each other. If only the situation were not as it is. She is beautiful and it is a yes or no, curse my useless and unhelpful brother, and it is unfair that the situation is as it is.

Myka broke the gaze by glancing down again at the book. “I guess I see what you mean about being focused on your work.”

You idiot, Helena reproached herself, you gave her something about the project. With which she is not in fact involved anymore! All you ever think about is your own—

“Because it clearly took some work, and some focus, for you to come up with this. Unless you had it sitting around.”

“Would that be more or less impressive to you?” Helena asked, and she hadn’t intended it to be serious, that question, but she realized she meant it. So that she could take care, in some imaginary future, to have the right incipient gifts sitting around, if that would in fact be more impressive to Myka. It seemed very important that Myka should be impressed. Or I will do work and focus on finding the right gifts.

“I don’t care,” Myka said. The saying of “care” left her mouth a bit open, and Helena felt drunk in that club again.

Instead of moving to take advantage of that—the feeling, the open mouth—she said, “When are Rick and his girlfriend meant to arrive?”

“Any minute now. But I wish—”

And there was the knock.

That man’s timing. “Don’t answer,” Helena wanted to say. If Rick hadn’t already known the truth—which knowledge made her force herself to tap her ethical brakes—she might have seized Myka and kissed her senseless, so that she could have answered the door completely, and convincingly, disarranged. “To sell it,” she could have said to that surprised, well-kissed Myka, who would have been kissed particularly well, and particularly thoroughly, because this time, her mother would not have been watching.

And thus it was an enormous surprise when Myka seized her instead, by the arms, with just enough insistence to her grip that Helena read it easily as letting her decide whether to stay in the embrace. “To sell it,” Myka might as well have said, because what she did say was, “Answering the door, wouldn’t we both be breathless? If we’re not, it’s fine, but wouldn’t we—” And Helena had to agree: yes, yes they would; if this were real they would be breathless all the time; Helena could not imagine any reason to take up breathing again; it seemed a very unhealthy habit, and kissing was clearly so much better for anyone’s health. Everyone’s...

Not until the second knock—well, but it could have been the third, the thirteenth, or thirtieth or thirty-thousandth for all Helena knew—did Myka pull back. This foyer had to have some sort of drunk-club-shadow spell on it, Helena thought as she tried to remember how to pretend to be a self-possessed individual. Then again the intoxicating agent might have been the allure of the forbidden or the unreal or beauty in a concentrated form... but then yet again, perhaps simple pleasure, the sort derived from doing something based on I like it. Even if it required disregarding consequences in the long term— as with smoking or sunbathing or drinking something overly sugared and alcoholic—the reason might still be the uncomplication of I like it.

Kissing Myka: a simple pleasure with consequences that would not come in this moment. And so the now of it was part of the pleasure as well... a deep, cobalt hum of right this minute...

...but now Myka was opening the door. She did at least leave one arm mostly around Helena as she leaned to do that; Rick, revealed as the door swung in, saw their proximity, then looked at Helena and thinned his lips. Helena raised an eyebrow at him. Perhaps that was the secret handshake... “Volkswagen,” she was tempted to say.

With him was a beautiful woman of Indian descent, and Rick’s face changed yet again as he looked at her. “This is Varsha,” he said to Helena and Myka. “Dr. Parekh, that is. Varsha, this is Myka, and also Helena, who she’s going to marry, I guess.” That “I guess” dig... Helena was not ashamed, in her own head, to admit that she was looking forward to the promised dressing-down.

Varsha could not have differed more from Myka: she was small rather than tall, but not delicate, instead contained, with what Helena imagined was the potential energy of a grenade. She also seemed, in any case and by any measure, out of Rick’s league, whatever Rick’s league might have been, and in that, she and Myka were entirely alike, as an objectively judged matter, setting aside how prettily Myka’s face rhymed with Rick’s. Helena let stand unanswered any questions about whether her own league was located anywhere near Myka’s vicinity. As a matter judged objectively or otherwise.

Varsha said, her tone making quite clear that she expected no nonsense, “Now which one of you ladies is which? I generally don’t bother with white faces if they don’t belong to patients. And your hair’s the same, so that won’t help.”

Helena looked at Myka’s hair—no, it continued to differ from her own. She said, “But mine is straight, while Myka’s is curly.”

“Sorry, I don’t see it. But if that one’s Myka, you’re Helena. Right, I’ll keep you in mind as the one my grandma would hate.”

“Because...?” Helena prompted.

“You have an English accent,” Varsha said.

Helena squinted at her. “You have an English accent.”

“But I look like her granddaughter and you look like the fellow who was magistrate in her town in Gujarat until she was twelve.”

“Ah. I see. I’m sorry.” Well done, Helena scolded herself.

Varsha shrugged. “The point is: hate.” She gestured at Helena. “But my grandma, she thinks Americans are fine. So: like,” she said, and made a similar gesture at Myka. An unusual benediction, with Myka getting the best of it.

Myka said to Helena, “At least you’ve got a distinguishing characteristic, even if it’s historically irredeemable.” She asked Varsha, “And what’s Rick’s?”

“He doesn’t have one!” Varsha exclaimed. “He’s the most generic American white person I’ve ever seen. He’s like wall-colored wallpaper. It’s a genetic achievement of some kind.”

Helena didn’t bother to disguise her wide grin, but Myka’s face couldn’t decide how it wanted to react. “Do you like him at all?” she asked, and her tone was... protective. That struck Helena harder than a koan-ing ever could.

“Like him? I want to put him in a museum. Under glass.” Her eyes were shining, and Helena didn’t doubt her at all.

It prompted Helena to say, “It’s the strangest thing... I feel the same way about Myka. For a somewhat different reason, but even so.” She’d never expected to utter that truth aloud, but yes, she wanted to place Myka, or perhaps it was that she always half-expected to find Myka, under a bell jar. Someone should always already have taken this necessary measure to preserve her tenuity.

“Specimens,” Varsha said to Helena, with a decisive nod.

Myka remarked to Rick, “I don’t think they actually need us here at all.”

“I’m sure Varsha doesn’t need me at all,” Rick said, “here or anywhere else. I mean it’s pretty much a miracle that her eyes don’t just run right past me all the time. I can’t imagine she’ll stay with me. But even if it’s just for a minute, you know?” Helena watched his eyes meet Myka’s; she watched him frown. “Should I not say things like that to you?”

Myka quirked a corner of her mouth. “It’s okay. I’m over the active wishing for you to be unhappy. Plus I kind of feel that way about mine, too.”

Helena felt it would be best if she did not process that statement. Or dwell upon it. But it did make her wish she could apologize to Myka for having had the traitorous thought that her words could outstrip the torment of a koan-ing...

Well, why couldn’t she? “I apologize,” she said to Myka.

“What did you do?”

“It would take too long, and be inappropriate, for me to explain.”

“Are you pre-apologizing for something that’s going to happen? Are you, for example, about to hit me in the face with a pie? Because that’s the kind of thing I’d want an apology for. Both before and after the fact. Even if you feel like you really have to throw that pie.” Myka said this last bit with great seriousness.

Helena asked her, with commensurate seriousness because Myka was not smiling, “Why would I feel like I ‘really have to’ throw a pie? In any case, I don’t see how I could be about to do such a thing now. I don’t have a pie.”

“That bouquet of flowers on the table is quite large,” Varsha said, in a seeming non sequitur. “Who was trying to impress whom?”

Then Helena fell in love with that non sequitur, for Myka said, “Isn’t it something? And my mother isn’t even here.”

“My point,” said Varsha, “is that it’s easily large enough be hiding a pie of some sort. She could be leaping for it any second.”

I am a little less in love, Helena thought, now that it is no longer a non sequitur.

Myka said, “I guess it’s not quite as impressive when you put it that way. Or maybe,” she tilted her head one way, then the other, “even more? But anyway I like the way you think, Varsha.”

“I like the way you became ill,” Varsha said.

That made Myka tilt her head again. “Thanks?”

“MALToma’s a personal favorite of mine. I studied all your labs.”

“Then I guess I like the fact that I... gave you the opportunity?”

Helena harrumphed. “So much for privacy, Rick?”

“You try telling her no,” Rick said.

At that, Helena snorted out a small laugh, and she echoed Myka: “I feel that way about mine, too.” Rewarded: Myka, who had overheard, directed a brilliant smile her way.

Varsha said, “One doesn’t often get such an opportunity. So challenging, your case. And of course the H. pylori. Whose favorite isn’t it?”

“Now you’re trying to stump me,” Myka accused.

“Pretty nearly stumped me,” Rick said. “The MALToma, I mean. Why couldn’t it just have been bleeding ulcers?”

Varsha waved a hand at him. “Please. You needed a challenge. Bleeding ulcers would have been too simple.”

“Perhaps less destructive,” Helena offered.

“I’m sorry,” Myka said. “I keep telling you I’ll pay for—”

“I meant to you,” Helena told her.

And she was rewarded again, with the renewal of that brilliant smile, as Myka said, “Oh. That’s really sweet then.”

****

Helena decided, after a span of observation over the meal, that she liked Varsha. Liked Rick better with Varsha. He was besotted in a way that seemed genuine, a way that she recognized... although she was jealous. No ethics guidelines kept the two of them apart.

Myka, meanwhile, clearly more than liked Varsha: they had found an absurd affinity, or an affinity of absurdity, but in any case it seemed to relate particularly to the practice of medicine, or rather to discoveries relevant to the practice of medicine. They had started with the establishment of H. pylori as the cause of ulcers��“He ingested it intentionally,” Varsha enthused of the researcher who had done the establishing, “drank it right down!”—and then moved on to the accidental discovery of penicillin, and thence to other antibiotics, particularly the ones Myka had taken to rid her of her own troublesome H. pylori; Varsha attempted to persuade Myka that drug synthesis was every bit as miraculous as a serendipitous mess on a lab bench.

“But accidents,” Myka said.

“But intentions,” Varsha countered. “Without which you could not have been treated effectively. Synthesized antibiotics! And did you not hear me say that Marshall drank the bacterial cocktail intentionally?”

Helena, who had not contributed to the conversation in some time, said to Rick, who had not either, “Speaking of drinking, I certainly hope you’re the one driving.”

“You too, buddy,” Rick shot back, but he didn’t seem to mean it meanly; they were in odd accord, watching the women with whom they were besotted drink wine together and talk about bacteria.

Varsha eventually worked her way back around to the joys of the genus Helicobacter: “Those, they’re sneaky. Hiding from stomach acid in the mucosal layer, producing just enough urease to raise the local pH, doing their hole-and-corner mischief.”

Rick said, “Seems appropriate, somehow, doesn’t it, Myka?”

“Don’t get cute, mister,” Myka warned. “I swear I will tape your mouth shut.”

This did not seem to be the reprimand she had promised Helena, or even its beginning, yet the atmosphere had, in an instant, shifted significantly. Myka was glaring at Rick with intent of some sort, and Varsha said, perhaps as a way of breaking the sudden tension, “I think you mean ‘don’t get cute, doctor.’”

“Won’t matter once I’ve taped his mouth shut. Which I swear I will do.”

“You could hit him in the face with a pie,” Varsha said.

“I will do it, if he doesn’t shut it. I mean it, Rick.”

“I don’t understand what is happening,” Helena said. Something was being referenced that Helena had no access to, something distinct from childhood reminiscence.

Myka breathed in and out, clearly attempting to shake off whatever strange interaction had just occurred. She said to Helena, “Well, I can tell you what isn’t happening, if that’ll help: you’re not eating lobster.”

“I’ll cling to that,” Helena said. “As something that is objectively true.” As something that does not require interpretation of undercurrents.

Rick raised his hands in Myka’s direction: clearly an apology. Then he said to Helena, “It might not be objectively true. She might be messing with you. I mean, just about that. Maybe she snuck some lobster in the salad dressing. It was a little... different.”

“Quit impugning my cooking,” Myka said, but she had evidently decided to forgive him.

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

Varsha said, “If it weren’t objectively true, my mast cells would have started producing histamines. I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“I fear their vengeance,” Helena said.

“Immunologically distinct,” Varsha informed her. “The responses, I mean—allergic and phobic. And yet the avoidance behaviors, quite similar.”

“Great,” Myka grumbled. “Avoidance behaviors, everybody and lobsters.”

“I still like lobster,” Rick said.

“Get over it,” Myka advised him. To Helena, she said, “FYI, the meal is lobster-free. You can’t possibly have thought I’d try to put anything like that over on you.”

And Helena said, “This is one of the reasons why I love you.” Selling it. But it was.

“Wait,” Varsha said. “I thought you were the one who in actuality didn’t. Or might, but people aren’t sure?”

And the atmosphere changed yet again, this time definitively, as Rick pursed his lips. Sucked in a breath. Myka’s face turned a color closely related to that sported by lobsters. They looked at each other, then at Varsha. No one looked at Helena.

“Wait,” Varsha said again, “have I got it backwards? Are you”—she pointed at Helena—“the one who knows?”

All eyes turned to Helena, who said, “The one who knows what?”

“The one who knows that he”—now Varsha pointed at Rick—“knows that you ladies are not in fact engaged.”

“No, no,” Rick said quickly. “Myka knows that I know. Well, they both know that I know. But neither one knows that the other one knows that I know. Until, uh, right now.”

Helena opened her mouth to ask, “Myka knows that you know?” But she was preempted by Myka’s exclamation to Rick: “Hey! You were supposed to be helping!”

“I thought I was supposed to be helping,” Helena said.

Rick said, “I’m helping to keep you believing that you’re helping.”

“I’m not in fact helping?”

“Not with what you thought you were,” Rick said.

“I’m here under false false pretenses?”

He nodded. “Now you’re getting it.”

“Why am I here under false false pretenses?”

“Then again maybe you’re not getting it at all. Over to you, Myka.”

“‘Over to you, Myka’?” Myka demanded. “You just blew the whole thing, and the best you’ve got is ‘over to you’?”

“Sorry, but I believe I blew the whole thing,” Varsha said. She did not sound at all apologetic.

Nevertheless, Rick sprang to her defense. “You’re not taking any blame, and neither am I! She—“ he said, pointing at Myka, “is the one who set all this up!”

But what was “all this”? It seemed, in this moment, to comprise Myka still red as a nightmarish crustacean, Rick still jabbing an accusatory finger in her direction, Varsha leaning back with arms crossed, apparently pleased with herself while at the same time happily uninvolved in what had just been revealed to Helena as... what was “all this”?

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Helicobacter #part 7 #AU week #I don't know if this will work #but I set particular goals for myself in this story #or maybe I mean hoops through which I intended to make it jump #and I'm trying to stick to the blueprint #this is one of those hoops #the switch on the switch #in related news #there is a movie called Paris When it Sizzles #starring William Holden and Audrey Hepburn #and I recommend it #as a screenwriting tutorial if nothing else #(no sugarcoat: it has many of the problems of its era) #but anyway #once you've heard 'the switch on the switch!' #said by Audrey Hepburn #your life will be a tiny bit better than it was before

[meyerlansky]

Would you mind sharing the meta you have about Charlie and Meyet both being vulnerable in that scene like they never are outside of it? The lack of resolution of this fight in S4 outside of fan works kills me. How do you even resolve a betrayal (from both of their POVs) like this off screan? How? Argh. /Sorry for being too emotional about it.

YES okay so. i am also too emotional about it so no judgment there. and obviously as with all my meta this is my read of the stuff ymmv my interpretations are influenced by historical details etc etc but the tl;dr for this is basically just what was in my tags: they’re both scared, of different things and for different reasons and showing it in different ways, and we never see them both as raw and vulnerable as they are in that scene, imo. it was never a conversation that was going to end well, but i think they probably could’ve eventually, if they’d shelved this while their emotions were running high in the moment and worked it out in subsequent conversations, gotten to a place where they were understanding where the other was coming from if Certain Things Were Not Said.

and the thing is, right, the things they’re both afraid of are, as far as i’m concerned, equally understandable and equally justified, but charlie’s fear is more visceral and immediate, as evidenced by the fact that… it’s in the text, he’s afraid of getting killed because masseria found out he went behind his back. IT’S A LEGIT CONCERN AND HE’S NOT WRONG FOR HAVING IT, but it makes him even more impulsive than usual and makes it so he doesn’t see that meyer’s just as afraid of losing out on a deal that could very very directly lead to the kind of independence and security and legitimacy meyer has been lowkey working towards since “nobody wants to be in school forever.” it’s literally land ownership [which meyer is smart enough to know was never reasonably going to happen for any of team ny on their home turf], in an area that was in the middle of a development boom at the time, perfectly situated both for liquor importation during prohibition and to profit off of because of said land development once prohibition inevitably ends. plus meyer staked everything on the tampa deal—he negotiated it on the fly after watching ar very publicly fuck up and lose what little standing he had with nucky, and nucky makes it extremely clear that he doesn’t think they’ll come through, so his/their reputation is very much at stake with the tampa deal. and the explanation of that is taking up so much of the text real estate of this post [and will continue to do so, fair warning] because in comparison to charlie’s very immediate and very obvious fear of getting killed, the tampa deal being important enough to meyer to fight for it probably comes off as… idk, kind of shallow and materialistic. but i don’t think that’s a fair read, and i acknowledge i’m biased and my read of meyer’s characterization might be too generous or whatever, but meyer’s concern about appearances and legitimacy has more to do with that being a survival tactic than it does with being greedy—he’s seen exactly what happens if people decide you’re too dangerous or too sneaky or too anything-they-don’t-like, so his need for security and perceived-legitimacy comes from that, not necessarily from wanting to be on top of the heap. based on the stutter over “this is now, this is happening now,” he panics just as hard when charlie talks about killing petrucelli as charlie panics through the whole conversation, and it’s obviously not because he has any deep-seated fondness for petrucelli himself. it has way way more to do with what the tampa deal represents for him, and the fact that charlie’s gone from “i can’t do this” to “we can’t do this” in a way that would definitely get them both killed if charlie had gone through with it.

it doesn’t help that charlie in the heat of the moment doesn’t/can’t divorce the business partnership from the emotional partnership they have, which i think is an emotional reaction more than a logical one, because a. meyer gives him the out with “you do what you want, but i’m in,” and b. there’s never any friction [that we see, admittedly] over charlie investing solo in the artemis club, and there’s no reason tampa should really be any different especially since meyer at no point fucked anyone involved in the tampa deal. it’s only different because charlie’s afraid and not thinking straight, and meyer doesn’t pick up on it because he’s afraid and thinking emotionally as well. anyway. like i said, i’m biased, and i think the fact that meyer’s perspective on the tampa deal and his fear about giving up on the deal because of what the deal symbolizes for him isn’t as apparent as charlie’s perspective makes it easy for people to read that scene as “charlie’s afraid he’s going to get killed, meyer’s greedy and cares more about making money than that charlie’s afraid for his life, so he’s in the wrong,” and i don’t… think that’s fair. they’re both justified in feeling the way they do, and because neither of them are equipped to discuss the emotional reasons behind the ways in which their perspectives on the tampa deal diverge, they’re both wrong in the way they go about talking about it.

they’re both on the defensive, and they’re on the defensive with each other, which doesn’t happen at any other point in the show: they have the tension in the hallway in margate sands, but that’s charlie on the defensive and meyer trying very very hard not to go on the offensive before they get the meeting with ar over with, and it’s extremely brief considering they walk into the room with masseria and ar and immediately close ranks. with north star, their chances at coming to an understanding are, ironically, hobbled by the fact that they both seem to assume they’re coming from the same perspective—and neither of them have the emotional wherewithal to realize that the fact that they’re not coming at the tampa deal from the same perspective is the root cause of the way they both seem to dismiss the other’s fears. charlie doesn’t realize the worst possible thing he can say to meyer is “we’ll back out of the deal to keep us safe” because he doesn’t realize meyer’s entire perspective on staying involved is “this deal will keep me safe;” meyer doesn’t realize the worst possible thing he can say to charlie is “i’m staying because we don’t need to conduct this deal as business partners” because he doesn’t realize charlie’s entire perspective on getting out is “i need you to have my back over your business interests.” i think there’s a lot of subtext to meyer’s comments in particular that charlie’s too upset to pick up on and doesn’t interpret the way meyer intends them; as much as he accuses meyer of not listening—and he’s not wrong, like i said, imo meyer went into panic mode as soon as murder came up, and even prior to that comment it’s not like he’s great at emotional consolation at the best of times—he’s not really listening either, and that’s… the problem. neither of them are in a place to listen, and they say the exact wrong things to each other to inflame exactly the things they’re both afraid of.

as for why i say it’s the most vulnerable they both ever are onscreen, i say that because despite them both being in near-death situations on screen, which are definitely more physically vulnerable, in terms of their relationship and their emotional investment in each other, it’s the only time we really see them openly disagree with each other, and the disagreement is an emotional one, not a business one: meyer interprets “we back out of the deal” as “your security matters less than mine,” charlie interprets “i’m staying” as “i’m leaving you behind permanently,” and they both know each other so well that they know exactly where to hit with subsequent comments that will really really sting. charlie lashes out, meyer freezes over, and hbo denies us the rule-of-three-stipulated angry makeouts every other couple in the episode gets and just leaves the thread dangling for the rest of the season instead of giving us the resolution we deserve for the fight. ANYWAY THIS WAS LONG AND RAMBLY BUT I HOPE THAT’S A SUFFICIENT ANSWER? if it’s even intelligible at all. god @ me shut the fuck up /o\

#dragon-in-drag #boardwalk empire #meyer lansky #charlie luciano #asks #long post #aaaaanyway i'm emotions it's fine they're both so stupid and we deserved more resolution than we got #and by resolution i mean angry sex #NUCKY AND SALLY GOT ANGRY SEX #DAUGHTER AND CHALKY GOT ANGRY SEX #RULE OF THREE HBO #THERE'S ONLY ONE OTHER ARGUMENT IN THE EPISODE AND IT'S CHARLIE AND MEYER #>:( #this pans out we live wherever we want

[shirlleycoyle]

What Is Burning Man Without Burning Man?

This story appears in the forthcoming issue of VICE magazine, The Indulgences Issue. Subscribe here.

For the second summer in a row, Jonathan, a tech worker who lives in the California Bay Area, will soon head into the Nevada desert for an event that isn’t happening. He’s not alone. “I think definitely a lot of people will come this year,” he mused in June.

Jonathan, who works in privacy and security and asked that his last name be withheld so he could speak freely about his personal life, is one of several thousand people expected to flock to Nevada’s Black Rock Desert this year during the nine days leading up to and including Labor Day. That’s when Burning Man would traditionally happen, drawing close to 80,000 attendees for the mammoth event’s signature blend of art, music, celebrities, self-expression, highly alkaline playa dust, and fashionable goggle-based looks. But for the second year in a row, because of the coronavirus pandemic, Burning Man has been canceled—though Burning Man Project, the 501(c)(3) organization that governs the event, is planning a virtual one, which they also did last year.

Thousands of people, however, are expected to come to the Black Rock Desert anyway, for what’s now being loosely referred to as “renegade burn,” an unstructured event that carries the potential to be either a creative revival of Burning Man’s earlier and more DIY days or, for inexperienced campers, a potential disaster.

Since its first year, in 1986, Burning Man has evolved from an anarchic subcultural party on a San Francisco beach to a mega event awash in the money and excesses of the tech industry, whose denizens make up some of its most devoted and notorious fans. In 2019, Burning Man Project famously banned one ultra-deluxe so-called “turnkey” or “plug-and-play” camp, calling it part of a “cultural course correction” needed to bring the event closer to its roots. The camp, Humano the Tribe, was reportedly charging up to $100,000 per spot, according to SFist, and faced accusations that its fancy portable toilets leaked sewage onto the ecologically delicate playa, and that its participants were profoundly douchey overall. All of which raises the question: Are a couple of years in the metaphorical wilderness precisely what Burning Man needs?

A woman laughs after a desert thundershower in 1995. Photo by MediaNews Group/Tri-Valley Times via Getty Images

According to the Bureau of Land Management (BLM), which oversees federal public lands in the United States, including the Black Rock Desert where Burning Man takes place, around 3,000 people came out last year during the time Burning Man would have typically happened, and several people familiar with the event said they expected to see more this year. A “renegade burn” subreddit has just over 1,000 members and a private Facebook group has 800. Discussions about it regularly crop up in the main Burning Man Facebook group, which has nearly 120,000 members, with people arguing passionately both for and against it in threads that span hundreds of comments.

Several of the key elements that make Burning Man happen will obviously be missing. In a normal year, Burning Man Project’s Department of Public Works (DPW), a team composed of hundreds of people, spends about 100 days preparing in the desert beforehand, creating roads, street signs, and larger structures, like the titular Man who burns on the last night of the event, as well as the pavilion around him.

“DPW is only one part of the helpful infrastructure,” Logan Mirto told VICE. He’s DPW’s personnel manager and is part of a council that runs the department. “When it comes to thinking about a gathering out there, the bigger things are the infrastructure from other departments, the medical teams, and the Rangers; all that plays a huge role in mitigating the environment.” (Rangers are volunteers who function somewhere between camp counselors and lifeguards during the event and assist the paid staff.)

For Jonathan, who has attended Burning Man around a dozen times, the so-called renegade burn represents a chance for a different kind of experience: less structured, more intimate, and more self-reliant. “It’s more effort to go when it’s not built up for you, when you have to provide everything for yourself,” he said. “And that attracts a different crowd.”

“We call Burning Man the ‘Nevada Regional.’”

Besides being smaller, the event will obviously be more dispersed across the playa, less a city than a collection of atomized camps. The BLM has also prohibited some of the signature aspects of Burning Man, like art structures and installations, as well as, per a letter one renegade burner received, bonfires, fireworks, airplanes taking off or landing, or companies that service portable toilets. In other words, campers can bring out a Porta Potty, but it can’t be serviced or drained by professionals for the duration of its stay on the playa. And the people who come to Burning Man by private jet during normal times will have to drive in like ordinary plebes.

Heather O’Hanlon, a spokesperson for the Bureau of Land Management’s Winnemucca District, where the Black Rock Desert is located, said people are welcome to camp this year too. “There are no plans to close the playa and people are welcome to come camping using their own resources.”

But many in the broader Burning Man community are expecting heavy enforcement of the rules by both the BLM and local law enforcement in the area around the playa.

The 2015 Midburn festival in the Negev Desert near the Israeli kibbutz of Sde Boker in 2015, the Israeli version of Burning Man. Photo by Menahem Kahana/AFP via Getty Images

“You can bet your dusty ass that LEO [law enforcement officers] will be issuing tickets for every ticky-tack violation they see that even arguably violates the BLM guidelines or local laws,” one person wrote in a large Burning Man Facebook group, explaining why they didn’t plan to attend this year’s renegade burn. “Every camp where they count more than 50 people, every drip of oil from your car, every ‘structure’ they find that isn’t being slept in or used for cooking or shade is going to get ticketed. I suspect drug dogs will be more prevalent than in previous years (remember Marijuana is still illegal on federal land even though it’s legal in Nevada!) and we may well see a return to the unlawful traffic stops and searches on the way in and out like we saw back in 2018.”

“Worst case scenario, it’s a memorable clusterfuck,” Jonathan said with a laugh. He’s traveling out in an RV, after riding his motorcycle last year—and spending part of his last day with a flat tire, waiting for a tow to the closest mechanic. (“It wasn’t a big deal,” he said, since he had the wherewithal and the know-how to quickly build himself a shade structure while waiting.) Both years, he and the friends he’s camped with have made an effort not to stop on tribal land or in small towns, to avoid exposing people in more isolated or underserved communities to COVID-19.

Janet Davis, the chairwoman of the Pyramid Lake Paiute tribe, one of several Native communities in the area near Black Rock, told NPR the event’s cancellation was “a sigh of relief” for the tribe. Slightly more diplomatically, Burning Man Project wrote on their blog: “We are counting on the individuals enjoying the desert to do so in a way that takes into consideration the big picture and our return in 2022.” In a statement to VICE, they wrote, in part, “We here at Burning Man Project share this enthusiasm for visiting the playa in a year without Black Rock City, and we encourage our community to recreate responsibly. Planning ahead, playing it safe, being prepared, respecting local communities, and leaving no trace are central to making sure we all do it right.” (Their full statement is below.)

Clovis Buford has been to Burning Man about nine times; he’s also a regional contact for Austin, Texas, to Burning Man, meaning he acts, as he puts it, “as a conduit.” “I try to make sure I communicate Burning Man stuff out to the wider community here and relay any of our community concerns to BMOrg in the other direction.” (“BMOrg,” short for Burning Man Organization, is a colloquial name some people use for Burning Man Project.)

“If you’re out in the open desert, you’re responsible for your own experience,” Buford said. “Let’s hope everyone makes wise choices.” With the absence of roads and people potentially driving very fast across the playa, he said, “Personally I would want my tent lit up like I was calling the goddamn mothership.”

The chance to see a smaller, less built-up version of Burning Man also appealed to Meredith Fortner, who lives in Texas and has attended Burning Man twice, in 2009 and 2017. “I saw it as a chance to time travel, to see what it was like in the early days,” Fortner said. Almost as quickly, though, she decided not to go. “And then I read the fine print, that there wouldn’t be ice or any possibility of a medevac, and said, ‘Fuck that noise.’”

“People better be veterans if they’re planning to go without that safety net,” Fortner’s husband, Cooper Crouse, added. “The thing that’s trying to kill you is the heat, the altitude. There’s no humidity. You’re constantly fighting dehydration, sleep deprivation, and heat exhaustion, so any additional intoxicants add to that physical stress load. Everyone focuses on the substances without acknowledging how brutal that environment is.” (Unprepared newcomers taking on environments they’re not ready for has been something of a theme of the pandemic. Some wilderness search and rescue teams have been strained to their breaking point searching for missing hikers and campers across the U.S.)

The 2018 festival as seen from above. Photo by DigitalGlobe via Getty Images

For Fortner and Crouse, though, Burning Man has never really been the main event. Fortner is a longtime volunteer at Flipside, the oldest so-called “regional burn,” which takes place outside Austin over Memorial Day weekend; Crouse is a Flipside board member. (Like Burning Man, Flipside was also canceled this year.) Regionals are held all over the world, from Texas to Spain, throughout the year, and for some people they’ve become as important—if not more so—than Burning Man itself.

“We call Burning Man the ‘Nevada Regional,’” Fortner said, chuckling. The intimate, community-driven nature of regionals brings something very different. “You don’t get as many spectators at the regionals,” she added. “You need so many volunteers to run events, everyone has to pitch in—or should. For a 3,500 person event, we have medical, mental health services, site ops, perimeter, Rangers, fire team—and more. We try and instill in the community a culture of volunteerism. You can’t just go, like it’s a thing you can spectate, like someone who bought a ticket and that’s all.”

Clovis Buford has also attended Flipside about 20 times, and said he’s optimistic that both events will be “amazing” come 2022. “The art will be fantastic. You know, the Roaring 20s coming out of the flu of 1918 was quite the scene.” (Buford, Crouse, and Fortner all wanted to make it clear that they were speaking only for themselves, not as representatives of Flipside or Burning Man.)

Buford, who is 65, said that the cancellation of Flipside was hard. “It’s like a family reunion for me at this point.” He quarantined by himself for much of the past year, which wasn’t easy. “At this point I feel like we all had a year stolen and we probably oughta make up for it,” he said. “It’s certainly made me reflect on the very temporary nature of us being here.”

When Burning Man does reconvene, it’ll be in a radically changed world. Logan Mirto, DPW’s personnel manager, has spent his unexpected time off sharpening his other skills, like working on Burning Man’s podcast as a producer, and planning how to make the coming year even better for his crew. But he has also spent a good deal of time thinking about grief, loss, and how next year’s Burning Man will reflect those forces, which have borne down on nearly everyone in the world in one way or another.

“None of us who have gone through this are the same people we were,” Mirto said. “Burning Man is always a reflection of what people bring to it. There’s a place for grief in Black Rock City. There’s a place for exploration and release. It’s a city and it’s evolved to meet the needs of its community. The community is robust. It’s thousands of people. I’m not concerned they’ll bring all that energy to it. The people who have chosen to make Burning Man a part of their lives, they recognize what Black Rock City will provide, and I hope it will provide them the catharsis or release or closure they need to feel like life is resuming.”

In a statement, Burning Man Project told VICE:

Many Burners consider the Black Rock Desert their home away from home, so it’s only natural that some will decide to head out there this summer. We here at Burning Man Project share this enthusiasm for visiting the playa in a year without Black Rock City, and we encourage our community to recreate responsibly. Planning ahead, playing it safe, being prepared, respecting local communities, and leaving no trace are central to making sure we all do it right.

Through observations from our staff, it is our understanding that the July 4 weekend, normally a time when some Burners visit the Black Rock Desert separate from the Burning Man event, was a safe and responsible time of recreation.

Burners adapt to all sorts of situations, and this summer provides another opportunity for the beginning of a new era. We have all the confidence in the world that our community and culture will continue to be great stewards of our desert home.

Follow Anna Merlan on Twitter.

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