#it doesn’t fucking matter what you want to call it they’ll say it’s discourse anyway

[joshuadunshua]

[Image ID: a cropped image of an excerpt from “The Will to Change” by bell hooks. Various spots are highlighted in different colors. Beginning from the first full sentence, the paragraph reads, “He was not interested in forgiving him or understanding the circumstances that had shaped and influenced his dad’s life, either in his childhood or in his working life as a military man.” The following paragraph reads, “In the early years of our relationship he was extremely critical of male domination of women and children. Although he did not use the word ‘patriarchy,’ he understood its meaning and he opposed it. His gentle, quiet manner often led folks to ignore him, counting him among the weak and the powerless. By the age of thirty he began to assume a more macho persona, embracing the dominator model that he had once critiqued. Donning the mantle of patriarch, he gained greater respect and visibility. More women were drawn to him. He was noticed more in public spheres. His criticism of male domination ceased. And indeed he begin to mouth patriarchal rhetoric, saying the kind of sexist stuff that would have appalled him in the past.” The last paragraph is cut off, the top which is visible reads, “These changes in his thinking and behavior were triggered by his desire to be accepted and affirmed in a patriarchal workplace and rationalized by his desire to get ahead. His story is not unusual.” End image ID]

Trans mascs that “speak out” against transandrophobia/anti-transmasculinity/transmisandry/antimasculism/whatever word of the month they’ve forced us to coin, I need you to see yourself in this. This is you. This is you leaning into the patriarchal role of “protectors of the poor weak permanently victimized women,” this is you leaning into the patriarchal role of “ignore your pain, ignore your emotional distress, ignore your psychological needs, stuff it deep down inside and suck it up.” This is you enforcing patriarchal (and therefore also white supremacist) attitudes about gender. This is you learning to shift how you operate under the “logic” of a white supremacist, capitalist patriarchal system so that you can get and maintain access to what little scraps of privilege the system will give you for your conformity.

You cannot apply “logic” to oppressions—it is not a math equation you can solve for. It is not internally consistent.

(And when I say logic, I mean formal logic, I mean mathematical logic, I mean specifically Western conceptualizations of logic.)

You can’t simply state that “men don’t face oppression for being men because that then logically means [something untrue about women’s oppression] would be the case and it’s not.” Oppression is inherently illogical. To assume it operates on a truly definable and fully understandable logic is to suggest there’s a “good” reason for its existence. Which if you examine that for just a moment, you find it also then suggests that there is truth behind how oppression works. Or rather, that oppressed people did some thing or are some way that deserves oppression in response.

White supremacy doesn’t operate on any logical basis. Patriarchy doesn’t operate on any logical basis. They weren’t constructed to be logical, they were hardly “constructed” at all. They came about specifically to uphold and maintain powerful people’s access to power. To call the systems “constructed” is almost to give people too much credit.

Perhaps at one point “white supremacy” was a very specific spark in the mind of quite a number of powerful fair skinned Western Europeans, (though many would understandably point out that white supremacy existed well before it was made explicit), but to suggest that white supremacy as it exists now, as a self-perpetuating system that is able to chug away, an engine for capitalism built and sustained on the exploitation and slaveability of Black bodies, was consciously and carefully designed to operate only within specific bounds that we can define and uncover? That’s trying to use the master’s tools to dismantle the master’s house.

Trying to equate the operation of white supremacy with patriarchy, or any system of oppression with any other system of oppression (though you really do see this most often with people equating racism with sexism) similarly does not work because they are not organized logically. They are not separable entities, either. It is true that there are common elements to different oppressions (see: Suzanne Pharr, bell hooks, Paulo Freire) and it is true that the different systems are interlocked and work together to hold it all up (see: Audre Lorde, Patricia Hill Collins, Andrea Smith) and it is true that they impact people at different intersections of oppressive systems uniquely and dynamically (see: Kimberlé Crenshaw, Jennifer Nash, Bonnie Thornton Dill & Ruth Enid Zambrana) and the systems themselves intersect and interact in different ways to produce unique effects which are dynamic across time and space and context (see: Cathy J. Cohen, Patricia Hill Collins, Rita Kaur Dhamoon).

At the end of the day, too, this whole conversation is also excruciatingly Western-centric, and most often Americentric. The white trans mascs (and any other white queers) decrying the concept that men could ever be oppressed for their being men, that men’s experiences of oppression could ever be shaped by their manhood (or their proximity to it), betray their ignorance to men’s experiences outside of their specific version of Western patriarchy. It betrays their understanding of patriarchy, white supremacy, and feminism as having been wholly informed by white radical feminists who appropriate the language of Black feminism while maintaining essentialist perspectives that reify and protect the same patriarchy they want to critique. As though patriarchy is just about men holding power over women and not also about men holding power over other men, not also about women’s complicity in maintaining and perpetuating it, not also about Western nations holding power over the Global South, not also about kinship organization, not about nationalism, not about colonialism, not about international and transnational politics, not about capitalist globalization.

I suppose this turned into something much bigger than it was originally meant to be, but I have fucking had it. I am fed up with white trans mascs from Western countries whose understanding of feminism is stalled at the stage where they’ve learned that white neoliberal feminism is bad because it’s not anticapitalist or intersectional enough but they haven’t actually learned what the fuck that criticism means because they think or behave as though “intersectional” is just another word for “diverse,” which they also maintain a neoliberal understanding of. I am also fucking heartbroken for all the trans mascs who are willing to lean into this patriarchal role where they close off their own emotions and dismiss their own problems and downplay the reality of being a transgender person at their particular intersection all because they’ve been convinced that men’s problems aren’t real problems, that the oppression they experience because they are transmasculine people is nothing to do with their masculinity or association with or proximity to (and subsequent distance from) manhood.

To claim that there is nothing unique about transmasculine experiences of oppression at the intersection of trans identity and gender is to willfully ignore reality in quite the same way that transphobes do when what they protest is “trans ideology.” Trans people will exist whether you personally believe our gender claims or not, right? So to fail to incorporate us into your reality is to have the temper tantrum of a toddler all because the world and its people aren’t as simple and uniform as you wanted them to be. Similarly, transmasculine people will experience oppression at this intersection regardless of what you want to call it, but to demand that we capitulate to language that flattens our experiences along the lines of either being transgender (it’s literally just transphobia) or our proximity to womanhood (it’s literally just misogyny), or even the two together but-not-really (it’s transphobia and misogyny but it’s not because of your proximity to manhood), is to suggest that there is nothing unique about our experiences of transphobia and misogyny as transmasculine people. Is to suggest that unless and until we are perceived as men by society, our experiences with oppression and penalization (and privilege by this logic, but notably not in practice) are indistinguishable from those of cisgender women and there is no value in discussing, dissecting, naming, or otherwise acknowledging anything transmasculine people experience—and then on the flip side, when society does perceive us as men, suddenly our experiences with oppression and penalization (and privilege by this logic, but notably not in practice) are indistinguishable from those of cisgender men, and so there is no value in discussing, dissecting, naming, or otherwise acknowledging anything transmasculine people experience.

We’re either basically cis women or basically cis men, whichever is more convenient and makes it easier to disregard us in the moment.

#transandrophobia #anti transmasculinity #transmisandry #it doesn’t fucking matter what you want to call it they’ll say it’s discourse anyway #contributions to theory #self ID purposes here I am a white transmasc in the US #this post is definitely US centric or Western centric but like that’s largely intentional this time around #Black feminist language is to white queers what MLK’s I have a dream speech is to white US Americans #like idk maybe actually engage with it on its original terms before you start putting it in your own fucking mouth

[1ddotdhq]

💿Sun 13 Dec ‘20💙

Happy Birthday, Fine Line! Have a Louis show! (Seriously, why can’t I get cool shows for my birthday like that??). So today’s been a busy week, huh? 

It is, of course, Fine Line’s anniversary, and the celebration kicked off last night, with a twitter emoji (it's Harrrry! Doing the FL pose so so tiny!) and the DYKWYA website changing. It’s pink and black and blue and white, and now tells us that we’re “loyal” and “marvelous” and “memorable” and “powerful” and “rare” and “real” and “staying six feet apart” (or 70 other lovely options). So either HSHQ got their thesaurus out, or they tuned into Louis’ show last night, because that’s EXACTLY how I would describe it. Anyways, the day started with a Harry sighting! Well, a video from last week that is, of him doing a MakeaWish FaceTime in a blue snapback. And then there was a Harry Lambert interview, where he directly addressed the discourse around Harry’s fashion choices, saying, “Harry will never wear something that he doesn’t want to wear...I always say, 'I‘m not doing my job if I’m making someone wear things' because I just think if someone gets comfortable in what they’re wearing, then it doesn’t matter if I think it looks good.” He went on to say, “There’s never an element of me forcing him to wear anything”. So - TAKE THAT, transphobes! We all recognize that saying “the mean gay man is making Harry look gay/genderqueer” is, uh, a REALLY bad take, right? Anyways, hopefully that’s the end of it, but we all know it won’t be. He also told us that Harry chose the (fake) pearls, asking “can I just wear these every day?” and they were only replaced with real ones after that strand broke, that he tried to get H out of the Vans for the Golden vid but he said nah, and about the Golden and WS videos “I kind of saw it as the same man just in a different place in the world” which, well- yeah? But the implication that that man was not Harry is interesting. Aside from that, we got some more terrible merch from HSHQ (including a shirt that is a glove with legs stuck on it, wtf), a few celebratory tweets from HSHQ, The Forum, Jeff Azoff (there's a theme here lol) etc, AND! A post from Harry himself: “I couldn’t be more grateful for you all continually finding new ways to change my life. Thank you for listening, and for everything else. I love you always, but especially today. H”. What? That’s his name, isn’t it? 

But, of course, H wasn’t the only one celebrating online today! Louis came back and answered some of our questions about the show. The first is that he sold over - are you ready for this? - OVER 160,000 tickets for the show, making it the biggest online show of 2020 by a solo male artist, and the third largest overall of the year. Even the Sun had to admit how “exceptional” that is, describing the show as "the equivalent of eight nights at London’s O2 Arena." Doing the math, this means he raised over $3.1 million from ticket sales alone! HOLY SHIT! Hearing that, Louis came on twitter to say (in reply to a quote by his PR company lmao), “This is truly incredible. No major label, no radio, yet here we are. The feeling of support I get from you all every time I do something is unbelievable. Forever Thankful! And they never see us coming!”. Of course, this incited another round of label discourse, wondering if this means he is still an unsigned artist. Does this simply mean the livestream wasn't put on by a label, yes, does Louis absolutely know about the discourse and is he being deliberate, I would also say unmistakeably yes. Which is not to say we know ELSE it might mean -- is he signed to an indie? Still label shopping and waving how much more they need him than vice versa in the hopefuls' faces? Signed but the contract doesn't start until there's a record in play (which when you negotiate your own contract and establish artistic freedom, as we can be very sure was Louis' priority, is what labels DO - they don’t manage every aspect of an artists career)? Signed by a major label, but shading the FUCK out of Syco about radio play for Walls? What we DO know is that it wasn't a label that put the livestream on, and damn if that doesn’t make it 1000% more badass. “Memorable”, “powerful”, and “rare” indeed! He’s still early in the process of LT2, as he told us yesterday, so we might have to wait a little longer to figure out what’s happening business-wise, but he made sure to tell everyone that his fans were an integral part of his processing the most inspiring way possible: “the power and the magic comes from the people you guys,” I COULD CRY that's MY inspirational leader THANK YOU. He goes on to say “don't undermine your role in all this... together with your support we're unstoppable!” He also called us “fucking relentless” (god knows that's true) as Walls hit the charts AGAIN, and talked about how the money raised will go a long way. “WE did that!!”

And with that, let’s talk a little bit more about last night’s (“bold”, “extraordinary”) show! ‘‘Copy’ is making its rounds on the internet, but YouTube continues to take down recordings of the show, which SUCKS, because everyone should be able to see it! Maybe in a few days when some time has passed, they’ll let it go up without an issue, or maybe they'll answer our pleas (come through one more time Louis!) and put out a DVD (and live album too how about, YES? Yes.), til then there are the downloads going around tumblr! Good thing we got Louis' seal of approval or just imagine the discourse. The ‘H’ shirt Louis was wearing last night is a Reebok shirt, which was being distributed in a few different places, such one where you could get a discount if you used the code ‘HL40’ and another where it was $28, lol. Was it the loudest Louis shirt ever- I mean I would say an unqualified NO but many are voting YES and are reeling so that's really fun! Welcome to the gang guys. Not likely to win any awards for being loud with such incredible competition but still very good SBBing-- Louis was wearing a stuffed bear t shirt in rehearsal pics. When you know you know, I guess! ;) The band is also soaking in the praises (as they should!) and have been re-posting fans’ stories on Instagram all day (as did LTHQ) - cheers, boys! 

Today’s Liam and Roman alarm was ALL us (well, not allll us, Roman did explain that the alarms would feature fans every Sunday, but then he handed the mic over). “Waking up to Liam and Roman is the best thing EVER! I don’t know why it gives me so much serotonin,” said one fan. I do! It’s because Liam is a real, live puppy dog and he’s so genuinely sweet to his fans. Love him lots, but I love him even MORE when he’s ON the advent alarm!

#harry styles #louis tomlinson #liam payne #wow what a day! #anyways I love these guys lots and lots and it was a gorgeous show! #and also fine line is a gorgeous album ive been streaming it today #anyways! #song of the day! #Wake Up by Julie and the Phantoms cast #let me tell you a secret: my fourth most listened to genre on my spotify wrapped #was showtunes #so what does that say about me??

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Nine

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: reading canon eris discourse literally makes me dizzy but in this fic he's pretty chill

***

“Any plans for Thanksgiving?” Emerie asks as they stroll between the shelves of the library.

Nesta runs her finger down the spine of a textbook on corporate law. “Not really,” she murmurs distantly.

She’s been doing her best not to think of the upcoming holidays, in fact. Cassian is going to Velaris for Thanksgiving, and of course Feyre invited Nesta as well, but…

She’s always ignored her sister’s holiday invites, but this year is different. Cassian, a recent constant in her life, will be gone, enjoying himself for the first time in months without her presence. And Nesta will be at the cabin alone, because of course she can’t celebrate Thanksgiving with Feyre’s found family. Being friends with Cassian hasn’t changed that.

“Well,” Emerie is saying, “a bunch of us can’t go home for the holidays for one reason or another, so we’re hosting a small Friendsgiving at my apartment. You’re invited.”

Nesta glances at her, surprised. “Who’s going to be there?”

“The same guys from drinks night: Eris, Justinian, Isaac. Maybe a plus one or two if we’re lucky.” She elbows Nesta. “Maybe a girl for me to take home.”

“I thought the party was at your home already?”

“You know what I mean. Anyway, are you coming?”

Nesta purses her lips. “But you said it was a Friendsgiving. Those guys aren’t my friends.”

Emerie looks at her like she's insane. “Uh, why not?”

“Because,” Nesta states, “we’ve only had one real interaction all semester.”

Emerie scoffs. “You talk to them all the time in class, Nesta.”

“Yes. Out of necessity.”

Emerie raises a high brow. “That’s how you view spending time with us? A ‘necessity’?”

She’s upset, and Nesta doesn’t know what she said wrong. “That’s not what I meant,” she tries to say.

“Then what did you mean?”

“I just…” Nesta shrugs. “I thought it took more to make friends than a single night out.” Those are the rules, right?

Emerie narrows her dark eyes at her. “I’m sorry we’re not up to standard, then. But for your information, those guys liked you. I’m sure they considered you a friend.” She turns to leave, but Nesta is so stunned she can’t even try to stop her. The click of Emerie’s heels resonate long after she’s gone.

“Hey,” Cassian comes up to her later that day. “About Thanksgiving—”

Nesta drops her dinner plate onto the island with a clatter. “What is it with everybody and Thanksgiving?” Her voice is unnecessarily loud.

Cassian blinks. “Well, it’s only a few days away—”

“I know,” she says. “I’m fine staying home alone. We never celebrated Thanksgiving growing up, you know? It’s really not a big deal.”

“Will you let me finish, Nesta?”

Nesta presses her lips together.

Cassian takes a breath. “I think you should— I would really love it if you came to Velaris with me this weekend.”

There’s a silence as he waits for her to answer.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says after a moment.

Before he can press the subject, she blurts, “I already have plans.”

“You do?” Nesta can’t tell if he sounds disappointed or surprised.

She straightens her back, lying through her teeth, “Yes. Some friends from school are getting together for a Friendsgiving, and I’m going.” She almost bites her tongue on the word friends. She doesn’t even know what that means anymore.

“That’s amazing,” Cassian says, though he still looks a little taken aback. “I’m glad.” He looks down at the marble counter then, trying to smile. “Sucks for me, though.”

Nesta huffs a laugh. “Please, like you won’t be having fun with your friends whether I’m there or not.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but why go for half the fun when I could go for double?”

“That’s not how math works,” she snipes.

Cassian grabs a fork so he can sit down across from Nesta. “Don’t you ever bring up correct math in this house again.” He points his silverware at her threateningly.

From there, they can devolve into their usual dinner habit of bantering that leads to more serious conversation. Cassian has recently been on a French movie binge, Nesta learns, and even though she despises the French, she listens closely to his analysis of each film and offers her own thoughts back. She even promises to rewatch one or two of his favorites at a later time. The giddiness he gives in return makes her almost wish she had accepted his invitation earlier, if only so she could keep making him happy.

God. What is he doing to her?

Later that night, Nesta pulls out her phone and opens up her messages with Emerie. She doesn’t want to have rejected Cassian just to end up staying home alone all weekend. She types out five different messages and erases them before settling on an apathetic, Is the invite for Thursday still on?

Emerie takes her time to reply, likely to punish Nesta. After some minutes, she finally texts, Yes.

It’s all she can expect from Emerie, and it’s all she needs to see.

Nesta: I’ll be there.

***

“Cassian!” Feyre swings open the door with an overjoyed smile, ready to greet him.

He laughs and steps in for a hug, going so far as to lift her feet off the floor. Because damn him, even with his conflicted feelings towards Feyre lately, he’s missed her. He’s missed all of his friends, even though he’s found something precious while he was away from them.

He’s ushered into the penthouse, which Feyre and Rhys insist on calling an “apartment”, as if that softens the blow of their extravagant wealth. Cassian and everybody else goes along with it, however, because the rich have committed worse crimes. At least that’s what Nesta says.

“Rhys is out getting last minute beer from the gas station,” Feyre says as she takes his overnight bag. “And you’re the first to arrive, which means I have you all to myself.” She whirls on him with a predatory gleam in her eye. “Tell me everything about the last two months with you and Nesta, ASAP.”

Cassian’s heart starts racing at the unexpected interrogation, but he laughs it off and shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re just roommates.”

“Well, I know that.” Feyre rolls her eyes. “But what is it like? How is it going? Is she okay? Are you okay?”

Before he can answer a single question, Feyre goes on. “I haven’t heard from either of you in eons, it feels like. Is Nesta still picky about her foods touching? Does she get upset when you play music too loud? Does she—”

“Jesus, Feyre,” Cassian interrupts loudly. “Not everything in my life is about your sister. Give it a rest.” He takes his duffel bag back from her.

“I’m just curious!” she says indignantly, but Cassian is already heading up the winding stairs to his guest room, going as fast as he can without outright running.

“I need to get washed up!” he announces before Feyre can make him stop and come back for more questioning.

In the safety of his bedroom, he releases a breath.

If Cassian thought keeping Nesta’s health issues from Feyre was difficult, he couldn’t have predicted how painful it would be to hide his feelings for Nesta. Still, he doesn’t dare expose what he can’t yet define, especially not to his nosy-ass friends. Some things just aren’t matters for gossip.

***

Nesta hesitantly enters Emerie’s small studio apartment to a party in full swing; “full swing” being Justinian and Isaac playing video games on the couch while Emerie is in the kitchen area attempting to make drinks. Nesta stops near the kitchenette and crosses her arms, surveying the scene. “Something about this doesn’t look right,” she says aloud. Emerie doing the hard work while the men play? Antithetical to her very nature.

“I know,” is all Emerie says without looking up from whatever hellish concoction she’s whipping up. “But I’m the host, so this is my role.”

“Hey, Nesta,” the guys speak up together, not taking their eyes off the TV. Isaac is the first to break his concentration from the game, glancing at Nesta and doing a double take. “Woah, you look good today.” Is he blushing?

Emerie finally looks up at that, eyeing Nesta’s modest black dress. “A little funeral-chic, but still hot as ever, babe.” Right after, she makes a face at the term babe. “Nope, I tried it and I hate it.”

Nesta hates it just as much, but goes over to help Emerie with what she now realizes are oddly colored Jello shots. She picks up a little plastic cup with dark jelly in it and wiggles it around. “What color is this supposed to be?”

“Brown.” Emerie blows a piece of escaped hair out of her face. “They were supposed to be Thanksgiving themed.”

Nesta surveys the shots arranged in various fall colors. Definitely an interesting choice for a twenty-four year old law student, but what did Nesta know about parties?

“Where’s Eris?” she asks casually as she helps arrange more cups. Her argument with Emerie is far from forgotten, but the two women are too alike for their own good. They’ll ignore the lingering tension until it dissipates, and that will be the end of that.

Before Emerie can answer Nesta’s question, a loud bang comes from the entryway as the already open door hits the wall. Eris Vanserra sweeps inside in his designer coat and sophisticated boots, followed by a new, striking face. “It’s fucking freezing,” he announces, just as the new guy quietly shuts the door behind them.

“You’re late,” Emerie says in her usual flat tone.

“I had to pick up my twerp brother.” Eris tilts his head toward the redhead behind him.

“I didn’t ask to come,” the new guy, Eris’s brother, chimes in.

Nesta is perked up now, angling to get a better look at him. Same hair color, same eyes, different skin tone from Eris. He looks like the relaxed, unpretentious version of his brother. Someone pauses the video game.

“I’m Lucien,” he awkwardly raises a hand.

Justinian looks at everybody else. “I’m confused— does this mean we can finally replace Eris’s punk ass?”

The thought of an unexpected guest first makes Nesta clench up, especially when she’s seated right next to the damn guy at the dining table. New people means everything about the regular social routine will be changed up, and she isn’t at all prepared for it.

It takes maybe fifteen minutes for her to realize that Lucien is nothing to worry about— much quicker than she’s ever warmed up to a stranger before.

He has the affected quiet confidence of someone who would rather be anywhere else but here. No one knows that mask better than Nesta.

Against all odds, she’s the first to initiate a conversation.

“Why are you here?” she says bluntly.

No hello, no how are you. Fuck, this is why she doesn’t talk to people.

Lucien looks surprised at the sudden acknowledgment, but answers, “My plans got cancelled at the last minute.” His mouth tightens as he looks toward his brother. “So Eris dragged me here instead.”

“You don’t like your brother?”

Lucien narrows his eyes at her, defensive. “Is this an interrogation or something?”

Embarrassment heats Nesta’s face, but she hides it under her usual cold stare. “Never mind.”

She turns back to her food, refocusing on an anecdote Isaac is giving about a girl he met the other week. A moment later, Lucien says lowly, “I can’t stand my brother.”

She laughs a little too loudly at that, and everyone looks at her.

Isaac grins. “See, Nesta thinks it’s a funny story.”

Nesta frowns. “No, I don’t. You told it last week and no one laughed.”

His face falls. Eris laughs out loud at him, and Emerie tosses wadded up napkins at both men. “You’re both deeply uninteresting. Let’s talk about me.”

She launches into a heated discussion about how she plans to defeat “that bitch Brian” for the internship at Velaris’s biggest law firm next summer, with Eris interjecting that she wouldn’t survive a day in the big city. Nesta turns back to Lucien. “I understand how you feel.”

“You hate Eris too?”

“No, but I have sisters.” Eris is nice, if a pretentious asshole at times, but she empathizes with Lucien either way.

He raises a brow. “And you’re here for Thanksgiving instead of with them?”

For the first time all night, Nesta remembers that Cassian is having fun in a spacious penthouse with Feyre and Elain and the others, likely eating much nicer food than store-bought turkey and Jello shots, and she almost deflates. Almost. Because as much as she enjoys this— spending time with people that belong to her, not Feyre or anybody else— there’s a hollow space in the room that Cassian usually fills. She doesn’t know how she can miss someone and be this thoroughly content at the same time, but she tries not to ponder on her feelings.

She shrugs at Lucien’s question. “We’re all here instead of with our families.”

What would have been a thirty-minute meal on Nesta’s own stretches into a long night of full bellies and fuller conversation. Justinian demands a toast in honor of Friendsgiving, and Emerie tells him not to pull that cringy shit, but everyone ends up raising their small Jello shots to clink against each other.

Thanksgiving might be Nesta’s favorite holiday.

***

Cassian doesn’t know what this feeling is: the itching, nervy sense of impatience that plagues him the longer dinner drags on. All he knows is that tonight Mor’s laughter is just a little too loud, and Amren’s quips are just a little too sharp, and Rhys’s stories aren’t very interesting for once.

Nothing about his friends have changed, but somehow, Cassian feels different. Empty. He can’t stop thinking about what Nesta is doing right now.

He checks his phone under the table for the sixth time in three minutes, for what, he doesn’t know. Maybe she’s in trouble and needs his help. Maybe she’s having a bad night and wants to talk to him. Maybe she’s just bored and thinking about him.

None of this is true, evidently, because his phone remains dead silent.

“Cassian.” It’s Elain’s gentle voice that draws him out of his head. “What’s it like having a roommate for once? I know you and Nesta love being alone.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin. “Alone? No we don’t. Why would we love being alone together?”

Elain looks at him like he’s grown a new head. “I didn’t mean alone together. It’s just that you’ve always spent your time boarded up in that mountain cabin on your own, and before Nesta moved in, she wouldn’t leave her apartment even to see me.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Feyre butts in. She whirls to Cassian with her hands under her chin. “All this time I was wondering what you and Nesta living together would be like, and I didn’t even consider you guys avoiding each other.”

Cassian scoffs a laugh but doesn’t know how to respond. He just wants Feyre and Elain to stop poking at this raw, fresh thing in his life before his nerves get worse, so he turns to Amren and brings up the thing he knows will shut everyone down: work. “How much longer is Rhys gonna have you playing double agent at Adriatic?” She’s been acting as brand ambassador to the West Coast-based conglomerate for the past five months, playing nice while gathering information on Night Court Inc.’s biggest competitor.

Groans resound around the table, but Amren’s eyes brighten frightfully. “If he keeps me there any longer, I might end up staying for good.”

Rhysand smiles thinly. “Amren has a crush on their new CFO. If she keeps going on about Varian’s pretty face I might pull her out of Adriatic by the end of the year.”

Just as Cassian is about to convince himself to care, his phone vibrates in his hand. Everything tunes out as he sees Nesta’s name on the screen, attached to a new text. He clicks into it.

A picture of Nesta and her friends around a dinner table pops up, smiling and laughing. His heart catches in his throat at the image.

“What did we say about phones during dinner, Cassian?” Rhysand interrupts just then.

Cassian stands up quickly, stammering, “Uh, I just need to answer this call— it’s important.” Azriel is staring up at him like he’s lost his mind, but Cassian doesn’t notice or care as he rushes out of the room with his phone in a death grip, overcome.

Alone in a hallway bathroom, he lets himself look at the picture again, hungrily absorbing every detail he couldn’t catch the first time around: her face is flushed and her hair is down, wilder than usual. Her smile is so rarely genuine that it kills him a little just to see it; he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or pained that she’s having such a good time, that she isn’t missing him like he’s missing her. A sharp-faced girl that Cassian assumes is Emerie is holding the camera, likely having stolen Nesta’s phone to demand a picture, and the two women are surrounded by guys he doesn’t recognize. Except—

The face beside Nesta’s catches Cassian’s attention, and he clicks to zoom in. “Is that Lucien Vanserra?” he mutters.

Elain’s ex gets to hang out with Nesta while he doesn’t? This is fucked.

He doesn’t have a reason for his actions as he shoves his phone into his pocket and exits the bathroom. He just knows he needs to get out of here, away from this place that’s so far from Nesta’s heart.

His keys and coat hang near the front door, and he can hear Feyre’s voice from the dining room. “Cassian? Where are you—”

The door slams behind him before she can finish.

***

Being the only one who refused to get drunk off Jello shots, Eris offers to drive Nesta home for the night.

While Lucien is passed out in the backseat without a care in the world, Nesta is so awake she can feel her nerves buzzing. She knows as soon as she leaves this car, the bittersweet loneliness that comes after a party will set in, but for now…

What a night. She sighs and lets her head fall back against the seat, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Damn,” Eris lets out a low whistle as he pulls up to the mountain cabin. “This is your place?”

She lifts her head, realizing she’s home. “Ah. It’s only a temporary living situation,” she explains. “It’s my— friend’s place.”

“Friend or sugar daddy?” Eris smirks.

Nesta scowls, grabbing her stuff and pushing open the door to leave. It’s not Eris’s fault she’s unable to take a joke about Cassian, but that doesn’t change the sensitivity of the topic.

“Hey, wait—” he calls after her.

She pauses to look back at him. He hesitates, then says, “Good night.”

“Take care of your brother,” she directs. Stepping out of his fancy car, she shuts the door and raises a hand in goodbye, watching him pull away from the cabin.

Alone in the driveway, Nesta stands under the moonlight for a long moment, letting the chill seep into her bones. She’s dawdling.

She pauses again at the front door, her hand on the doorknob. The dreaded loneliness is already coming over her, crawling over her skin and making a home in the cage of her ribs.

A whole weekend without Cassian.

Maybe she should have asked Emerie if she could stay over for the night, but a part of her knows it would have been futile. Emerie can’t replace Cassian’s constant presence, no matter how much Nesta likes her.

It’s only three days. She steels herself and unlocks the door, prepared to be greeted by darkness and hollow silence.

The first thing she notices when she steps inside is the sound of crackling, followed by a warm glow from the living area. The lights are all off, but the fireplace is ablaze.

Nesta’s brows furrow, confused, but then she sees on the couch— “Cassian?”

***

a/n: i know justinian and isaac are names for side characters that sjm has used before but in this case they're completely different ocs.

taglist: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja

#a favor #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #ncssianwrites #nessian fic #nessian au

[hale-13]

Zero Days Without Incident

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 20 Prompt - Defiance

The ‘Days Without Incident’ sign in Tony Stark’s private workshop has nothing to do with engineering or science mishaps and all to do with a bet between him and a certain Spiderling.

Words: 1783, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Happy Hogan

TW: Stabbing

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“Peter you have thirty minutes until your curfew,” Karen warned him, already plotting a course home and throwing it up on his HUD.

It was a balmy spring evening and Peter had spent most of his patrol leisurely swinging through Queens or relaxing on a hammock made from his webs. There had been a few petty crimes he had dealt with, some grand theft bicycle, a cat stuck in a tree but, all in all, he couldn’t really complain. He loved being Spider-Man and helping his neighborhood but it was nice to have a slow day sometimes.

A scream sounded in the distance.

“Spoke too soon,” he mumbled, altering his course and picking up speed. “Can you get me directions K?”

“Of course Peter,” Karen answered, as chirpy and happy as normal, re-routing him away from his apartment and toward the sounds of discourse in the distance. When he dropped in on the scene it seemed to be a mugging in progress and Peter rolled his eyes – didn’t people have anything better to do on a random Tuesday in April? God just seriously rethink your life choices.

“I would say its knife to meet you but I’ve definitely used that pun in the last couple weeks and I don’t want to be accused of not being original,” Peter called down, making both the assailant and victim flinch and look up to where he was perched on the wall above them. “Where did even get that thing? The renaissance fair? Who robs people with a full on dagger anyway? Run out of kitchen knives?” Peter quipped, flipping down and pushing the mugger away with a well placed kick to the arm that made the man stumble back.

“This has nothing to do with you bug,” the man snarled, brandishing the weapon at Peter now and making him roll his eyes. “Don’t get in my way and I won’t have to use this on ya.”

“Spiders are arachnids actually, not bugs” Peter pointed out, shooing the stunned woman out of the alley and on her way out of any potential danger. “And how about you not stab anybody today huh? If you promise to behave I won’t web you to the wall and call the police. Sounds like a fair trade right?”

The man snarled at him with irritation. “You talk too much.”

“So I’ve been told,” Peter agreed easily with a nod. “But what do you say? Ready to give up your life of crime for the straight and narrow?”

“No,” the man grumbled and, with literally no warning, lunged forward and stabbed his knife directly into Peter’s gut.

They both stared at each other in stunned silence before Peter processed the pain with a loud ‘fuck!’.

“You motherfucker,” Peter grunted, backing away to lean against the wall, holding the knife still with one hand so as to not dislodge it. “I can’t believe you stabbed me!”

“I thought you would dodge! You always dodge!” The man said, reaching up both hands to dig into his hair. “I stabbed Spider-Man what the fuck!”

“God this is just-,” Peter grumbled using his free arm to fire webbing at the guy and secure him to the nearby dumpster. “I’ve gone three weeks without having to go to the MedBay! Three weeks! All I had to do was last one more and then I got to pick the movie at movie night for the next month! God I can’t believe it! Mr. Stark is going to be so insufferable now!”

“You could just… not tell him?” The man asked hopefully, not even bothering to struggle against the webs and Peter blew out a breath as he sank down to sit on the gritty ground – he was starting to feel a little cold and dizzy from either the blood loss or shock, he couldn’t tell which. Not that it mattered, his fierce anger overshadowed everything.

“Not an option,” Peter grunted, leaning his head back and closing his eyes against the helpful countdown timer Karen had started displaying the second Tony had entered the Iron Man armor and started jetting to him. “He already knows.” Curse the Baby-monitor Protocol! He and Ned would need to remove it again…

“He track you or something?” The man asked questioningly, head quirked to the side in obvious curiosity.

“Or something,” Peter agreed.

“That’s wack man,” he said. “An invasion of privacy. A, uh… violation of your constitutional rights as a free American!”

“Do you honestly think Tony Stark cares about an something as simple as an invasion of privacy? I’m lucky he hasn’t microchipped me yet,” Peter pointed out. Or, at least, he didn’t think Tony had microchipped him. He’d have to check that and remove it post haste if he found something.

“Dude,” knife guy said commiserating and Peter had to fight the eye roll. Of course the person who stabbed him felt remorseful now.

“I know,” Peter agreed, peering down at his side to look at where the knife was embedded into him. He was pretty good around blood as long as it wasn’t his own and, looking at the way his suit was slick and blood was beginning to pool under his thighs in a puddle made Peter lightheaded so he closed his eyes again. “He’s probably going to be pretty pissed at you by the way,” Peter warned. “He has pretty good lawyers so I wouldn’t have high hopes of getting out of this without jail time.”

The man groaned and Peter just shrugged. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time and all that – also don’t stab people and leave them to the ministrations of their helicopter mentors. Same thing really. The sound of repulsers neared and Peter braced himself – he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with this.

“I guess that we can change the ‘Days Without Incident’ sign back to zero eh Spiderling?” Tony teased as he landed in the mouth of the alley, disengaging his suit and walking over to kneel next to Peter. “You were doing so good too – your longest streak ever in fact.”

“Don’t remind me,” Peter hissed as Tony prodded around the wound carefully with a pre-gloved hand. “Can you not touch that?”

“No can do buddy,” Tony said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “Gotta anchor it in so it doesn’t fall out on the ride back. Happy’s on his way to pick us up.”

“Oh great,” Peter groused, letting Tony lean him forward a little so he could start wrapping roll gauze around the knife. “He loves to complain when I get blood on the seats.”

“Only when you get impaled,” Tony said brightly, pulling the gauze tight almost vindictively and making Peter wince. “Wouldn’t want to deprive him now would we?”

“You could just let me bleed out and die here,” Peter suggested seriously. “Since my life is basically over now anyway.

“You’re such a dramatic little shit,” Tony groused, tying off the gauze and levering Peter up off the ground to slump into his side for the extra support. “Now say ‘goodbye’ to your friend, he won’t be seeing the real world for a long, long time,” Tony’s voice had an edge of steel as he said this, dragging Peter to the end of the alley and ignoring the muggers ‘Aw man, c’mon!” as they passed. Peter just shrugged a ‘what can you do?” and wiggled his fingers in a facsimile of a wave as he was pulled away.

Happy, to his credit, was efficient and must have already been in the area because he was quick to pull up with a surly look already cemented onto his face as he surveyed where Peter was leaning into Tony and dribbling blood onto the sidewalk in large, heavy droplets. “I already called the cleaning crew,” he told them through the open window. “They’ll be here before the police to scrub up any possible radioactive DNA.”

“Best forehead of security ever,” Tony crooned lovingly as he carefully situated Peter onto the pile of towels Happy had put into the backseat to soak up the blood and keep it off his leather seats. Happy glared at the both of them in the rearview mirror before rolling up the partition. Tony snorted in undisguised mirth.

“How you feeling kiddie?” He asked as he peeled Peter’s mask from his sweaty face. “Not going to pass out on me again right?”

“Uh…” Peter groaned, squeezing his eyes shut tight to stop the spinning and grey dots that were clouding his vision. “No promises. Sorry.” Tony just let out a put upon sigh like he expected as much and pushed Peter to lay down across the seats, grabbing one of the extra towels to press tightly around the knife and making Peter let out a whining moan at the pressure. “Yeah I might pass out,” he said faintly as his vision started to tunnel.

“Go on then,” Tony said, running a hand through Peter’s damp curls and smoothing them away from his face. “At least you don’t sass me when you’re unconscious.” Peter felt the man lift his legs to slid a few wadded up towels underneath… like that would actually help keep him awake.

“Rude,” Peter grumbled before losing his grip on reality – he trusted Tony to take care of things for now.

——————————————

“I hate this movie,” Peter grumbled groggily, as he pulled himself awake some time later. He was lying in one of the beds in the MedBay, attached to a blood transfusion and with a thick padding of gauze on his abdomen. Tony, seated next to him and munching on popcorn, just sent him a shit eating grin and held up the whiteboard that had been hanging in his workshop displaying ‘Days Without Incident’ with a large 0 written under it in obnoxious red ink.

“This is such bullshit,” Peter said petulantly, picking at the tape holding the IV in place. “I can’t escape! Go watch your garbage movie somewhere else.”

“Excuse me you brat,” Tony said imperiously. “The Breakfast Club is a cult classic thank you very much and besides,” he continued, offering Peter the bowl of popcorn, “someone clearly has to educate you on good movies.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” Peter said, flicking a kernel of popcorn playfully at his mentor (and missing damn – he must be on drugs) and letting his tired eyes slip closed again.

“Sore loser,” he heard Tony tease as he fell asleep and that did it. When he won their next bet they were marathoning the whole Star Wars series from beginning to end, including all of the Clone Wars and the Mandalorian, and he didn’t care what Mr. Stark said.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump20 #Prompt: Defiance #irondad #spider man #Summer of Whump 2021

[themadauthorshatter]

A lot of you seem to really like that Swap AU for Red Queen, so...

Time for a Part 2!!!!!

Like with Glass Sword, we start with Mare and crew on a train, Shade next to her while the rest their rifles aimed at Maven, who sits resolutely.

Kilorn is especially pissed because he doesn't trust the crown prince's younger brother, nor even when the bastard almost got all of them killed. Twice.

Maven snips that he was at fault for the second time, but Kilorn's stupider than he already is, if he thinks Maven palnned for Ptolemus to survive and come came to hunt them all down.

Mare barks at Maven to shut up, but Kilorn is more direct, punching the traitor prince in the nose.

Before he can do more, Farley calls him off, telling him he can kick Maven's ass later, when they're not on the train.

Reluctantly, Kilorn backs off and leaves Maven to wipe his nose off.

Mare, in an effort to diffuse the tension, asks where they're all going, anyway.

Shade and Farley glance at each other, then to Maven, before Shade explains they're on their way to Tuck.

Both Mare and Maven are confused, but there's no time for questions because they get attacked, as in their train gets derailed and is crushed like a tin can, chasing everyone outside.

ACTION TIME!!!!!!

Everyone hightails it out as they and the rest of the team with them fight off Silver forces. Their main goal is to get to what looks like a cliffside; Farley points to it and shouts they run there.

Mare notices the sudden lack of Maven, but shakes it off; he can either die or catch up somehow, it's every man for himself right now.

Mare does well in fending for herself, like before, but that stops when she's found and surrounded by a huge number of Silvers who are not afraid to rittle her with bullets, if she does anything.

The only reason they ARE afraid is because their General gave them a very strict order to not shoot unless he says so.

And this General is Cal, who instantly notices that Maven is missing and asks Mare where he is.

Mare challenges him, wondering if he's planning on shooting his brother himself, if she gives him up.

Cal snaps, asking if she's really defending someone who betrayed her, after lying to her for so long.

Mare still doesn't reveal that Maven ran, and instead growls that if Cal's trying to bring her back, it won't work, because she's not getting her family killed with her.

And she sure as hell isn't trusting the person who screwed her over in the first place.

Those words put a hole in Cal's chest and he turns to whoever is his second in command.

"Open fire."

The poor bastard doesn't get a chance to do anything because Mare brings the plane(I think it's a Snap Dragon?) down, and blue flames fly out and drive away most of the Silvers.

Turns out Maven didn't run far at all, and instead gestures for Mare to run for the cliffside, which she does.

Mare and Maven cover themselves and each other, even as Cal says, 'fuck it,' and gives chase, the boys engage in a firefight from a distance.

Before things can get serious, Mare and Maven make it the cliffside and jump, Cal shouting that they can't run or hide forever. They will be found, and they will pay for their crimes, one way or another, regardless of their rank or the color of their blood. Even if Cal has to be the one to find them and execute them, they will face justice.

Mare and Maven find themselves in the submarine like before and Maven is made to stick around because no one wants to go looking for him, should he decide to run off and get lost.

It's here that Maven expresses that if Cal's hunting them, then they're all on borrowed time, 'them' being him, Mare, the Scarlet Guard, and any Newbloods Elara bothered to remember.

While he gets patched up, Shade asks why that's such a big deal, seeing as how they managed to get away.

Maven makes it clear: Cal does not know how to sit still. He's a hunter, a GOOD hunter. He'll solve problems with action, not words. He has an entire legion at his command, too, and both Samos children on his side.

And Cal can't think for himself to save his life. Most of his decisions come from someone else.

And guess who decided that Mare, Maven, and the Guard need to be erased?

It paints a clear picture for everyone, and Farley asks Mare to think about the Newbloods and try to remember any specific names, or pick out someone they need to pick up before leaving.

Mare doesn't have too long to think because they arrive at Tuck.

It's raining and pouring, but the group still gets to the surface, where Mare reunites with Bree. (Hooray!)

And Maven is captured by the Colonel.

Unlike before, there is and isn't a rush to find the Newbloods, there is because Elara and Tibe can pull the names of on a computer, print a list, and have them all killed, but there isn't because they need to look through the blood base to find the names, which will probably take a while because no Silver ever pays a Red any mind.

Mare still wants to go and talks Shade, Farley, Kilorn into helping, but also stipulates that she needs to bring Maven with, because he knows the most as a Silver she doesn't trust him in his own(Sure, good cover).

They're agaunst the idea, but Kilorn caves and helps her get Maven out.

Speaking of Maven, what's he been doing? Simple. Trying to find a way out without going inside. Elara's in his head and he can't get her to leave.

He's been in his cell for a few days, but has been more cooperative than Cal, turning his back to eat, not beating his knuckles bloody, and even trying to rearrange so he doesn't absolutely lose it.

He's chilling against the wall when Mare and Kilorn come in, and he's so excited to see BOTH of them for a change.

Neither really notice how the acrylic is scuffed up.

At least until Kilorn throws Mare in and locks them both inside of the cell.

They're left anger and unhappy and, after some back and forth, Mare asks what Maven about Tuck.

He admits he doesn't know much; geography was more up Cal's league, but Mare doesn't have Cal with her, she has Maven, and he apologizes for not being what or who she wants.

Mare doesn't respond and they remain silent for up to a few days.

In one of those days, Maven has a really bad phantom Elara headache, and from all the stress of what's happened.

While they sit across from each other, Mare against one wall and Maven against the other, Maven cluthes his head and screams until he runs out of breath, which he catches before screaming again.

Mare, out of curiosity and having similar feelings, after realizing what she said to Cal and how she's in over her head, joins him.

It feels good to get it out, so she keeps going.

Both scream until they're sick of it and sit back against the wall, sitting side by side.

They're met up by the Colonel, who comments in both the layout of the room and literally screaming matching before cutting to the trace.

The crown prince made an offer they can't refuse: one of the traitors for the removal of the measures as a whole. It doesn't matter which one, they just need one of them alive, and the Colonel wants to keep Mare around, for the sake of the 'Newbloods' Julien told her about.

Maven, not exactly buying it, asks why they only need ONE of them when both would be more valuable.

The Colonel warns him not to get cocky, but Maven pieces it together:

The COLONEL offered one in return for both, seeing as how both Mare and Maven have seen the list. All Elara really needs is one of them, and then she, Tibe, and Cal have access to find and hunt down the Newbloods. After that, they'll probably kill him.

Maven, understanding there's no real way he's getting out of this(if he refuses, Mare's getting sent to them instead, and then he'll have to deal with the fact he got her killed and her grieving friend and family), asks when he'll be leaving.

The Colonel nods and states whenever the jet is ready. Just as he leaves to let Maven and Mare say goodbye, he tells Maven that enough men and women have been killed, so with his death, at least he'll stop children from following.

Maven and Mare watch him leave.

Only to see him fall back.

Kilorn has returned with Farley and Shade in toe, Farley holding up a set of keys to the cell.

Like before, they leave via the Black Run, but this time it's Farley that has to pilot because Cal's not around in this timeline- I mean, AU.😁

Also like before, after some discourse from Kilorn and and maybe teasing from Shade(because he calls Maven the 'little prince' to be harmless), they find Nix Marsten, and if he beat the daylights out of Cal, he beats THE EVER AND NEVER LOVING SHIT OUT OF MAVEN.

Did he lead his daughters to their deaths? No.

Was he there with Cal when it was planned that they take a legion across a river/waterfall? Yes.

Was he known for instilling a little bit of reasoning in Cal? Yes.

Did he do that when Cal made the decision to cross a waterfall to fight an enemy force? No.

Maven is incredibly guilty, having been a few people behind when he saw the girls went over the falls, screaming, sputtering, and crying for someone to help them even when they went over the edge and screamed most of the way down.

He says that he knows it's useless, but he's too sorry for words. Too many Reds have died and soon Newbloods like Nix, Mare, and Shade will follow, if they don't hurry.

Nix, reluctant, goes with them, but asks firmly that Maven be kept the HELL away from him.

With Cal, Tibe, and Elara, the Queen is led to the Silent Stone cells, where Cal is sitting.

She asks the Sentinel to leave them, and he does, before asking Cal why he can't follow simple orders, for a General?

Cal snaps that he DID follow those orders. He just didn't retriwve Mare and Maven because Mare threw a plane at them and he and Maven had a firefight before they escaped.

And it was not his fault there was a submarine there and that it was on a cliffside.

Elara laughs out and tells him that he'd better be able to explain that to his father, because he's just about ready to kill him, Mare, and Maven himself.

Cal gives a laugh, asking if she'd like that to happen, seeing as how that was her plan.

Elara takes a breath and warns Cal that if it weren't for the Silent Stone, she would have disposed of him the same way she did with Coriane; in her own words, "the weak bitch stole the crown from me once, and I won't let her bastard take it again."

Cal asks when he's getting executed, but Elara smirks.

No need, because they found Maven and Mare, and Tibe, who loves Coriane's son SO much, is sparing him for Maven, who's getting thrown to Volo Samos and Rem Rhambos.

After that, she'll scramble his brains with a fork until he's more broken than both his parents put together, regardless of his place as the crown prince of Norta; this ain't The Folk of The Air, people. She can marry and ally to whomever, but ELARA is going to rule Norta and will make the Lakelands and the other countries surrounding Norta kowtow to her will.

Cal watches her leave, nervous for himself, but more concerned for Maven.

Well, at least he hears, "WHY IS EVERYONE SO USELESS LATELY!?" down the hall.

Elara returns and Cal makes a suggestion to where Maven and Mare are going, for it's population amd the fact Elara hates the place in general:

Harbor Bay.

And he has a way to bring Mare back, one he made a while back.

And Part 2 is going to need a Part 2 because this is going to be longer than I thought😅

#red queen #swap au #mare barrow #maven calore #mareven #healthy mareven #tiberias calore vii #cal calore #elara merandus #slight violence tw #death mention tw #shade barrow

[averykedavra]

What the absolute fuck posessed you to bring system discourse to your dash.

...okay, I didn’t know how to answer this at first? And I’ve thought about it for a while, and I still kinda don’t, because I really have no idea what you’re trying to say. I’m not sure what your complaint is, I’m not sure what your position is, and I’m just not sure how to respond.

I don’t want to get defensive either--since you could be speaking from a good perspective--and I don’t want to shut you down. So I’m gonna take this at face value and answer your question: why did I post about system issues?

Simplest answer: because it’s an issue in this fandom! Ableism is rampant everywhere, but with TSS, there’s a special problem surrounding misinterpretations of DID. Many systems have talked about this before, including the harm it causes, and it’s a running issue that still hasn’t been resolved. If there’s a fandom issue, I want to share it, simple as that.

And for this one, I did decide to make my own post. I figured it might get more traction, I was pretty confident in the content of the post (as I said, many systems have talked abt the ‘host’ issue before, including systems that I know), and I figured it could be a good jumping-off point for systems to add on and talk about the situation in more detail! And from my perspective, anyway, it seemed to do okay.

Yes, I’m a singlet. I'm never the first person that anyone should listen to when it comes to issues about systems. However, I have somewhat of a platform in this fandom, and I always try to use that to uplift and support minorities. I do my best to listen to, and spread, criticism of this fandom. Problems won’t go away if I ignore them. Instead, they’ll just become more rampant because of my denial, and make this blog--and fandom--a more harmful place.

I can’t say my posts are perfect. I can’t say I’m anywhere near perfect, and I’ve done my best to always be open to criticism. And it’s a symptom of a deeper problem that my posts often gain more traction than those actually by the affected groups. But I try to use that to my advantage, by reblogging additions from minorities and spreading their personal information. In a perfect fandom, these posts wouldn’t need to be made. But it isn’t, and they really, really are.

So that’s why I post about this stuff a lot. In this case, I posted about systems, and misinterpretations and ableism that other systems have called out. It seemed to go okay from my perspective, but of course that doesn’t mean that there wasn’t something I did wrong, or something harmful that I said. If there was, I will absolutely correct my mistake and work to further understand the issue. I’m a singlet, and I can do my best to be a good ally and supporter, but in the end I’m not the voice that matters.

So, anon, if I did something harmful, I deeply apologize. If you felt as though I was stepping into an area I’m not qualified to talk about, I understand. I hope I made my position and reasoning clear, but I’m open to critique! And that goes for all of this! I’m completely open to hear what you have to say.

But since you didn’t elaborate, I don’t know. I don’t really know what you have an issue with. And your use of the word ‘discourse’ gives me very bad vibes, and makes me consider that your issue isn’t either of the ones above. It makes me wonder if you’ve got an issue with the ‘discourse’ in general.

I’m not accusing you. Again, it’s almost impossible for me to tell what your thoughts are from this ask. But if you think I shouldn’t engage in any discourse? If you think discussions of ableism are discourse? If you think they’re not worth my time? I fully and completely disagree with you.

This fandom has problems. One of the problems, ironically, is not wanting to talk about the problems--this belief that by seeing the fandom as anything less than pure, you’re condemning the whole thing. Which isn’t true. I love this fandom to death. And it’s got problems, lots of them, and it has ableism.

Ableism, which isn’t discourse. Ableism, which hurts people in and out of fandom. Ableism, which shows up in headcanons and fanfiction and people shutting down complaints with rude anon asks similar to yours. And again, I’m not attacking you, anon. I don’t know if this is where you’re coming from. But you didn’t clarify, and I’m left to make assumptions.

This fandom has problems. They will not disappear if we ignore them. They will not disappear if only the victims are left to point them out. They will not disappear if we do not uplift the victims’ voices and listen to them. I do not want to be silent, because my silence can equal complicity, can contribute to an unsafe place for people who just want to have fun.

So really, that’s my answer, my TL:DR. Why did I fill my dash with system ‘discourse’? Because it’s something that’s hurting people. Something that needs to be talked about. And if I post about it, it can lead to other people speaking out, and then I can learn from them. I’ve already learned a lot today! And I’m continuing to learn.

So. If your issue with me is that I’ve talked about a fandom problem, you, uh, might wanna find another blog there, pal.

And maybe it’s unfair to assume! But you didn’t give me much to go off of. Anon, I don’t know why you asked this question. And I’d genuinely love to know why! If I’ve done something harmful or ignorant, I’d like to know. If I stepped out of line, I’d like to know. If you have something else to say, I’d love to hear it.

I’m genuinely asking for you to send me another ask. Or reblog this post, or DM me, if that makes you more comfortable. Other people are welcome to do the same! There’s no pressure on you, or anyone, to talk to me. But if you’re up for it, I’d love to hear an elaboration, and I’d love to hear what you have to say. A conversation about this would be great, because right now, I’m left in the dark.

And if I missed something in your ask, I apologize! If I said anything insensitive or harmful within this post, I apologize. As always, I encourage correction and clarification. And I encourage you to reach out to me again, anon, if you can. I’ve made my position clear. Now I’d like to hear yours.

Sorry for the long ramble, but sometimes short questions get long answers!

#so yeah i didn't know what to do with this ask and i would rly welcome an explanation #and sorry for the lengthhh i get carried away too much #tw long post #asks and answers #fandom problems #tw ableism #anon #again nobody is obligated to tell me anything? #but i would rly appreciate any input that anyone has! #especially from u anon!! #come back i'm not scary i'd just like to understand! #long post

[bayern-moni]

On the scale of 0-10, how much do you want to kick Madara's ass, Mito?

Mito: It goes between 7/10 in normal circumstances to 1000/10 when he purposely behaves like a scassapalle ( = pain in the ass but not quite that exactly).

Sometimes, I do want to kick his ass because it seems to be the only thing able to stop him from being too unnecessarily contrarious just for the sake of it, in a self-(and others)destructive way. Because, sometimes, Madara isn't able to see his own bullshit if nobody points it out to him, but unfortunately the only way Madara'd let himself listen to others' reason is if that person is able to beat it into him.

So be it, I'm fine with it and he is too. We made this deal and that's the start of our friendship, did you know?

So, I don't really want to kick Madara's ass per se, most of the time, even though he IS aggravating more often than what it's healthy. And grumpy, and rude, jumpy, spiteful, unforgiving, paranoid old-born man. Although his discretion, sarcastic spite and no-bullshit attitude can even be useful and entertaining when directed to the right people (and when you know how to channel him into them to prevent him from spiraling into even more twisted dramatics than those you're trying to run from). The point I'm trying to make is: you learn to handle a fight-or-fight, cornered and blunt cat and you'll know how to deal with Madara. So, I managed to reach a mutually respectful relationship with him, in spite of everything, because when he's not being ... well, himself, he's a very intelligent man and I enjoy our conversations. Although I really did want to kick his ass when I had no choice but to seal the Kyuubi into myself to help Hashirama in the Valley of the End. Because, only because HE thought that bringing a fucking Bijou at the edge of the village in order to fight Hashirama was a good idea, it does not mean that it is one. It wasn't. Not in the least, it was unnecessary and dramatic, even by his standards. I made peace with the fact I'm the first jinchuriki in Konoha early, so it's less of a big deal than it could have been, but still.

Paradoxically, I have to admit that the moments when I find him most annoying are those when he isn't even there. I'm talking about my own husband's apparent obsession with him and the (too many, if you ask me) times he just can't seem to be able to shut up about him. He told me the river story so many times I'm sure I could recite it in my sleep. I'm starting to feel like I'll be better off asking for a divorce and leave Hashirama to him out of spite. I'm sure my sanity would thank me if I did, but unfortunately I love Hashirama very much so I won't. Madara'd send him back to me within a day when the urge to strangle him for his overbearing attitude becomes too much, anyway, so it wouldn't even be a problem. In fact complaining about Hashirama's obnoxious antics with Madara is always funny, when I hear of people thinking that Hashi is a cause of contention/dislike between us I think it's just plain stupid, it's not like that at all. I know that Hashirama loves me, like he loves his brother, even Madara in a sense as well as the village.

But sometimes I feel as if all the years he spent associating his idea of peace with the alliance with the Uchiha, consequently his unwavering conviction that the only way he could achieve both was to necessarily bind Madara, the Uchiha clanhead, back to their old bond whatever it took (because it wasn't broken it was still there no matter what anyone thought it still was a gift from the divine) made him come to unconsciously link in his mind the very village's hopes of stability with Madara's own very ill-balanced stability and good will towards it.

In Hashirama's world, if Madara is pacified and he doesn't disrupt the village's armony for any reason, then the village will be fine, but the opposite is also true. Village is peace, peace is the dream, the village is the(ir?) dream (transitive property is the key here), but there's a sour, dissonant note: that's a very dangerous, unstable line of thinking, for all of us, himself and Madara included.

Because, differently from what Hashirama thinks, in Madara's vision, himself and that dream no longer coincide since when their bond was severed and it awakened his Sharingan at the river as a consequence. Their very definitions of that dream differed at the root. The mechanism stopped working, the gears need to be rearranged, not to be seen as the same as before, in order to keep working together. He's not the same as when they were little anymore and it isn't even only about Izuna's death but Madara himself. In fact it started before that, Izuna's death is one of the aggravating factors, not the trigger. Hashirama deep down knows it but he vehemently insists on ignoring it with all his might and that's what is deepening the fracture between them.

Hashirama refuses to see Madara for what he is but he wants to see only the kid he met at the river, because that kid is the one who gave Hashirama the confidence that his dream was possible. He still, genuinely, stubbornly believes that that kid still exists somewhere, because he must exist, because if Madara still believes in their village and keeps on giving him that confidence (that is, if Madara still behaves with Hashirama like that kid would, even while slowly breaking beyond repair on the inside), then eventually all will be fine and everything will adjust itself given enough time and hope. But when he doesn't, Hashirama becomes nearly paranoid and desperately tries whatever he can think of in the hope of tying Madara to their dream of the village again, this time possibly forever and indefinitely: calling him his brother (as if for Madara their real brothers weren't the only real bond while theirs is a breaking thread next to a fine but now forever severed cloth); nudging him to see Konoha villagers as they were his new family now that he lost his own (well knowing what kind of visceral bond that'd be if it were completed given that Madara is involved); giving him hope that he could be Hokage, a hope Hashirama didn't know it'd be crushed and burned to the roots by such a public humiliation. The worst part is that Hashirama doesn't even seem to be aware of half of these psychological issues of his. However, that's the person Hashirama sees, not the real Madara, never his adult, despairing, fierce-but-borderline-suicidal version. And Madara knows it, he resents it and will keep to silently poison himself with that knowledge in total, stubborn solitude until it will inevitably make him rot to the bone and erase the rest of the world with him. All of this while seeing all the underlying not-yet-born-but-still-there faults in the village's very system and Hashirama's rule! But, instead of just saying it so we can try to limit the damage, he just keeps them for himself as the indisputable proof of how the whole system is doomed to failure. To be honest, I do know why he doesn't talk, though, and that's because nobody'd listen to what is only considered an unstable, belligerent madman's apocalyptic words, no matter how prophetic they'll reveal themselves to be in the years. These are still other big reasons why I want to kick his ass, though, and I suspect that he knows. Count another reason, then.

They are just... Ahrg. Just talk, guys, like the mature people you ARE supposed to be but will never be. You understand that I'm in the middle of that, don't you? It gives me a massive headache on a good day and lately more often than not they make it a shitty day. I'm tired of constantly having to listen to Hashirama complaining about Madara this, Madara that, just because they're not sincere enough to just TALK and settle their differences within the limits of what it's actually possible, and because they don't talk about it (and when they do it seems like they are threading through two or three different discourses at the same time that nothing have to do with the problem at hand) they will never understand each other like they clearly need to and then we have to solve all the problems their bullshit leaves behind.

I'm not saying that they could resolve those problems by just talking, because they are too big for only the two of them and they often involve how something like world peace should be achieved. So, you understand why they'll never see eye to eye on that. But talking could be a start.

Mine feels like a full-time, underpaid and overly frustrating, babysitting job. Sometimes, I just want to kick both of their asses for being purposely (Madara) and unconsciously (Hashirama) difficult.

Sorry for my ramblings, but as a woman, a kunoichi and a wife I needed to vent a bit and too few people ask for my opinion nowadays, our self-appointed author first and foremost.

P. S.: I do want to kick his ass when he steals my hairpins out of spite after I have beaten him and Tobirama at shogi. 8/10, then.

For @dinainwater

It definitely got out of hand in the end 🤣 Rambling has always been a problem for me and rarely I manage to actually restrain myself, but I promise eventual next answers won't be this long. So, I hope it hasn't bored you (?) 😅. But I felt like Mito needed to make her opinion matter, so it was worth!

(If the reasoning explained above seemed twisted and unnecessarily difficult, it's because those two have a deeply unhealthy relationship)

However, thank you for your ask like always and I hope you enjoyed it 😁 whatever other question is always welcomed, don't worry 😊

*

#naruto shippuden #character meme #mito #mito uzumaki #madara uchiha #hashirama senju #tobirama senju #ask #ask me anything

[mldrgrl]

Safety in Numbers

by: mldrgrl Rating: R Summary: The Hanella in quarantine fic some of you have been waiting so patiently for.

It happens so quickly and it’s shocking, even if she suspected it might happen.  Overnight, everything just stops.  An emergency conference call is held and just like that, she’s teaching in a virtual classroom and toilet paper is suddenly one of her biggest concerns.  And the nightmares come, stealing her sleep and leaving her restless.  It’s only been a week.

Unable to sit still to give a lecture, she creates a station for herself on the butcher’s block in the kitchen area.  If her students only knew the things that had happened on that butcher’s block, but she could say that about nearly every wall and surface of the loft.  They’d probably never imagine she was capable, not in a million years.  She’s heard stories of other classrooms turning this new landscape they were in into entertainment - wearing silly hats, creating silly backgrounds on their screens, wearing pajamas - but not her.  She makes it clear from day one, criminology is a serious study and they are to treat it as such.

She’s just ended a discourse on crime scene containment when Hank emerges from the bedroom.  He hasn’t showered or shaved yet, even though it’s noon and she knows he’s been up writing since before she began her lecture.  His eyes are squinted and his lip is curled up as though he’s just eaten something distasteful.

“What timing,” Stella says, closing the lid of her laptop.

“Yeah, I…”  Hank pauses and rubs the back of his head so that his hair spikes up.  “Uh…”

“Something the matter, Watson?”

“Karen just called me.”

Stella is immediately awash with concern.  “Everything alright?  Is someone ill?”

“I don’t know.  She wants you to call her.  Said she would’ve actually called you herself, but she wasn’t sure of your teaching schedule and didn’t want to interrupt.”  

“I’ll ring her now.  Any idea what it’s about?”

“None.  She assured me no one was dying, but that it was important.  I’ve been climbing the walls in the room waiting until your class was over.”

“Well, you were quite prompt.”  Stella crosses the room to the coffee table where her mobile is charging.  She unplugs it and unlocks the screen.  She pulls up Karen’s contact card and initiates the call.

“Oh good,” Karen answers immediately.  “Hank told you I called.”

“Yes, he’s pacing the room like a caged animal.  Do you mind if I put you on speaker?”

“Please, I want to run something by the both of you, actually.”

“Alright.”  Stella sits down on the sectional sofa and puts the call on speaker.  She holds the phone in her palm and points it towards Hank who’s biting his thumbnail and shuffling back and forth along the other side of the coffee table.

“I’ve been trying to get Becca to come up here once this whole quarantining, shelter-in-place thing started happening.”

“We tried as well,” Stella says.

“I know.  And I totally get that she’s an adult and has her own life and all that, but she finally agreed this morning.”

“That’s wonderful.”  Stella glances up at Hank.  “It’s been a concern for us.”

“Well, what I was thinking is that you guys should come up too.”

“Us?”

“What do you mean?” Hank asks.

“I mean, you should come stay in the guest house.”

“That’s a very generous offer-” Stella starts, but she’s interrupted.

“I’m worried about the two of you as much as Becca,” Karen says.  “Have you been outside at all?  Can you even go outside?”

“Not since Hank’s birthday, actually.”

“See.  You guys can be here and Becca will be here and then we won’t have to worry about you.  Stella, Fish said he’ll set you up in his office for your classes.  He’s turning the garage into a studio anyway and isn’t even using it.”

There was muffled shouting in the background.

“And he says the barbeque is ready,” Karen adds.  Hank rolls his eyes in response.

“I think it’s something we’d need to discuss,” Stella says.  “This isn’t likely to last just days or weeks.  We’re looking at months.  It’s possible travel even between states could be restricted.”

“Exactly,” Karen says.  “That’s even more reason why you should come.  If it gets that bad, you may not be able to get here.”

When, Stella thinks.  Not if.

“When are you picking Becca up?” Hank asks.

“Saturday.  Probably mid-morning.  We can just pop over after that and grab you two before heading back.”

“You’ve certainly given us something to consider,” Stella says.  “We’ll have a chat about it and get back with you.”

“I just really think you guys should be with family, you know?”

It’s that statement that tightens Stella’s chest.  She’s been without a proverbial family for most of her life and still lacks experience with feeling accountable to another person, let alone others.  But, she does feel accountable now and though she’d like to write Karen’s offer off as being a polite, albeit meaningless request, she knows it’s not.

They have a few more minutes of lighter conversation and then they hang up with Stella promising they’ll seriously consider Karen’s offer and get back with her.  There’s a few moments of silence after Stella disconnects the call and she watches Hank.  He’d slumped down on the sofa before they’d hung up and began chewing the inside of his cheek and staring out the window.

“Thoughts?” Stella asks.

“I don’t even know what to fucking think right now.”

“Are you inclined to say no?”

“Are you inclined to say yes?”

“I’m not inclined to say anything until we discuss it.”

“You didn’t think it was weird?”

“No more strange than being invited for weekends, really.  And we’ve certainly done that.”

“So you want to go?”

“I’m merely positing that I don’t believe it was a strange or disingenuous offer.”

“I wonder how she wore Becca down.”

Stella shrugs and then slumps back beside Hank.  “I’m glad she’s going.  It’s a better place for her to be instead of cooped up in her flat all alone.  Or here, really, where privacy would be limited.”

“And what if something does happen, like Karen said?  How would we get there.”

“That may not be an option.”

Just as Stella drops a gentle hand on Hank’s knee, he jumps up from the couch and begins to pace again.  She folds her hands over her lap to give him the time he clearly needs to put together his thoughts.

“I can’t fucking believe I’m living in a world where I have to consider moving in with my ex and the guy she’s shacking up with.”

“And your wife.”

“I mean ‘I’ like the royal ‘we.’  There is no ‘I,’ there’s only we.  Us.  Whatever.  You know what I fucking mean.”

“So then we’ll not consider it.  It sounds as though you’ve made up your mind about it already anyway.”

“Feel free to chime in with your thoughts at any time.”  He puts his hands together as if in prayer and bows towards her slightly.  “This feels like a rather one-sided discussion.”

“I could think of dozens of reasons to stay, but weigh that against one very good reason to go and, well...”

“Becca?” Hank asks.

“I know what it’s meant to you growing closer to her since we’ve been back.  It’s actually meant something to me as well.  And, I think I have an idea of what it might be like for you to go from seeing her so often to not at all, with no idea when the next time may be.”

Hank puts his hands to his face and pulls his skin down as he rubs at his cheeks and forehead.  

“What has your knickers all in a twist over this, Watson?” she asks.  “It’s only an offer and we can respectfully decline.”

“I don’t know.”  He shakes his head and drops his hands.  “I just...Karen and I were together for a long time and we’ve been through a lot of shit together.  I love her, but there are times...I suddenly remember how much I fucking resent her and the chain events she started.  And I realize that might sound like...I mean, it doesn’t account for the actual contentment and happiness I have at this time in my life.  I just can’t fucking forget sometimes.  It’s easier to do that when we’re apart.”

Stella is not a coddler by nature.  Offering comfort isn’t something that comes naturally or easy for her, but there are times when the inclination to soothe comes over her.  She stands and takes the few steps necessary to reach Hank.  First she takes him by the hips and then slides her hands up to his chest and then over his shoulders to link her fingers behind his neck.

“Are you thinking you’re sorry you married such a pussyass bitch?” Hank asks.

“Strange as it sounds, I was actually thinking about how much I love you,” she answers.  

“Stop it, Sherlock, you’ll make me cry.”

She pinches his nape lightly.  “Don’t be such a pussyass bitch.”

“And suddenly I’m very turned on.”

“You’re always turned on.”

“Pot.  Kettle.  Black.”

She shrugs.  “I’m not going to give Karen an answer until tomorrow.  I want you to think very hard about what you want to do because it’s not something we can change our minds on.”

“Do you want to go, Sherlock?”

“I told you, I can think of one very good reason to go and many reasons not to.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said, but I feel like that’s an ambiguous answer.  Do you want to go?”

Stella loosens her fingers at Hank’s neck and let’s her hands slide back to his shoulders.  She isn’t quite sure how to express the depth of the anxiety she feels about the situation to Hank or how hard she’s fought to suppress it.  The pages of her dream journal are rapidly being filled though.

“I think,” she says.  “For once, I might like to escape from danger instead of staring down the barrel at it.”

*****

They have one more discussion about Karen’s offer and though Hank still seems torn about what to do, he tells Stella he thinks they should go and asks if she’ll call Karen.  Before she can even grab her phone, he goes up to the roof and so she places the call by herself.  Karen is thrilled.  Stella can feel her elation through the phone, if that’s possible.

“This is so great,” Karen says.  “Bring whatever you need and even if you forget something, I’m sure we’ll have it.  Or we can get it.  You don’t have to worry about anything.  You know, honestly, I expected to have to sell you guys even harder than I did Becca.  I’m so relieved.”

“How did you manage to convince Becca to come up and stay?  She seemed very adamant about remaining on her own when we spoke with her.”

“I think I opened her eyes a little to how isolated she might be.  I also may have shamelessly reminded her that the pool was heated and all her meals and laundry would be taken care of, which was going to be my next tactic with you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.  Well…”  Stella hesitates for a moment.  “Actually, I feel I should warn you that I’m rubbish in the kitchen.  We always order out.”

Karen laughs.  “Well, then you’re coming to the right place, honey.  I love to cook, and it’s way more fun when it’s for more than two.  Or three.”

“My fear is that you’ll tire of us.  I don’t want to be an added burden in any way.”

“Hank, maybe.  You, never.”  Karen laughs again.  “And, honestly, if Hank and I start to piss each other off, it never lasts long.”

“His fear is that the two of you might quarrel.”

“He does get on my last fucking nerve sometimes, but it’s been a really long time since we’ve sworn we’d hate each other for the rest of our lives.  A lot has changed since then.  For the better, obviously.”

“You sound quite certain.”

“The only thing I’m certain of is that if we haven’t killed each other by now, we probably won’t.”

“I do suppose the odds are favorable in that respect.”

“Listen, I want you guys here, I really do.  Maybe I’m being silly or overreacting to this, but I think if we can be together during this, we should.  I think we’ve talked about this a little before, but Hank and Becca, they just function better when they remain in each other’s orbit.”

“Yes, I agree.”

“So, I think this is really in the best interest of all of us to do this.  I know what I’m like when I’m crazy worried about Becca and I know what Hank is like.  But, then it’s you and Fish that have to suffer for it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it suffering.”

“But, you know what I mean.”

“I’ve never been a parent-”

“Bull shit, Stella.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s bull shit.  You might have come around later in her life, but you’re a Mom to Becca.  Don’t worry, I’m not one of those women who can’t deal with the idea of their kid having an extra parent.  I only wish you would’ve been here sooner.”

Stella blinks, stunned into a sudden silence.  Her throat tightens a little and her nose stings with the onset of tears, but she swallows them back and takes a calming breath.

“I was going to say that I’ve never been a parent, but having had Becca in my life for these past few years, I can understand the inclination to want to protect and prioritize one’s child.”

“I know you understand.  That’s why we’re all so lucky to have you.”

“Thank you for that, I…”  Stella stops and pinches away the burning sense of emotion between her brows.  “I feel as though I’m the lucky one.”

“Let’s call it mutual.”

“We can do that.”

“And honestly, one of the selling points for getting Becca to come up was that I told her I’d have the two of you on board as well.  You can’t make a liar of me.”

“No, I suppose we can’t.”

“Okay, so we’ll see you guys on Saturday.  I’ll call when we’re leaving Becca’s.  Everything will be perfectly fine, I promise.”

“Alright.  We’ll see you soon.”

Stella hangs up the phone and then sits quietly for a few minutes before she goes up to the roof to find Hank.  The sun has gone down and grey twilight has set in.  Though it was an unusually warm day, it’s gone a bit chilly.  She pulls her thin silk robe a little tighter and crosses her arms over each other for warmth.  Hank is reclining in one of the lounge chairs, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Did you tell Karen the happy news?” he asks.

“I did.  She was very pleased.”

“Mm.”

“I don’t think there will be anything to worry about.”

“No?”

“No.”  Stella straddles Hank’s lap over the lounge chair and sits on his thighs.  He puts one hand on her hip and takes a sip of his whiskey.

“The world is so fucking weird right now,” he says.  “I don’t know how to comprehend it.”

“No one does, I’m sure.”

“Even you, Sherlock?”

“Even me.”

He tips his head back to look at her and brushes the hem of her robe aside to slide his hand up the outside of her thigh.  They gaze at each other for a long while, he rubbing the top of her thigh and she plucking mindlessly at the black t-shirt covering his chest.  Her robe slips down her shoulder a little and he reaches up as though he’s going to slide it back in place, but instead he caresses the back of her arm and pets the strap of her tank top with the back of his hand.  Eventually, he sets his whiskey glass down on the little table next to the lounge and unties the knot holding her robe closed.

“Still fantasize about fucking on the roof?” he asks.

“It was never a fantasy, just a fleeting thought.”

“Is it crossing your mind right now?”

“It might be.”

“It’s definitely crossing mine.”

“I can tell.”  

She reaches down to cup the rigid bulge straining the fly of his jeans.  He grunts slightly and rubs the strip of skin showing below her navel with his thumb, between the loose edge of her tank top and lace edge of her panties.  Her skin becomes rippled with gooseflesh.  Within seconds, she’s swollen and pulses with arousal.  

Deftly, Stella pushes the buttons free along the fly of Hank’s jeans, from top to bottom.  He adjusts his hips as she brings him out into the closed heat of her fist.  It doesn’t take but a few strokes and strategic swirls of her thumb to have him panting and groaning under her.  

“Quiet,” she whispers, leaning close enough so she can flick her tongue out and catch his bottom lip.

“Make me,” he murmurs.  

She strokes him a little harder and then stops to raise up onto her knees.  Still gripping him tightly, she hooks her panties to the side and sinks down in one swift motion.  If he misses any extended foreplay, he doesn’t show it.  It’s a shut up and fuck me moment for her where all she wants and needs is his cock inside of her at just the right angle and she can handle the rest.  And he knows her well enough by now to know when to lay back and enjoy the ride.  She’ll make it up to him later by letting him fondle her in the shower, perhaps surprising him by requesting he wash her back, and then her front.  

For the most part, Hank just holds onto the flare of Stella’s hips and lets her set the pace.  She grips his shoulders and uses them for leverage to lift up, to arch her back, to roll her pelvis forward, and then to relax her thighs and do it all again.  They both know, from time and experience, just how quick and effective this particular move is for both of them.

“So fucking good,” he purrs.  He reaches up and grips Stella’s hair at the back of her head and pulls her down for a brief, but deep kiss.  She sinks her teeth into his bottom lip before she pulls away.  He licks the sting of it away.

When his little grunts of pleasure and encouragement grow too loud, she slaps her hand over his mouth and slips two fingers inside.  He bites down lightly and slips his tongue along the seam between her fingers, and she burns just a little more painfully with desire for him.

“Come on,” she says, slipping her hand down from his shoulder to root out his nipple over his shirt.  When she finds the taut little pebble, she gives it a tweak between her thumb and forefinger, grinding her pubic bone down against his as she does.  

Hank gives a muffled cry from under her hand and his hips jerk up.  The muscles in his neck strain when she does it again and his fingers dig roughly into her ass as he holds her in place.  She squeezes him boneless and moves his hand out of the way as he tries to help bring her over the edge to do it herself.  When the tension finally breaks and she splits apart with a terrible tremble, she gives a long moan of relief and then slowly brings herself down to rest against Hank’s chest.  He puts his arms around her and his chin on her shoulder.

“You’re all that makes sense to me right now, Sherlock” he says.

She doesn’t answer, but she finds the spot on the left side of his chest where she can feel his heart beating and presses her lips to it.

******

Saturday afternoon, they’re packed and ready.  Stella took the lead on preparation, experienced in planning for extended time away from home.  Becca and Karen’s arrival is awkward as no one quite knows what the protocol is for both reuniting and remaining distant at the same time.  They’ve talked about keeping cautious for the first week or so and keeping masks and gloves on for safety.

The ride up to Connecticut is gloomy.  It’s drizzled off and on for a few days and today it finally culminates into a steady downpour.  No one knows quite what to say, and even Hank, who normally can’t tolerate silence, doesn’t say much.  When they arrive, they take their bags out to the guesthouse which has been transformed once again with a nautical theme.  The last time they were there, at Christmas, it had a distinctly rustic flare.

“I’m seasick just looking at it,” Hank says, pulling his mask free from his ears.  “I might vomit.”

“The accent wall is a lovely shade of blue.”

“Tell me again we made the right choice.”

“We made the right choice.”

“And this will all work out.”

“It’s going to work out.”

“I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, none can compare.”

“I’m the best sex you’ve ever had,” she parrots.  “None can compare.”

“Smartass.”

“You walked right into that one.”

******

The first week feels endless and strange.  Stella has to utilize the upstairs office in the main house for her lectures and they all gather for dinners outside on the patio, but conversation is stilted and there is tension in the air.

It’s quickly apparent that the situation has brought underlying anxieties to the surface.  Stella’s strange dreams start to bring on episodes of sleep paralysis, something she hasn’t dealt with in some years.  Hank also seems to cling to her more tightly and for longer periods of time when they go to bed.  He doesn’t even try to initiate sex, prefering to hold her than fuck her.  It would bother her, but she also discovers something about herself that gives her pause and makes her re-evaluate her stance on cuddling: when faced with the reality that she is now in the same room on a daily basis as the people she loves most in the world, but is simply not able to embrace them, the ache it brings puts the importance of touch into perspective.  And if she’s feeling this way, she knows it’s exponentially worse for Hank.

Her birthday approaches and she asks Hank to please not mention it, to please make sure it comes and goes without acknowledgment.  Aside from waking that morning with Hank’s face between her thighs and the double chocolate brownies that are served after dinner, it passes unnoticed.  She’s grateful for that.

As the second week comes to a close, everyone seems to exhale and begin to relax.  The turning point seems to come when Fish unexpectedly asks Hank to come and have a look at the studio he’s been working on.  With Hank occupied, Stella asks Karen if she could help in the kitchen.

“You’ll have to instruct me on what to do,” Stella says.  “And don’t assume I know the difference between dicing and chopping.”

“Lesson one,” Karen answers.  “We start with a glass of wine.”

Thus begins the evening cooking lessons.  Becca joins in when she discovers what they’re doing and the three of them spend those few hours a day drinking and laughing while also trying to give Stella a handle on the basics of simple meal preparation.

“What’s your favorite meal?” Karen asks Stella one evening.  They’ve gathered around the kitchen island, making lists of recipes to try.  Karen is looking everything up on her phone, elbows on the counter.  “Something you love,” she adds.  “But that you wouldn’t think you could make for yourself?”

“Oh, that’s a rather difficult question,” Stella answers, but gives it some thought, sipping her glass of wine.  “It isn’t really a meal, but I do miss the Cornish pasties I used to get from time to time at a shop back in London.”

“Mmhm.”  Karen taps Cornish pasties recipes into Google while Becca looks over her shoulder.

“They look like empanadas,” Becca says.  “Wait, go back, there’s a vegetarian one too.”

“We could totally do these.  Put skirt steak, leeks, and rutabaga on the list.  We’ve got enough onions.  And potatoes.  Check to see if there are any carrots left.”

“How did you first learn to cook?” Stella asks.

“Oh, I don’t know, I was studying all the time and stuck at home with this one,” Karen answers, pointing her thumb back at Becca.  “Hank would be at his typewriter and the noise of it would make me insane so I’d put some music on and look at recipes I’d torn out of pages from magazines.  Not because I cared much about what it was, but because I liked the pictures of them.”

“You were trying to design food when you couldn’t design interiors.”

“Yeah, pretty much.  And then I just decided to actually try some of them.”

“She makes the best spinach ravioli,” Becca says.  “I went through a phase where I would only eat Italian food when I was little.”

“Must be because of the garlic,” Stella adds.

“I do love garlic.”

“I know, your dad told me the story of it once.”

“What story?”

“How you were ill one night as a toddler.”

“I don’t know this story.”  Becca looks from Karen to Stella and then back to Karen again.  “Mom?”

Karen looks slightly confused.  “Yeah, I don’t...I’m not sure what story that is.”

“I’m not going to have all the finer details,” Stella starts, suddenly feeling rather embarrassed for having knowledge of an event that Karen and Becca seem unaware of.  “Your dad was telling me once that he’d been genuinely terrified one night when you were a toddler and you’d had a rather high fever.  A neighbor woman, someone in the building you lived in with many children, came up and used some oils on you, one of which had a strong odor of garlic.”

“Holy shit,” Karen says.  “Yeah, that’s...yeah I do remember that.  Kind of.  Oh god, what was her name.  Melanie, or something close to that.  She used to call Becca ‘Pretty Baby’ all the time.”

“I don’t remember this lady,” Becca says.

“You were really little,” Karen says.  “She also moved out of the building by the time you were two.  But, yeah, she put all this oil on you and this little t-shirt and socks.  It smelled terrible, but it did the trick.  And holy fuck, did you smelled like garlic for a full week.”

“I wonder where she is now.”

“That was always the thing about New York.  People were there one day and then they weren’t.”

This subdues the trio for a few moments.  The current reality is that there are a lot of people who have been there one day and then not there the next, and not just in New York, but everywhere.

“And perhaps that’s why you love garlic,” Stella says softly, finally, breaking the silence that followed.

“Interesting.”  Becca contemplates her glass of wine and drums her fingers against the kitchen counter for a few moments.  “I have some writing to do.”

Karen leans forward and stretches her arms across the kitchen island after Becca leaves and covers one of Stella’s hands with both of hers.  “I love that you know that story,” she says.

“It’s something we used to do back when we were still long-distance.  Tell stories.  Mostly Hank, though.  I’m sure you’re aware that he has a need to fill any silence.”

“That’s an understatement.”  Karen laughs.

“Indeed.”

“Oh god, can you imagine if this had happened while you were still doing long-distance?  Or even when you guys were still in London.”

“No, I really can’t.  It would be…”  Stella can’t even think of a word that’s fitting.  Difficult.  Strange.  Unfathomable.  The thought of it actually makes her feel a bit anxious.  Karen nods and squeezes her hand.

Fish and Hank suddenly emerge from the studio and stroll into the kitchen.  Fish stands just behind Karen and squeezes her hips.  Stella reaches out and takes Hank’s hand in hers and brings his arms around her.

“So, what do you ladies have up your sleeve for tonight?” Fish asks.

“Salads and a cold pasta tonight,” Karen answers.  “We’re going to get experimental next week.”

“I like experiments.  I’ll be whipping up some more marinade tonight for the steaks this weekend.  Where’s Beckster?”

“She wanted to do some writing.”

“I can learn a thing or two about discipline from her,” Hank says.  “That’s exactly what I need to be doing.”

“Go on,” Stella says, patting his arms.  “I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”

Hank kisses the side of Stella’s neck before he leaves.  Karen starts to pull items out of the refrigerator as Fish comes up next to Stella and leans against the kitchen island.

“Your hubs been telling you about his guitar lessons?” Fish asks.

“You’ve been giving him lessons?”

“Refreshing what he already knows.  He’s been helping me teach my group.”

“Has he?”

“He’s gonna duet with one of my kids for the concert comin’ up.”

“Are you still holding that?” Karen asks, lining up mixing bowls along the counter.  “How can you?”

“We’re gonna Zoom it.  That’s how they’re all doing their school now anyway.”

“That’s how I’m doing my lectures as well,” Stella says.

“Well, you ladies are of course invited.  It’s on Saturday, in two weeks.”

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” Karen answers.  “So many places to go right now.  So many plans.”

“Hah!”  Fish comes around to the other side of the island and pinches Karen on the side before giving her a bear hug from behind.  “Funny lady.”

Later that night, after they’ve had dinner and Stella and Hank are lying in bed, she turns to face him and he plays with the strap of her tank top, running his finger over her shoulder to the top of her breast and back.

“I hear you’re playing in a concert in a few weeks,” she says.

“Yeah.  The Trout roped me into that before I knew what was happening.  He’s got me plucking out Blackbird with some 12-year-old.  Supposed to be a confidence booster or something.”

“For you or the kid?”

“He didn’t specify.”  Hank leans over and bites the top of Stella’s shoulder lightly and then rubs the spot with his thumb while he places kisses across her chest to her throat.

“Mm,” she answers.

“Actually,” he says, and pulls away.  “I didn’t know this, but The Trout is like, a gazillionaire.”

“I presumed he was fairly wealthy from his family history.”

“Yeah, but no.  He actually made a shit ton of money on investments after designing some landmark building and so he retired and now he doesn’t have to do anything and his money just makes more money.”

“Why did he retire though?”

“He didn’t like being an architect and just went with the flow of the family business, but he wanted to be a musician.  So he quit and all the lessons he does now, he does it for free with this community program.”

“That’s lovely.”

“I know.  When this whole shitshow started, he actually made sure all the kids he taught for had iPads so they could continue their lessons.  And then because he wants them to still have their spring concert, he’s making sure all their extended families that were going to attend have iPads to watch it.”

“He has a generous soul.”

Hank flops onto his back and blows out a sigh.  “And we’re just sitting here doing fucking nothing.”

“What we’re doing is equally important.”

“What are we doing?”

“Not going out and risking exposure.  For ourselves and for others.”

“It feels like nothing.  Just sitting, doing fuck-all.”

“What would you rather be doing?”

“I have no idea.  I’m barely qualified to exist.”

Stella scoots closer to Hank and drapes her arm over his chest and her leg over his thigh.  He tips his head towards hers and holds onto her wrist as he falls asleep.

*****

In the middle of the third week, Stella is taking attendance at the top of her lecture, as she always does.  She makes note of a student’s absence and starts in on the chapter outline.  At the end of class, she does another attendance check.

“Mr. Diaz, would you please indicate your presence if you’re at today’s lecture.”

A moment of silence passes and then another student’s window comes into her screen.  “Hector tested positive, Professor,” the student tells her.  “He’s in the hospital.”

In her years of training, Stella has conditioned herself to remain emotionally neutral in all varieties of situations.  However, she is out of practice.  She blinks once and then nods slightly, but feels her chin begin to wobble.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says, and pauses for a moment to keep her breathing steady.  “Please be sure to complete the chapter exam prior to Friday’s lecture.  We’ll be starting on new material next week.”

She signs out of her lecture platform to a chorus of ‘yes, Professor.’  After closing her laptop, she places her hands on the lid and breathes deeply.  It’s just like the conversation they were having the other day.  Someone is there one day, and gone the next.  

When she comes downstairs, she finds Hank, Becca, and Fish in the sitting room, tuning guitars.  They’re smiling and laughing about something.  She turns to take the long way around to the side door so they don’t notice her, but runs into Karen in the front room, who asks her to form an opinion on some fabric samples.  She obliges her and then excuses herself under the pretense of needing to review assignments.  

Later in the evening, she musters the enthusiasm to assist Karen and Becca in preparing kebabs for Fish to grill, feigns engagement in the discussion about a Netflix documentary over dinner, helps with the nightly emptying and filling of the dishwasher, and begs off a dessert of sliced fruit to go to bed early.  No one questions her, but she can see the concern on Hank’s face as he looks up at her and kisses the inside of her wrist as she’s leaving.  Karen, too, seems to know that something is amiss, but doesn’t say anything.

Deep into the night, she’s not sure what time it is, but she wakes with Hank breathing hotly against her shoulder.  The ceiling is shimmering with silver light and she has to rub her eyes to see clearly.  She hears a noise, like the soft paddling of a boat on a river.  Carefully, she extricates herself from Hank’s arms and out of bed.  She steps outside and takes the extra time to silently close the door behind her.

The kitchen in the main house is dimly lit with the muted glow of the overhead light above the stove.  She moves towards it almost like a beacon, but stops when she hears the paddling once again and then a soft splash.  Stella blinks into the darkness and is able to make out the silhouette of someone in the pool.

“Karen?” she whispers.

“Oh shit,” Karen whispers back.  “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, I...no.”  Stella steps cautiously towards the pool.  Her eyes are adjusting more to the darkness and she can make out the dark shape of Karen swimming towards her from the opposite side.  She reaches the edge just as Karen does.

“You should come in.”

“I’m not sure where I put my swimsuit.  I’d probably wake Hank trying to find it.”

Karen laughs quietly.  “Who needs a swimsuit?”

“I’ve never skinny dipped before.”

“It’s fantastic.  Especially after midnight.”

“Is that why you’re out here at this hour?”

“Sort of a habit of mine if I can’t sleep.”

“Why can’t you sleep?”

“If I knew, I’d probably be able to sleep.”  Karen suddenly dunks her head underwater and then comes back up and clears the water from her face.  “Come in.  I always bring extra towels down, so don’t worry about that.”

“Alright.”

Stella considers the available options of entering the pool.  She decides to use the stairs in the shallow end and leave her nightclothes on one of the deck chairs nearby.  She undresses with her back to the pool, but doesn’t hesitate to turn around and descend the steps.  Initially bracing herself for a sudden chill, she’s pleasantly surprised that even though she knows it’s heated, it’s still warmer than she was expecting.

As she wades in further, past her knees, past her hips, up to her shoulders, she’s amazed at how different and exhilarating it feels to slip through the water completely bare.  She had no idea the absence of a swimsuit would make such a difference.  Towards the deeper end of the pool, Karen floats silently on her back and Stella glides closer.

“You’re right,” Stella says.  “It is fantastic.”

“Mmhm.”

Doing a half-turn, Stella lays her head back and pulls her legs up before natural buoyancy takes over and she relaxes, floating next to Karen, but in the opposite direction.  There is no moon that she can see, but the longer she stares up into the sky, the more stars appear.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Karen says.  “But, you didn’t seem like yourself at dinner.  Everything okay?”

Stella could easily lie and tell her everything is fine, but even the thought of it feels wrong to her and she doesn’t want to risk putting up walls between herself and Karen.  Not when all she needs to do is share such a small piece of herself.

“No, it isn’t,” Stella says.  “I had a student that was absent from my lecture this afternoon and found out at the end of class that he had tested positive and is in hospital.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I don’t know what the proper thing to do is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking over it all evening.  I’ve been...reflecting on certain experiences in my life.  One in particular, which was quite challenging.”

Stella doesn’t realize she’s drifted so far until she bumps the side of the pool.  She pushes lightly away until she’s back to center.

“What was it?” Karen asks.  “Or, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“One of the last cases I worked as an active investigator was a serial rapist and murderer.  It was extremely taxing for a variety of reasons, but when we had the suspect in custody, he managed to overpower one of the guards and attack me during an interrogation.”

“Jesus!”

“It was vicious and brutal and to put it bluntly, I was severely beaten.”

“Oh my god, Stella.”  Karen finds Stella’s hand in the water and holds it tightly.

“I’m quite alright.  It was many years ago now.”  Stella gives Karen’s hand a reassuring squeeze, but Karen doesn’t let go.

“I had no idea.”

“It’s alright.  The reason it’s been on my mind is because whilst in hospital being treated after the incident, I had a very kind doctor who sat with me because he didn’t like the idea that I was alone.  It occurred to him, but it did not occur to me, that I might need someone.  I had no close friends, no family, no relationship to speak of because I could not and would not let anyone close to me.”

Karen let’s go of Stella’s hand.  The water ripples around them as Karen comes out of her float and treads water beside her.  Stella also comes out of her float and begins to tread water.

“How did you get from there to here?” Karen asks.  

“I’m a work in progress.  Do you know that it took me years just to be able to hold Hank’s hand in public?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Stella breathes deeply and lifts her left hand out of the water to flex her fingers.  Her wedding ring twinkles softly.  “I called Hank, actually,” she says.  “After the case was closed and I returned home, just a few days after being released from the hospital.  I called him.  I didn’t tell him what had happened, I only asked him if he would come to London to see me and he came straight away.”

“That certainly sounds like Hank.”

“We had only met twice before that.  And both times...to be perfectly frank, our only connection was sex.  I asked him to come to London knowing full well there was a strong possibility he would be angry with me for luring him out under false pretenses.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t do that.  And not just because you guys are where you are today, but because I know Hank.”

“I didn’t know him.  Not at that time.  I only knew that I did not want to be alone and he was the only person I could think of that might not judge me for it.”

“Do you know, that’s something that used to piss me off so much about him?  I always felt like he was such a selfish prick because he would drop everything for anyone at any time, no questions asked, regardless of how I felt about it.  But, really, I was the selfish prick because what I really wanted was for his full attention and to make me his only priority.”

“I had to learn how to bth be a priority and to prioritize someone else into my life.”

“The funny thing is, even when I was his only priority, I still wasn’t happy.”  Karen shakes her head suddenly and then dunks herself underwater.  She comes back up, slicking her hair back.  “Let’s come over to where we can stand.  My arms are getting tired.”

Stella follows Karen towards the shallow end of the pool.  Where Karen can stand with the tops of her shoulders exposed, Stella is still chin deep and moves back just a bit.

“Back to your story,” Karen says.  “I don’t think you were finished.”

“It’s just that what we’ve seen, what we’ve read, I know that those that have fallen ill and are in hospital are alone.  And not by choice.  There is no option to have a loved one sit by.”

“It fucking sucks.  I don’t even like the thought of it.”

“I know.  But, it makes me think back on the training I went through and how it was instilled in me to be calm, rational, to think critically, to compartmentalize my emotions to be able to do the job.”

“You were a really fucking good detective, weren’t you?  Hank said you were.”

“I was.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Yes.  And no.  When I began teaching, I saw it as an opportunity to mold my students into the kind of detective that I was.  I think I may also be guiding them towards the same mistakes.”

“What mistakes?”

“It took me a very long time to learn compassion and empathy, and how to use it appropriately.”

“Is that something that can really be learned?”

“I think so.  I told my students at the start of all of this, we were going to proceed as though nothing has changed.  That this would be a lesson in adaptation to swiftly changing circumstances.”

“And now you’ve changed your mind.”

“I should have stopped to consider the effect this might have on their mental health.  Stressed the importance of self-care.  All I’ve wanted is to prepare them in the way that I was, but I should also be preparing them in the ways that I wasn’t.”

“What do you think you should do?  To prepare them?”

“I don’t know.  What do you think I should do?”

“Maybe just ask them how they’re doing.”

“I thought of that, but in my head it sounds so very superficial.  When I thought about the student that’s ill, it occurred to me that I don’t know anything about him.  Any of them.  I don’t know why they’re in my class except that it’s a required course in the criminal justice curriculum.  I don’t know where they are now or who they’re with or even if they’re alone.  They’re all so much younger than Becca.  I’m...worried for them.”

“I think you’ve got the hang of the compassion thing pretty well.”

“I think I preferred being emotionally stunted.”

“No, you didn’t.”  Karen chuckles a little and then tips her head back.  She slips easily into another float.

Stella pinches her nose and takes a deep breath.  She dunks herself and stays under the surface of the water for as long as she can hold her breath and then rises slowly.  She goes under again, this time doing a front stroke, gliding as far as she can before twisting while still underwater and coming up to her back.  She grows drowsy as she floats somewhere in the middle of the pool, under the stars.  She can finally see the half-moon, cresting high to the east.

“I’m pruning,” Karen says after what feels like hours.  

Stella is slow to follow, only just coming out of her float as Karen is taking the steps up out of the pool, moonlight glowing off her hair and shoulders.  Stella glides to the shallow end, accepting a large, soft towel from Karen even before she’s half-way out.

“Let me know if you ever feel like a midnight swim again,” Karen says.  “It was nice to have someone else with me.”

“Fish never comes down with you?”

“How’s this for irony, Fish doesn’t know how to swim.”

“Oh.”  Stella laughs lightly.  “That is...unexpected.”

“He does come down sometimes though.  Sits on the edge and gets his feet wet.”

“Well, if you’re feeling the need as well and want someone to join you, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“Sleep well.”

“Good night.”

Stella retrieves her nightclothes and heads back to the guest house.  She enters as quietly as she left and tosses her clothes off somewhere in the dark.  It isn’t quietly enough though, and Hank shifts in bed.

“Stella?” he murmurs.

“Go back to sleep,” she says.  She towel-dries her hair and hangs the damp towel up on the hook in the bathroom before she heads to bed.  When she slips under the sheets, Hank rolls towards her and drapes a heavy arm over her.

“Your hair is wet,” he mumbles against the back of her shoulder.  “And you smell like chlorine.”

“I went for a swim.”

“Mm.”  He grunts a little and his hand makes a path from her hip to the back of her thigh.  “You’re not wearing anything, Sherlock.”

“No.  I didn’t know where my suit was and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Are you saying you went skinny dipping?  Without me?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“If nudity is involved, you should always wake me.”

“It was rather spontaneous.  Karen was-”

“Karen?”  Hank picks his head up and peers over her shoulder at her.  “You and Karen were out there skinny dipping?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No.  No, no.  Nope.  Not a problem.  There are a lot of thoughts running through my mind right now and none of them are a problem.”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“Well, too late for that.  My ideas even have ideas.”  He pushes his hips lazily into hers and rubs her hip.

“We had a nice swim and a chat.”

“What about?”

“A student of mine tested positive.  He’s in hospital.”

“Fuck.  Really?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“I don’t know.”

He snuggles closer to her and sighs.  She pats his arm for him to ease his grip on her and then shifts onto her back.  He rolls over as well and they lay in the dark on their backs, similar to how she had just been floating in the pool with Karen.  She reaches blindly for his hand and twines her fingers into his.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“The second life you’ve given me.”

“Same.”

She turns and curls towards him, too tired to keep her eyes open any longer.

*****

The pasties don’t turn out quite like how they’re supposed to, but they make her feel nostalgic.  She ends up sharing a few anecdotes from her childhood over dinner that she hasn’t thought about in years.  Then Fish tells a few tales, then Karen, then Hank, and then Becca.  It feels normal and like for a few short hours, the problems of the world fade away.  It gives her an idea.

At Friday’s lecture, instead of wearing work attire, Stella dresses in more casual clothes: a white linen button-down tunic with the sleeves rolled up her forearms to the elbows, and jeans.  She doesn’t curl her hair, merely clips it back out of her face, and doesn’t wear any make-up.

“Good morning,” she starts.  “We’ll begin momentarily, but first I would like you all to know that I believe I was wrong when I told you that we should proceed with this course as though nothing has changed.  We are all living through an unprecedented time that is characterized by fear and uncertainty.  You may be feeling anxious or overwhelmed right now.  You may not even understand how you feel.

“What I would like you to know is that your emotional and mental well-being is just as important as your training.  There isn’t enough schooling in the world that’s going to fully prepare you for what it’s like, emotionally, when you walk into your first crime scene, or speak with someone who’s just been through a trauma, or have to face the mother, father, husband, wife, children of someone who was the unfortunate victim of a homicide.  Or what it does to you after many years.

“We need to be mindful, I think.  More mindful now, more than ever.  If you are struggling in any way, I would like to know.  And I don’t mean just with the course, I mean in any way.  I will help you.”

Stella stops and assesses the gallery of students on the screen.  There is silence in the classroom.  No notifications for messages.  Someone unmutes themselves to give a brief ‘thank you, Professor,’ and others follow.

“In lieu of starting our next chapter on Monday, when we resume after the weekend, the assignment I am giving to you is to think of the place you would most like to be right now.  Any place at all.  Change your background for the day into that place.  For the hour and a half we convene that morning, I want to hear from all of you why you’ve chosen that particular place.”

“Will you be changing your background too, Professor?” one of the students asks.

“Yes.”  She pauses again to glance through the gallery.  “The last thing I’d like to request before we begin the lecture is that you keep Mr. Diaz in your thoughts.  If anyone has any updates on his condition, please share them with me as well.”

Over the weekend, two students will email Stella with the anxieties they’ve been experiencing and one reaches out to tell her that Hector Diaz has been put on a ventilator.

*****

At dinner that night, over lemon herb chicken and grilled asparagus, Stella tells them her plans for Monday’s class.

“Where you gonna pick?” Fish asks.

“I’ve been trying to come up with the answer to that question all day,” she answers.

“Does it have to be somewhere you want to go or somewhere you’ve already been?” Becca asks.

“Any place.  No restrictions.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco,” Karen says.

“I really liked Japan,” Becca muses, stabbing at a spear of asparagus.  “I think I would go back there.”

“Bora Bora,” Hank answers, reaching under the table to slide his hand over Stella’s knee.  “Hands down, favorite vacation ever.”

“Oh?” she says.  “Not Switzerland?”

He chuckles and gives her knee a shake as he shakes his head.

“Karebear, soon’s this is over and things open up, we’ll go to Morocco.”

“Where would you go, Fish?” Stella asks.

“I like it here.”

“That’s cheating,” Hank says, ratting the ice cubes in his whiskey glass.  “You have to name another place.”

“Why?  I got my BBQ and I’m surrounded by beautiful ladies, not to mention your ugly mug.  Why’d I wanna go any place else?

”He has a point,” Stella answers, leaning into Hank’s side.  He pinches her knee and she slaps his hand in retaliation.

“I also want to go to Greece,” Becca says.

“Greece is lovely,” Stella tells her.  “Definitely go when you get a chance.”

They move on to another topic, but Stella continues to ponder where she’d choose to be, if she could be anywhere.  The sun is setting as they clear the dishes and it reminds her of her wedding day at the clearing behind the woods.  She pauses in rinsing plates and stares out the kitchen window.

Becca waves a hand in front of Stella’s face, breaking the light trance she finds herself in.  She blinks and hands Becca the plate to load into the dishwasher.  “Sorry,” she says.

“You totally zoned out there for a minute,” Becca says.

“The spot through the woods where your father and I were married, do you know the way there?”

“Sure.  It’s down the back path.”

“Can we go there?  Right now?”

“Yeah.”

They leave the rest of the dishes in the sink.  Karen is wiping down the table and Becca calls to her that they’ll be right back to finish up.  Stella follows Becca down the path away from the guest house.  The woods are more lush and overgrown than they had been in the fall of her wedding.  They step carefully so as not to trip over tree roots that have come unearthed, but finally they come out of it onto the other side and it’s just as she remembers it.

The sun is still above the treetops and the sky is a myriad of pastel shades of blue and pink and purple.  She steps onto the manicured lawn and pulls her phone out of her pocket.  She takes her time setting up the shot that she wants and then snaps a few photos.  Becca stands beside her and after a few moments, lays her head on Stella’s shoulder.  They stand quietly and watch the sun go down.

“I’m really glad you guys decided to come up and stay,” Becca says.  

“I am as well.”  Stella puts her phone in her pocket and links her arm with Becca’s.

“I thought I’d be cool being alone.  I like being alone.  And then after a week of it I was already...I guess I don’t like being alone as much as I thought I did.  I like to be by myself, but with other people around.  Does that make sense?”

“It does.”

“Why’d you want to come out to this spot?”

“Because I think that I already am where I want to be.”

“Like Fish.”

“Yeah.”

“I really hope that kid in your class is okay.”

“I do as well.”

“Do you think this will be over any time soon?”

Stella shakes her head lightly.  “Not any time soon.”

*****

Monday’s class goes well.  She starts off the informal chat by sharing that the photo she took over the weekend is where she was married and leaves it at that.  A majority of students have chosen tropical locations as their preferred destination.  One chooses his grandparent’s farm.  Another has a cabin in winter.  She’s surprised to see familiar scenery in one background that pops up.

“Am I mistaken, Mr. Peterson, or is that Kensington Gardens?” she asks.

“Yes ma’am,” he answers.  “My mother is from London.  Her parents lived in Bayswater and we would visit every summer when I was little.”

“Is it safe to say you likely read Peter Pan just as often?”

He nods and laughs.  “I was convinced the more time I spent there it might increase my chances of meeting him and being able to go to Neverland.”

“I have very fond memories of the park from my youth as well.”

The hours fly by and class comes to a close.  She reminds her students to start on the next chapter and submit any questions ahead of the next lecture.  When she closes her computer, she feels lighter.

At dinner, they ask how it went and though she would be able to recite to them every story she heard that day, she limits it to the most interesting or humorous.  It’s a good start to the week and it makes her feel optimistic.

*****

The weekend comes and Hank spends most of the day with Fish, in preparation for the children’s concert.  There are last minute practice sessions and testing of equipment to be done.  Stella is both surprised and amused that Hank has taken such an interest in helping Fish with his students.

At the prescribed time, Stella, Becca, and Karen gather in the sitting room where Becca has set up the Zoom link to appear on the television somehow.  Because the concert is early in the evening, dinner is postponed until later.  Some of Fish’s students are quite young, only five or six years old, and they have strict bedtimes.  The littlest one is a girl that plays Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on a pink guitar so small it’s hardly bigger than a ukulele.  

As the concert goes on, the kids progress in skill.  Hank’s duet with the boy named Dylan is towards the end.  It’s clear the boy is exceptional, but lacks confidence.  There’s a tremble in his voice when he introduces himself and the song.

“My name is Hank, I’ll be joining Dylan tonight,” Hank says.  “Any wrong notes you might hear belong to me and not the kid.”

The first few bars come slowly and haltingly, but once Dylan gets going, the song seems to pour out of him fluidly.  His eyes stay fixed on the screen like he’s following along with Hank, keeping in sync and on tempo.  When the song ends, the boy puffs his cheeks up and lets out a huge breath and his shoulders loosen.

“Virtual fist bump, D,” Hank says, holding a fist out and leaning towards the eye of the camera on him.  “Bring it in.”

There are three more students after Dylan, one other boy and lastly, two sisters on electric guitar playing I Love Rock ‘N Roll.  Even without knowing much about modern music or rock, Stella is quite impressed by the whole thing.

Dinner feels festive that night.  Fish floats high on the success of the concert and fields calls from happy parents as he grills steaks.  Becca reminisces about her time in a band and how much she used to love playing.  Karen finds some videos on her phone from a few of those concerts.  Hank tells a story about buying Becca her first guitar, and Becca follows with a story about Hank getting her an even better vintage guitar from a man that was clearly having a hard time making ends meet.

“He was trying to sell it back to the guitar store,” Becca says.  “He had a little kid with him and you could really tell things weren’t going great, otherwise he would not be getting rid of a ‘61 Les Paul Special.”

“Beckster, I hope you still have that guitar,” Fish says.  

“Of course I do.”

“Pete Townshend plays that guitar.”

“Who?” Hank asks.

“Wiseass,” Fish retorts.

“Anyway, the guy at the shop wasn’t interested,” Becca continues, and Stella recognizes the adoring look on her face as she tells the story.  “But, since we were there to get a guitar, we really didn’t care where it came from.  Dad stopped the guy on his way out and handed him an envelope of cash.”

Hank shrugs it off.  “Dads gotta stick together.”

They part ways for the night after dinner.  After finishing her nightly rituals in the bathroom, when she comes out, Hank is sitting on the edge of the bed with a guitar in his lap.  She stands before him, rubbing lotion into her hands and arms.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you play,” she says.

“Guess I just fell out of the habit.”

“You’re quite good.”

“I’ve been practicing something for you.”

“Have you?”

He nods and plucks the guitar strings softly as he adjusts the tuning pegs.  “Forgive the singing, I can barely carry a tune in a bucket.”

“A full serenade?” she asks with a smile.

“Goin’ all out for you.”

He starts playing and she doesn’t immediately recognize the tune, but just before he starts singing she realizes it’s Elton John’s Your Song.  He’s right about not being the world’s greatest singer, but she doesn’t hear any imperfections.  She only hears the man that loves her playing a song for her.  Never in a million years would she have considered herself to be susceptible to something so cliche and sappy, but she is.  It makes her chest ache in the best possible way, filled with how much she feels for him that she never thought she was capable of.

When he finishes, he looks up at her and smiles.  She takes the guitar out of his hands and sets it aside.  In two steps, she’s back before him and then straddles his lap.  He pulls her in close and she cups his face in her hands.

“Go slow,” she says.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Despite the request, he leans back just a little and takes the bottom of the shirt to pull it off.  He doesn’t remove her bra though, not yet.  Instead, he buries his face in the valley of her breasts.  He traces her peaks and curves with his tongue and then scrapes his teeth over the satin cups before pulling one side down to take her into his mouth.  She threads her fingers through his hair to encourage him, reminding herself that even if this act doesn’t do much for her, it’s a form of worship for him.

Without warning, he takes a hard grip on the backs of her thighs and stands just long enough to turn the tables and have her on her back on the bed.  He’s above her on his knees and reaches back to grab the collar of his shirt and yank it off.  She dips her fingers into the top of his jeans to pull him to her, but he takes her hands, one by one, and pins them to the bed above her head.

“Slow,” he says.

She nods, but arches up and pushes her chest into his.  He eases his weight onto her to keep her in place and she wraps her legs around his hips.  When he kisses her, he goes in deep and she moans her approval.  He releases her hands and she wraps her arms around his back as he cradles her head.

She’s never told him this, but one of the reasons she prefers hard and fast over slow is that she doesn’t like the time that slowness gives her to think.  It makes her susceptible, vulnerable, and opens something inside her like a deep need for more of him.  Not physically, but emotionally.  The slower he goes, the more she needs him and the more afraid she becomes of losing what she has because it’s so perfect.  Perfectly messy and challenging and exasperating and lovely and crazy and perfect.  Tonight, she thinks that if she were to ever lose him, she would lose so much more than just him. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing at all.”

“There’s something.”

“I think I just understand what you meant a few weeks ago when you told me I was the only thing that made sense to you.  Everything is right.  Even if the world seems like it’s falling apart, you feel right.  And...for the first time in my life, I am grateful to have someone by my side.”

“All that and you haven’t even been dicked down yet.  I should’ve been singing to you years ago.”

“Rest assured it certainly wasn’t your voice that led me to that conclusion.”

“Ouch.”

She caresses his back lightly and then holds the back of his neck as her thumbs skim along his jaw.  He leans in to kiss her again and again and again.  They rock against each other.  Stella pushes up and pulls him down just as he presses into her and pulls her up.  They’re both breathless before they even manage to start removing the rest of their clothes.  Her bra is the next thing to go and then his pants, her pants and lastly her panties.  His jockey shorts only make it past his hips.  

They both groan in relief when he enters her.  She folds her knees back towards her chest and takes a firm grip on his ass.  He starts off slow and deep, lazily rolling his hips against her.  There’s sweat at his temples, but not from exertion, from the self-control he’s using to make it last.  He pulls out and rolls them over so she’s on top.

“Giving up so soon?” she asks.

“Just giving you a chance to drive for awhile.”

“You’re a very generous lover.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

She holds his gaze as she sinks down onto him.  “I’m already right where I want to be.”

They play with the give and take for a bit, bantering and bartering for dominance and control of the pace, but then it gets serious.  He brings her to her first orgasm with his hands as she grinds down onto him and he waits for her thighs to stop quaking before bringing her to her hands and knees.  The stinging slap of his hand on her ass as he drives into her ushers in her second release.  He soon follows, groaning out his pleasure as he pulls so roughly at her hips that she can already feel the sweet bruises blooming under his fingers.

They both collapse.  He drags her up against him even though they’re both hot and sweaty and slippery.  Her hair is damp and clings to the back of her neck and shoulders.

“In case you were wondering if quarantine had affected my virility, I think you just got your answer,” he says.

“Your virility is always my top concern.”

“Mm.”  He kisses the back of her arm and rests the side of his face on her bicep.  “What do you think about going skinny dipping?  Unless you can only get naked in the pool with my ex.”

“Now?”

“You have other plans?”

“Yes, I’ve a rendezvous with my other husband in an hour’s time.”

“We can make it a quick dip then so you don’t have to keep him waiting.”

She chuckles softly as he presses exaggerated kisses down her arm and hip and belly.  And then he lays his head down on her thigh and she strokes his hair for some time, content to soak in the afterglow.  He finally gets up, goes to the bathroom, and returns with two towels.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he says.  “I want to get my naked in the pool with you.”

*****

Stella wakes in the morning to the sound of rain.  The room is darker than usual, even for the early hour.  She manages to slide out of bed without disturbing Hank and she grabs her robe to wrap up in before opening her laptop and sitting down at the small table in the corner.  She has four emails from late yesterday evening all with the subject: Hector Diaz.  She only opens the first one and then closes her laptop and sits in silence until Hank wakes.

“No fair not being naked,” Hank mumbles as his eyes drift open and shut.  He rolls over and stretches languidly.  When she doesn’t respond, he lifts up onto his elbows and blinks at her, hair spiking up unnaturally at all angles.  “What’s wrong, Sherlock?  Whatever I’ve done to piss you off before even waking up, I sincerely apologize.”

“My student succumbed last night.”

“Succumbed as in…”

Stella nods and steeples her hands in front of her chin.

“Shit,” Hank whispers and then drags half the bedsheets with him as he tries to get out of bed.  He kneels down next to where she’s sitting and looks up at her.  “Stella, I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

*****

Sunday is brunch day, another meal where they gather together.  And though Stella has no appetite, she heads to the main house with Hank anyway, determined not to sit and wallow.  Besides, the rain has stopped and the sky is beginning to open up.  As they make their way across the soaked grass and around the pool, he hooks his pinkie finger with hers and gives her a squeeze.  She holds on, feeling anchored in that moment.

“Hey,” Karen greets as Hank opens the sliding door and ushers Stella inside.  “I just put a fruit platter in the fridge.  Becca wants waffles so I was looking for the...what happened?  What’s wrong?”

“Is it that obvious?” Stella asks, already weary.

“Her student,” Hank answers.

“Fuck.  No.  Fuck.  Really?”    Karen is on Stella in an instant, smothering her an embrace so tight it makes Stella’s eyes water.

“It’s okay,” Stella murmurs, patting Karen lightly on the back.

“It’s not okay.  I know you’re being polite, but it fucking sucks, that’s what it is.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

Karen sighs and releases Stella from her embrace, but keeps one arm around her shoulder.  “What can we do?” she asks.

“Nothing.  I need to consider what I’ll say in class tomorrow, but I don’t believe there’s anything that will help.”

“Right.  It just feels so senseless, doesn’t it?  All of it.  So…”

“Yes.”

“However you need to deal with it, we’re all here.  For whatever.”

“Thank you, I do appreciate that.”

Stella does appreciate the sentiment very much, but she knows she also has a long way to go when it comes to openly sharing her feelings without thoroughly processing them ahead of time.  She has spent too much of her life alone and had little use for depending upon anyone else.  And the simple fact is, she’s confused and frightened by this situation.  It’s not something she has authority or expertise in.  She can’t control it or delegate tasks on it and hold anyone accountable.  Even if she was still a DSI Gibson of the MPS, she would be futile.

*****

Stella spends Sunday evening in the upstairs office responding to messages from her students.  As word spreads, her inbox fills with hesitant inquiries if her offer to chat informally is still open.  She does her best to offer words of wisdom or comfort, knowing full well anything she says is inadequate.  

Even though Stella has left the door to the office open, Becca knocks on the frame and waits for an invitation before she enters.  Stella removes her glasses and beckons her in, glad for a reprieve from the glowing screen.  Words have started to blur.

“I’m going to make some hibiscus tea,” Becca says.  “Thought I’d see if you wanted some.”

“No, thank you.”

“Don’t trust a Yank with a tea kettle?”

Stella smiles.  “I can’t think of a thing I wouldn’t trust you with, darling girl.”

“I also wanted to ask if you’ve thought of what to say to your kids tomorrow.”  Becca plops down in the chair across from the desk and slouches, linking her fingers across her abdomen.

“My kids,” Stella murmurs, softly.  “Such an unfortunate age to be in your first years university, isn’t it?  Not quite an adult, not really a child.”

“Every age feels unfortunate when you’re there.  And then you look back and think, it wasn’t so bad as I thought.”

“Yes, I think you might be right about that.”

“Teen angst was just becoming fashionable when I went through it.  And I had a lot of it.”

“I can imagine that you did.”

Becca grins cheekily.  “A lot of it was just for attention.  Back then, with those two, they rarely heard anything except for themselves.”

“I’m glad things are different now for you.”

“I’m just glad they’re different.  I don’t know if the me of ten years ago could deal with the situation we’re in today.  Not like your kids.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was pretty ragey.  I felt really destructive.  Like I wanted to scream and yell and break shit all the time.  I got some of it out when I played music.  And then I started college not knowing what the hell I wanted to do.  Your kids though, they’re probably driven.  I can’t imagine anyone that isn’t highly focused or motivated studying criminology.  Wanting to make that their career.”

“Would it surprise you then to find out that I was more like you in my youth than you think?”

“Really?”  Becca looks at Stella with a certain degree of skepticism.  “No, I can’t really picture it.”

“My outlets were...less creative.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re definitely not the artsy type.  That’s for sure.  What were your outlets then?  Breaking shit?”

“Sex.  Drugs.  Self-harm.”

Becca’s eyebrows shoot straight up and she sits taller.  “No way.”

“Very destructive.  Yet, also highly focused and motivated.”

“Then I guess the question is, what would you go back and tell yourself if you were where we are now, but back then.”

“Ah.  That is what I’ve been pondering.”

“It’s like when people say they wish they knew then what they know now.”

“Yes, very much so.”

“I think you’ll figure it out then.  You’re the most intelligent person I know.”

“Thank you, Becca.  For this chat and for the offer for tea.”

“Anytime you want to try my tea, you let me know.  I can be trusted.”

“Absolutely.”

Becca pushes herself up from the arms of the chair and then she comes around to the back of the desk.  She leans down and Stella turns to meet her in an embrace.  Becca kisses Stella’s cheek before she leaves and a calmness comes over Stella.

*****

“I want to start today’s lecture by thanking each and every one of you for being here today,” Stella says.  “For finding the motivation to be present when I know this is probably not how you’d like to be spending your afternoon.  There wasn’t a single one out of all of you who did not reach out to me yesterday in response to Mr. Diaz’s passing.  I find that to be exceedingly remarkable and it speaks not only to your character, but also of the effect that one person can have on your life.”

She pauses, her eyes moving over the kaleidoscope of her students’ faces on her screen.  Tiny boxes holding the weight of grief and despair and disappointment.  

“I wish that I could tell you this soon will pass.  I wish that I could tell you this will be the last time you’ll have to endure what feels so senseless.  But, I also know that you are in my class and on this path because of who you are.

“You are the ones that want to make a difference.  You want to help.  You want to right wrongs.  You want to make the world a better place.  You will only do some of that.  Along the way you will feel discouraged, frustrated, and angry.  What you do with your frustration and anger, your grief over what you can not change, is what will define you, and either make you a better person, or not.

“I want to reiterate my request to you to seek help.  If not from me, from the school resources, from qualified professionals, from family, from friends.  I promise you it is not a weakness, it is a necessity.  And it is something I very much wish that someone had told me when I was in your position.”

Stella ends with a deep breath.  She considers the group in front of her again.  Her kids.  She feels a deep and painful connection with them in this moment that she knows intellectually is a form of trauma bonding, but it doesn’t make it less real.  They are the only ones who know what it’s like to be in this space, together, at this time.  It feels like a watershed moment in all their lives.  She only hopes the ultimate impact will be positive.

“Let us take a moment to thank Mr. Diaz for his contribution to our class and we’ll begin in his honor.”

*****

Stella comes down from her lecture feeling hopeful.  Despite everything, her class was engaged and thoughtful.  She expects to find everyone gathered in the sitting room or kitchen, as they tend to do in the late afternoon, but there’s only Fish, sitting on the kitchen island with a bowl of cereal, gazing out the window.

“Where is everyone?” she asks.

“Beckster and Karebear went for a walk.  Moody took over Dylan’s guitar lesson today so they can continue an argument over who rocks harder, The Stones or Zeppelin.”

“Thank you for giving him something to do.”

“No, thank you.  The kids love ‘im.  He’s helped expand the business.”

“I thought you did this for free.”

Fish shrugs.  “Business is business.  The more the better.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been remiss in thanking you for allowing us to stay with you.”

“Bah.”

“I feel I only ever really speak with Karen about it, but I should be thanking you as well.”

“More the better.  Family’s gotta stick together.”

“Yes, that’s what...I’m learning that.”

“Your class go okay?  Kids alright?”

“I think they will be.  I wish I knew how to do more though.  Actually, I’ve been giving it some thought lately and I think that I might enroll in some psychology courses.”

“Huh.  Would’ve thought with all you’ve done you’d’ve studied some psych.”

“Yes, I have two of my degrees in Abnormal Psychology and Forensic Psychology.  But, I was thinking of studying Child Psychology this time around.”

“How many degrees you got?”

“Hundreds,” she murmurs.  

Fish nods thoughtfully.  “Architecture?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I got one up on ya then!”

She smiles.  “And I can not play an instrument either.”

“I’ll teach ya.  Come on in the studio some time.”

“I may have to take you up on that offer once the semester ends.”

“Hot dog.  Got a guitar with your name on it even.”

“In two weeks time, I’d be happy to join the ranks of your esteemed pupils.”

*****

The week drags by.  Even the weather seems depressed, raining most mornings and staying overcast throughout the day.  Her students are subdued.  Stella starts sleeping fitfully again, exhausting herself by the weekend.  Sunday morning she wakes alone, which is strange.  She’s usually up well before Hank on any given day and it’s still fairly early.  It’s brunch day, so she doesn’t feel much compulsion to get up, but when she looks at her phone she also realizes it’s Mother’s Day.

Although she wonders where Hank has gone, she’s only mildly curious and not worried.  It’s entirely possible he needed to help Fish with some lessons and forgot to inform her.  She is surprised that she didn’t even feel him slip out of bed or hear him leave.

Stella gets out of bed and opens the closet.  She’s had a gift for Karen stowed away that she’s needed to wrap for a few weeks: a photo of Becca on an evening they’d gone to dinner, back when she’d visited London and Hank and Stella were still living there.  She’d had the photo turned to black and white, printed, matted and framed.  Thank goodness for online ordering.  All she needs to do is wrap it in tissue paper and arrange it nicely in the gift bag she also ordered.

And there’s also the matter of the card.  She’s had it for weeks and has struggled to find the words she wants to write.  It’s times like this that she’s envious of Hank and of Becca and their ability to express themselves so honestly.  She sits at the desk with the blank card and a pen in hand.

Karen,

Thank you for sharing your daughter with me and for welcoming me into her life as well as yours.  You will never know how much I have learned about what it means to be a mother from you.  Thank you for your generosity and wisdom.  You are an inspiration and you will forever have my esteem and my admiration and my gratitude.

Warm regards, Stella

Stella sighs and puts down the pen.  It’s taken her a quarter of an hour to write the card and she’s still not sure if it’s adequate.  It will have to be.  She slips the card into its envelope, seals it, and writes Karen’s name on the front before she tucks it into the gift bag.  And then she gets herself ready for brunch.

It’s surprisingly sunny and warm out.  No rain and not a cloud in the sky.  Karen is sitting at the patio table with sunglasses on, reading a book, when Stella comes up to the house.  She waves her hand slightly as Stella approaches and closes her book.

“We’re banned from the kitchen,” Karen says.  “They’re cooking up some sort of surprise in there.”

“Do we trust them?”

“I think so.  Knowing Fish he would try to grill pancakes if he could, but since we’re not banned from the patio, that’s probably a good sign.”

Stella laughs and sits down across from Karen.  Shyly, she slides the gift bag across the table towards her, grateful that she actually has the opportunity to give Karen the gift while they’re alone.

“What’s this?” Karen asks.

“I wanted to get you something.”

“Oh my god, you’re so sweet.  You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, I guess that makes us even because I got you something too.”  Karen reaches down and presents a similarly sized gift bag to Stella.  They both laugh.

“Shall we open them at the same time?”

“Yes.”

Stella rifles through the tissue paper in her bag and Karen does the same.  Since Karen takes the card out first, Stella does the same.  Her name is written on the front in black calligraphy.  The card itself is made of parchment paper and very simple.  There are two birds in watercolor on the front, a large bird and a smaller bird.

Stella - Let me be the first to wish you the happiest of Mother’s Days and know that I couldn’t have asked for a better bonus Mom for Becca than you.  You have enriched her life as well as mine and I am so so so so so so so happy to share this day with you.

Love, Karen

“You’re gonna make me cry,” Karen says, putting the card down and reaching across the table for Stella’s hands.  Stella’s own eyes are watering as she gives Karen’s her hands.

“Words are not my forte like how they are for Hank and Becca,” Stella says.

Karen squeezes Stella’s hands tightly.  “Are you kidding me?  This is an amazing card, thank you.”

“What you wrote means a lot to me as well.”

“Ach, okay.”  Karen lets go of Stella’s hands and then fans her face for a few moments.  “Too much emotion without food.  Let’s see what we got!”

There’s square box inside Stella’s bag and when she slices through the tape holding it closed with her thumbnail, she finds a framed photo of her and Becca from her wedding day.  They both laugh again when they realize they both got each other photos of Becca.

“Obviously, Mom minds think alike,” Karen says.

“That must be it.”

They’re still laughing when Becca comes outside, holding a pitcher.  She gives them both a rather dubious look.  “What’s so funny?” she asks.

“Look what we got each other!” Karen exclaims, holding up her photo.  “Photos of you!”

“You guys are weird.”

“And it’s your fault, Rebecca Moody,” Karen answers, lightly smacking Becca on the backside just as Hank comes out the door with five champagne flutes in his hand.

“What’s she done?” Hank asks.  “Whatever it is, I take full responsibility.  Daughter, I will defend thee to the death.”

“They’re being weird and blaming me.  And now you’re being weird.”

“Actually,” Karen says.  “If you think about it, it really is Hank’s fault.  If he hadn’t knocked me up, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, I will definitely take all the credit there,” Hank answers, placing glasses around the table.  “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Mimosas?” Stella asks, nodding at the pitcher in Becca’s hands.

“Bellinis.”

“Wow, you guys went all out,” Karen says.

“Thank you,” Stella says as Becca pours her a Bellini, but she looks at Hank when she says it.

*****

Brunch is exceedingly festive.  They eat too much, they drink too much, and laugh a lot.  Becca presents Karen with a necklace and Stella with a bracelet, both of which are sterling silver chains holding three interlocking rings of diminishing sizes in copper, gold, and silver.  When Karen asks if it’s supposed to be the three of them, Becca tells her they’re meant to represent the links between the past, present, and future.  Stella would like to blame the champagne for the tears that spring to her eyes, but she can’t.

Late in the afternoon, she and Hank return to the guest house and she’s full and drowsy.  He lays down with her and she falls asleep to the warm press of his lips on just about every patch of exposed skin he can find.  When she wakes, it’s dark outside and Hank is at the table with half a sandwich in his mouth and papers strewn all over.  He’s shirtless, glasses on, a red pen behind his ear.  He rips a piece of sandwich off with his teeth and chews quickly.

“What’s up, Sleeping Beauty?” he asks.

“How long was I out for?”

He shrugs.  “Hungry?  Made some PBJs a bit ago.”

“Still full from brunch.  You should’ve woken me.”

He takes his glasses off, puts his unfinished sandwich down, and sits back in his chair.  He folds his hands and swivels back and forth a little as he looks at her.  “You needed it,” he finally says.

“I suppose I did.”

“Feeling better?”

“Refreshed, more or less.”  She sits up and slides out of bed with the wobbliness of the freshly woken.  “You editing?”

“Sort of.”

“Mm.”  She rubs her eyes and stretches.

“Promise not to laugh?”

“Yes.”

“I’m writing a song.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  I mean, trying.  I’m doing the lyrics and Fish is going to write the melody.”

“Oh, it’s Fish now?  Are the two of you, dare I say, best friends now?”

“Let’s not go that far.”

“So, you’ve formed a band?”

“Yeah, the new Simon & Garfunkel.”

“Well, I think it’s lovely.”

“Reserve your judgement until we actually manage to piece together a song.”

Stella slides one arm around Hank’s shoulder and sits down in his lap.  He pulls back a little in surprise, but circles her hips and turns to a more comfortable angle in the chair.  She strokes his nape and touches his face.

“Have you thought about returning to New York at all?” she asks.  “Not that we’re able to, but have you thought about it?”

He holds a breath for a moment and then expels it roughly and shakes his head a little.  “No.  You?”

She shakes her head no as well.  “I think it was a wise decision, coming here.”

“I have to begrudgingly agree.”  He tips his head back and looks down the bridge of his nose at her.  “The skinny dipping may have tipped the scales, so feel free to make that a regular occurance.”

She pinches the back of his neck lightly in response and he gasps and then scoops her up into his arms as he gets up from the chair.  She laughs and holds on as he tries to dump her onto the bed so he ends up going down with her.

“Should we test that virility of yours?” she asks, drawing one finger lightly up his spine.

“I could go for a check-up.”

She hums a little and touches his face.  He presses his cheek into her hand and then turns to kiss her palm.  The bracelet Becca gave her slips down her arm a few inches and Stella stares at it as Hank nuzzles the inside of her wrist.

“Karen was right,” Stella says.

“I hate it when she’s right.  About what?  Coming here?”

Yes, but if not for you, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Funny how it sounds less accusatory coming from you.”

“She’s grateful.  You know she is.”

“All that matters to me is how you feel.”

“Also grateful.  You have given me the family I never knew I wanted or needed.”

“Then I take full credit for knocking Karen up back in the day and we won’t even mention how lousy she was at remembering to take her birth control.”

Stella chuckles and closes her eyes as Hank leans in to kiss her face.  She wraps her arms around him and holds on tight.

The End

#i wrote this #hanella #hank/stella #quarantine fic #now you know what's up

[albatris]

is there romance in atdao or is it all just found famiy vibes? if there is romance im real curious about how peeps would express those kinda feelings

hello hi hello this took me AGES I’m very sorry I kept getting distracted by things such as being asleep

anyway yes thank you for the question! romance? yes, we’ve got some of this going on, sure, though I would count the romance as within the found family c:

I don’t know if you wanted a Ramble™ but this is a topic I can ramble about and I’m in a bit of a rambling mood so you can have a ramble, free of charge, just take it up to the register and have them enter the code “logan this is not what I ordered”

but yeah, your question? about eight vaguely relevant tangents immediately spring to mind! also spoilers?? spoilers after the cut

I really should have formatted this response in a way that puts the super spoiler heavy part at the end but since when have I ever ever in my life made things easy for my dear sweet followers

y’all know what I’m like with spoilers by now 

but yeah, to set the scene, there’s two main romantic......................... situations going on in the story, the first being between Noa and Alice, and the second being between Kai, Tris and Shara. so, the former I would describe as “a legitimate romantic subplot” and the latter I would describe as a character tripping and falling into it by sheer chance and just being like “oh whoops well I guess this is what I’m doing now” which is also extremely valid

Noa and Alice end up not being, like, Confirmed Endgame by the end of the story even though much of the plot looks like it’s heading in that direction, and like...... yeah, in my head, they do end up in a romantic relationship at some point post-story, but I’m not sure on what sort of timeline

during the story itself, it’s established that they do share mutual feelings for each other and this is likely heading towards a romantic relationship, but I think since much of the story sees Noa still trying to find her feet in just, like....... having friends at all, and trusting those friends, and knowing who she is in relation to others on any sort of level, I think near the end of the story she decides that she’s not at a place where she wants to try and figure out a romantic relationship just yet

it’s not a hard no, it’s just a “hey not right now” and a “let’s see what happens later down the track, for now it’s just nice to be around friends” ‘cause even that is just super new territory for her

which I worry will make people feel cheated, but also, I think it’s the ending for this subplot that would make the most sense for where the characters are at and would be the most fitting c:

and secondly there’s like

hm. ok

well, there WAS a vaguely jokey post I made yonks back where I pitched the idea of an ATDAO polyamory ending being just like. Alice who’s dating Noa who’s dating Shara who’s dating Kai who’s dating Tris. and I stand by this being solid as hell. but also, given the ending to Noa’s subplot with Alice, it doesn’t really work in the story canon, n though I think Noa and Shara is a dynamic I really enjoy, it would likely not actually play out in reality :P

which leaves the trio of Shara, Kai and Tris, a trio I’ve always vibed with and had vaguely on my radar as a valid poly ending but for some reason didn’t twig that I could just, like, make it canon and no one can stop me LMAO

but yeah, this one, like I said, it’s not so much aHD whole big subplot, it’s just something that falls into place super casually and is never really brought up beyond “oh is this a thing that’s happening?” “yeah” “cool ok”

I think there’s a brief window as a reader where you might be like “ugh this is gonna be a stupid love triangle or some weird jealousy thing” but then it just ends up being a complete non-issue. there’s basically zero romantic drama for this plotline, Tris and Shara are bros and Kai is dating both of them

n as for your question itself, it depends on whether you mean, like.......... how they would go about expressing to someone else that they have romantic feelings or, like, how they express their affections in a romantic scenario

‘cause for the former, the answer for both Tris and Noa is just.... they don’t

Noa because at the start of the story she views her crush on Alice as a huge fucking inconvenience that’s going to make things messy and complicated, so she just tries to ignore her romantic feelings as hard as she can (obviously this doesn’t last hahaha). but yeah, she’s just very pissed off that she has a crush and doesn’t want to acknowledge it :P she also has no idea how to respond when Alice expresses romantic interest in her, this is all extremely new territory

and Tris because he doesn’t realise he’s even experiencing romantic feelings in the first place?? like. the boy has so much baseline anxiety jitteriness that stuff like, idk, feeling your heart pick up pace, butterflies in the stomach, any kinda social nerves you get around the people you like, etc, he experiences this with Kai and is automatically just like “great now you’re here and I’m having a panic attack can you please leave”

just slaps a label of Bad Vibes onto it then later is like Wait A Minute

but yeah, I think neither of them would be super comfy actually expressing their feelings out loud or making that first move, Noa because she’s super fuckin petty and stubborn and Tris because he’s waaaaaaaay too fuckin socially anxious for that shit are you kidding

in terms of how they express their affections though??

so like. I have to reiterate that I’m aro and ace and I have a lot of difficulty in articulating what makes a romance A Romance, like??? I have relationships that are friendships and relationships that are romantic, but I myself don’t really experience romantic attraction in the way other people do

as such, the way I write characters in their romantic expressions tends to be just an extension of how they act in their friendships? which I think is a pretty ok thing to base a romance off anyway, but like, yeah, romance, this is a mystery to me for the most part, do I look like I know what a romance is

anyway I think once Alice and Noa get a little closer there’s a lot of good-natured ribbing and friendly insults, n since they already had a bit of a rivalry going on beforehand I would imagine this competitive streak doesn’t disappear :P Noa is generally uncomfy with being Openly affectionate and soft with others, so I think there would be a lot of more “indirect” ways she shows this care. I think they have the kind of relationship where from an outside perspective you don’t really get how it’s warm and affectionate, but it’s just ‘cause you don’t know the lingo, right

Tris is just the cheerleader type in all friendly relationships I think, lots of encouragement and hype and compliments and enthusiasm, he’s very excitable and very easily impressed hahahaha. though I think it takes people a while to click that he’s legitimately being 100% earnest and genuine, the constant deadpan does not work super well in his favour

anyway I’m gonna hop back up for a sec so I can cover Shara and Kai real quick

these two are............ a bit more direct with actually verbalising their feelings to people? Shara is a socially anxious type, but also not someone who enjoys beating around the bush, n she generally likes to just speak what’s on her mind and be direct with others whenever she can. Kai just kinda........ I mean, I don’t think they consider romantic affections to be a super big deal? at least in theory? I say in theory ‘cause, like, I think they give the impression that this kind of conversation is just super smooth and easy for them, and on the inside they’re like “it’s really not a big deal it’s just feelings it’s whatever” but they’re still anxious about it and had to hype themself up for like a week before going through with it lmao

but ye, in terms of how they express their affections, they’re both fairly similar. you suddenly will just Not Be Able To Get Rid Of Them, they’ll constantly be hanging around in the same space or dragging you into whatever shenanigans they’ve got going on, I think for both of them their favourite expression of love is just sharing in experiences or sharing the same space, just Being Involved And Around 

a “hey come help me run errands” type or a “I’m gonna hang off the back of your sofa while you’re studying and sometimes slingshot balls of paper at you with a rubber band” type :P

and now I have to go on Another Tangent just ‘cause the subject matter is vaguely relevant and idk where else I’m gonna go on this tangent

there is definitely some part of me that’s still super super fond of the idea of Kai being aro??? and I initially did write them as such, but for the moment this is not something that’s remained canon in text ‘cause I’m a little bitch ‘cause like

Kai would be aro in very much the same way I am, which is to say, they’re a person who is extremely full of love and who has difficulty in differentiating what the step is supposed to be between friendship feelings and romantic feelings, so, someone who may not necessarily “get” what makes a romance a romance or experience any feelings different from a strong friendship, but who is still open to being in a romantic relationship

(the difference between us being that Kai Really Really Likes People and enjoys being close with others as much as possible, where I’m more the awkward standoffish hermit type lmao)

but yeah, I was kinda like. well. despite being a perfectly valid aro person in a romantic relationship myself, if I were a fictional character people would probably call me bad rep HAHAHA. like “yeah they’re apparently aro but they don’t really ACT aro and the author put them in a romantic relationship ://”

and while I think there’s value to be had in fiction in exploring the different ways a person can be aro, I just, like................... thought about the hypothetical future discourse and was just like UGH. I cannot be fucking BOTHERED

I get enough people in real life being like “ok but you’re not REALLY aro like why do you even bother having that label it’s not like it matters in your context” even though I’m the goddamn expert on my own experiences you bastards

lmao

but yeah I think aro Kai is canon in my heart hahahaha. and they may end up articulating some of the same feelings, maybe just not with the label applied, who knows

anyway that’s my rambles done I think! thanks for reading n have a nice night c:

#Anonymous #i started to ramble then i was like #oh man i better keep this short actually and try and get through this quick and then by the end of it i was #back to rambling #it's fine #i would go into more detail abt the relationships themselves but i think. this reply is super lengthy as is :') #i think i have been on some rambles abt shara and kai in the past?? but idk if i could find those to link them lmao #atdao #there's an only tangentially relevant ramble about being aro right at the end #cuz its like. im aro and i feel this in my heart but also #*gestures vaguely* #anyway g'night team

[weartirondad]

All My Broken Pieces (You Found Them, Glued Them, Made Them Whole)

Relationships: Rhodey & Tony, Pepper / Tony, Peter & Tony, Tony & Touch

FF.net I ao3

Tony had always craved touch.

When he was a toddler, the only way for Maria and Jarvis to calm him down or get him to sleep was always through touch.

Maria would hug him and sing him a lullaby, lips so close to his ear that he felt her warm breath on his skin and only then, when he was certain that his mother was there with him, would he relent and close his eyes, falling asleep almost immediately.

Jarvis would calm the body shaking sobs and soul splitting screams he tried to bury in his pillow by running a warm hand up and down his spine, whispering soothing words that Tony never really picked up on.

It was always the touch of a person he trusted that kept him from falling apart any further. It was the touch that was his crutch when he couldn’t stand back up on his own. Touch was the glue that held all of his broken pieces together even when he himself had given up on repairing the damage because it seemed futile.

When he meets Rhodey he has long since come to accept that needing someone else’s touch is a weakness. A weakness that he can’t afford if he wants to make his father proud.

Stark men are made of iron.

It’s etched into his heart, the incision aching with every beat, and he feels his father’s word in his lungs with every breath he takes. Like acid the words dissolve him from the inside, battling the very core of who he is – was.

He’s 15 and he’s by far the youngest student on the MIT campus.

Everything and everyone around him feels so much bigger than he is, than what he feels like, but he’s used to feeling small and worthless so he squares his shoulders and he puts on the persona that has gotten him through his one dreadful year of high school. He’s smart, he’s sassy and he doesn’t mince his words. He lets everyone know exactly who he is.

It doesn’t take him more than two weeks to troop together a group of people who love hanging out with Howard Stark’s son. (It just happens to be Tony, he knows that.)

It takes him three parties to get his reputation as a player. (Because sex, he was taught, is the only physical connection that is about control not weakness and he can’t shut down the last pathetic part of him that still craves human contact.)

James Rhodes is not a player. He shows up to some parties, he socializes easily and is an all-around all-liked person. He speaks his mind but he does so in a polite way, inviting discussion and discourse as long as it’s on-topic und respectful. He doesn’t let frustration and anger cloud his judgement. He’s resilient in his work and his intelligence is quiet and steady.

In short, he’s everything Tony is not and normally their paths would never have crossed.

Maybe it’s fate that decides that they should meet. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. Whatever it is, Tony is grateful they do.

When they do, Tony is running on four hours of sleep in just as many days and he’s shaking like a leaf. His hands are trying to connect the last few wires on his robot but they’re too jittery to perform the delicate action and he ends up electrocuting himself. Just for a moment, though, and no one else in the big lab seems to notice so he just keeps going like he always does.

That is until a heavy hand settles on his shoulder, making him flinch so hard he drops both the unfinished robot and his tools. Every little fiber in him is screaming alarm. Sudden touches can only ever mean pain and he is too tired to deal with any more of that right now, too hollow to put up his mask.

Somehow he manages to keep himself from yelping but when he turns and his eyes land on the other boy who’s standing way too close for comfort, his fear morphs into anger. (Anger, Howard taught him, demands respect and installs fear in his opponent.)

“What the actual fuck?” he exclaims. What started as a deep manly curse ends in a high-pitched screech, informing the other kid of just how young he actually is. Tony fucking hates puberty.

“Sorry.” The other boy backs up immediately, brown eyes open and free of any trace of malice.

It doesn’t mean it isn’t there, just means he hides it well, Tony thinks.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to let you know that they’re closing up the labs in about twenty minutes.”

Tony nods and he thinks, hopes, that this is it. That the other boy just came to tell him that and that he is going to leave now. But these eyes – they stare right into his soul and it makes him feel lacking because he knows what they’ll find, he knows what everyone has always found so far. No one has stayed after all.

“What are you working on?” the older boy asks. He seems truly interested and it’s confusing Tony. No one is ever interested in what he’s doing. Not really anyway.

He frowns. “What? So you can make fun of me?” And damn it if this doesn’t sound absolutely pathetic.

“No, of course not.” The boy seems honestly insulted at the accusation. (Good, maybe he’ll leave before he can hurt him.) “It just looks really cool. Is that a robot?”

Tony shrugs, giving up on trying to get him to leave in favor of trying to finish his work before the lab closes. “He’s supposed to be one.” For some reason the extra set of eyes makes him move more carefully and, without any more incidents, he manages to finish connecting all the wires.

He waits. Something is supposed to happen. Or has he messed this up, too? Is he really not capable of doing anything right at all?

Suddenly the machine makes a sad beep-boop, moving its claw once, twice, three times before it short circuits and dies down with a gurgling noise.

Pathetic.

And Tony? He’s this close to a mental breakdown and he knows he can’t succumb to it here because no one is allowed to see Howard Stark’s son cry. Least of all an older guy from MIT, smart and on the lower range of popular, who’s going to tell everyone about how much of a scalawag he is.

Stark men are made of iron.

But Tony isn’t.

His body is shaking with sleep-deprivation, too much caffeine and shame when he picks up the useless robot that he has already internally labeled Dum-E. He hoped that Dum-E would show his father that even dummies like him can be useful sometimes but it seems like his old man was right. Like he always is. Tony truly is good for nothing.

A dummy who builds dummies who aren’t good for anything either.

“That was pretty impressive,” the other boy interrupts his inner monologue and Tony fails to find the sarcasm in his voice but maybe he just can’t even read people anymore, so he glares at him. He doesn’t seem to care about it too much, though, and reaches out to inspect the inner workings of the robot with gentle, steady hands.

His arm is resting lightly against Tony’s and he doesn’t dare to move, mind hyper-focused on the contact. The stranger is warm and soft and real and Tony’s heart aches suddenly with how much he misses his mother’s hugs. So he doesn’t pull away and tries to shift his focus a little until he can tune into what’s apparently a conversation now.

“I think if you took a little time to actually sleep this could end up being really useful,” he tells him with a small smile, “I’m actually working on an assignment about the most basic form of artificial intelligence. What do you say? We could put your heads together over lunch tomorrow?”

Tony is too stunned at how nice he is being treated to tell him to go fuck himself so he simply nods. The other boy grins, seemingly happy about their date.

“Great, then tomorrow at Dan’s Diner around noon? My treat.”

“You do know I’m Tony Stark, right?” He frowns then at the weirdly likeable boy who’s clad in a loosely fitting t-shirt that has seen better days and worn shoes that are distinctly lacking any real sole at this point and who’s offering to pay for his meal.

The boy cocks an eyebrow and shrugs. “And I’m James,” he tells him matter-of-factly, “James Rhodes, not Bond.”

“That’s a boring name,” he can’t stop himself from saying, cringing inwardly at his own bluntness, even as he shakes the extended hand. “There’s no cool nickname for James. I’ll call you Rhodey.”

He rolls his eyes but they seem to twinkle at the nickname and his voice is pleasantly teasing when he answers. “Whatever you say, Tones.”

Maybe it’s the sleep-deprivation or the looming of despair at yet another failed project. Maybe it’s because that’s the first casual conversation he’s had in weeks and he’s been longing for another person to talk to. Or maybe it’s because for some inexplicable reason James Rhodes’ company makes him feel safe.

But for the first time since leaving Jarvis and his mother behind he laughs, a deep-belly laugh that shakes his whole body up and that warms his chest with something other than dreed.

They end up working on Dum-E for a little over two weeks and when they’re finally finished he can’t talk but he’s capable of understanding basic voice commands and even answers in beep-boop’s that seem to convey emotions such as sadness, cheerfulness and anger. (Or maybe they’re imagining that. They have barely slept in days.)

The best thing about getting his robot to work isn’t the fact that they prove Dum-E to be actually useful but the way Rhodey becomes the first person in a long time he feels truly comfortable with.

Rhodey, ever so perceptive, figures out Tony’s bivalent relationship with touches in a matter of days and he’s always careful not to crowd him, backing off when Tony needs it, but there when a gentle touch is all he needs to not fall apart.

After finishing Dum-E his new friend leans forward carefully, holding his gaze as if asking for permission, before he engulfs him in a tight hug. And Tony realizes, as he lets himself rest against the older boy’s chest and relaxes in his friend’s arms that this is one of the most peaceful moments in his life. It gives him hope for the future that, for once, has nothing to do with being the heir of Stark Industries.

And he vows to himself that he won’t ever give up on Dum-E just like Rhodey, for some indiscernible reason, never gave up on him.

.

“Tony! Stop for a second, please!”

Her raised voice catches him off guard even though it shouldn’t have. He has seen this coming, has prepared for it. Still, when he lowers the spatula his entire body has gone rigid and it’s all he can do to stare at the sizzling pieces of bacon in the pan. The sound feels weirdly out of place in the otherwise quiet room and he can only watch them in crude fascination, certain that in a couple of minutes they’d be burned and he’d have to throw them away but not moving to change the setting on the stove.

It’s like waiting for a train wreck you know is going to happen. It’s an apt description of his life, he figures.

Pepper’s voice is soft again and he feels more than hears her step closer to the kitchen counter he’s hiding behind. He can picture the way her long hair falls over her shoulders in artistic waves and he knows that there is a frown on her forehead, a tiny wrinkle sitting right between her eyebrows. He knows the look in her eyes, the blue eyes that are deeper than the ocean, similarly infinite and so much more beautiful.

“Can you turn around for me?” she asks, gently and probing but not demanding. Leave it to Pepper, the most demanding woman he has ever met, to be the first to let him decide whether to look at her or not.

He’s sure she knows how much he hates being yelled at and he can’t help but feel thankful for her thoughtfulness. It makes it a little easier for him to release the death grip is hand has on the wooden spatula. Olive wood, he thinks absentmindedly, his mother always liked the olive wood spatulas, said they reminded her of home.

His skin is still crawling with barely veiled anxiety but he manages to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

He finds the tiny remains of his shattered masks somewhere deep inside him and it’s enough to make him shake his head.

“Nope. Don’t think I can,” he says, voice light and cheerful and oh-so-fake. “Gotta watch that bacon before I burn down the house again, right? You told me yourself that that’s not a very responsible thing to do and I –“

Suddenly her hand comes into focus, delicate fingers turning down the stove before settling on the countertop.  

Again, her voice is so sweet that it runs down his back like honey. It’s warm and a little sad and it makes his anxiety spike. His heart is thumping so loudly in his chest, he’s sure she hears it too because she sighs very quietly and then her hand is gone from his sight and he thought he would feel better but he doesn’t. He feels worse. As if she’s already gone.

“Pep –“ he all but whispers because he doesn’t know what else to say, how else to explain the fact that he slipped out of bed and left her all on her own after they spent the night together.

Oh god. They spent the night together. They –

When her voice comes back it’s accompanied by a feather-light touch on his wrist. No force, just a question.

“Tony,” she starts and he squeezes his eyes shut because he doesn’t want to hear it, can’t stomach listening to it but also can’t stop himself wanting more of that angle-like voice. “Why won’t you look at me?”

He feels her slender fingers run over his palm and toy with his. Hers are warm and soft where his are cold and calloused. They make a good pair, he thinks, and before he can stop himself he intertwines his fingers with hers and pulls her marginally closer.

“Because,” he whispers, raising their joined hands to his lips to press a kiss to the back of hers, “Because then you’d see me and you’d find that I’m lacking and I’d just rather not do that today.” Or any day, really.

“I’ve already seen you,” she answers and he can hear the smile in her voice, would love to see it on her lips but is too scared to move.

Tony shakes his head but doesn’t release her hand. As if he could make her stay if he just held on tightly enough. “Not like this, you haven’t.”

He’s not sure anyone has ever seen him like this. Hell, he’s not even sure he’s ever been like this – all butterflies-in-stomach and sweaty palms.

It’s love, he thinks. But he’s not sure because he’s never felt it before, doesn’t know how it’s supposed to feel like and if people like him even get to experience something so sacred. If he had to describe it, though, he’d say he’s in love. It’s the scariest thing he has ever felt in his life.

It’s scarier than terrorists in a cave, scarier than falling to his death and scarier, even, than his old man’s raised voice and the smell of whiskey hanging in the air.

“Yes, I have,” she replies easily, in the no-nonsense voice that only Pepper Potts can ever really pull off, and tugs on his hand. “Look at me, please. I promise I won’t run.”

Those were the exact words he has wanted to hear, still he can’t help but question their sincerity. After all, who did stick around after seeing him? Only Rhodey so far. And Pepper but –

He turns around and meets her eyes and she just holds his gaze.

The first thing he notices is the sleepy sand in the corner of her eyes. Dried rheum – a combination of mucin, dust, blood cells and skin cells – entirely gross if it would be anyone else but this is Pepper and he marvels at the sight.

She has never been this raw in his company and he wants to cherish it and tell her how beautiful she looks without make-up on. He wants to tell her about the sun light reflecting in her eyes and how her freckles are like a treasure map. He doesn’t say any of that, though.

They just look at each other.

It’s Pepper who moves first. (Of course she is. That woman is fearless and he’s a mess.)

Very gently she pulls her hand out of his grasp and takes a step closer before he can complain about the loss of warmth. She raises her hands, telegraphing every movement as if she knows that he flinches when someone raises their hand too suddenly (she probably does), and settles them on his cheeks.

He leans into the comfort she’s providing with her thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. He lets himself relish in the warmth her touch is offering and his free hand settles on her hip, just a few centimeters over the hem of his shirt that she’s wearing.

“I’m a mess,” he tells her, eyes closed and she is so close he feels her body vibrate with soft chuckles and her hot breath is tickling his chin.

“I know,” she answers and without having to look he knows that she’s grinning up at him in a way that makes the dimples on her cheek stand out. “But I’ve known that before.”

“I’m going to mess up. I’m not good at – this.” He’s not sure why he is trying to make her turn away but he knows that he has to be open if this can have any chance of working out. God, he wants it to work out so badly.

Her reply is instant and makes his eyes fly open. “Well, then you apologize and work on making it better the next time around. You’ll improve. We both will. It’s what people do in a relationship.”

Again she meets his gaze warmly and without hesitation, a smile curving her lips upwards just the tiniest bit.

It’s in that moment that his love for her overwhelms him. It comes crashing down like a wave of adoration and appreciation and devotion and for a second he’s stumbling until he regains his balance and matches her smile with his.

“I wouldn’t know what people do in a relationship, Ms. Potts.” He grins down at her cheekily and a weight falls off his chest when she starts laughing loudly.

“Believe me, I know,” she smirks and leans up to press a lingering kiss to his lips, “But I think I’m up to the challenge, Mr. Stark.”

Her hands are still resting on his face and it feels like they have always been there, as if this is supposed to be. As if they were meant to be.

It takes them a lot of effort and ups and downs but Pepper’s touch slowly glues all his broken pieces back together, blowing kisses to the faint scars that remain.

.  

When he hears the blood rushing in his ears and feels his heart beat violently in his chest out of nowhere, he stops mid-movement. Screwdriver in hand with his body bent over the wiring of the suit he’s working on he tries to take a deep breath just to see if he can.

It works surprisingly well but the sensation of his body shaking with every beat of his heart - like it’s a wrecking ball not a pump - is still there and while it’s nothing entirely new he really doesn’t enjoy the feeling of his ribcage threatening to tear open with every thump of the vital organ.

Quietly he sets down the tool and moves his right hand to rest over his sternum, right above the scar where his arc reactor used to sit. The feeling of skin on skin and the light pressure he puts on his thorax help ground him only marginally and his stupid heartrate is hell bent on accelerating no matter how evenly he breathes which is just annoying.

His left hand comes up, fingers routinely grabbing his radial pulse point as he tries to will his heart to slow down. The moves have become instinctually over the years. Having had shrapnel mere millimeters from one of the few things he quite literally can’t live without has made him hyperaware of everything that might be going wonky in his chest.

It’s that hyper-fixation that makes even the smallest palpitation seem like a coronary, complete with mortal agony and phantom pain spreading into his left arm until his pinky starts cramping.  

Three counts in, five counts out.

He coaches himself to breathe evenly. The chances of this actually being a heart attack are slim to none. His doctor had him checked out just three days ago. As the doc would say: his fear is understandable but unnecessary. It’s fine. Just a random spike of anxiety that doesn’t mean anything.

Three in. Five out.

One, Two, Three.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five.

Again.

“Mister Stark? Are you okay?”                          

“Huh?” he opens his eyes all at once to see Peter standing next to his work station, a tube of something in his hand, worrying at his bottom lip as he watches Tony cling to his own chest.

Upon seeing the big brown eyes that peep out under the messy shock of curls he feels warmth spread through his chest like a wildfire. It’s almost unpleasantly fast but it leaves a field of peace in its wake which is doing more in calming his racing heart than any breathing exercise he’s tried so far. There’s something undeniably powerful about this kid’s presence to ground him to reality.

“Yeah,” he says and when the words leave his mouth they’re barely a lie anymore but they have a pact where they don’t lie at all, so he tags on, “Just my heart running riot for no apparent reason. Don’t worry about it. What were you working on? Is that Chemistry project going well? Do you need help?”

As has become the norm in moments like these, Peter completely ignores his attempts to change the topic and cocks his head to the side in a mix of worry, amusement and plain adoration as he gingerly takes a seat on the swivel chair next to his mentor.

God. His love for this kid is making his heart clench painfully. He’s never really experienced this kind of unconditional love before and some days it feels like his body hasn’t been made with emotions like that in mind. They’re burning too hot when he’s freezing, leaving him reeling and unsure of where to turn.

“Did you take your meds?” He turns on the chair until his left thigh is resting against Tony’s right knee and the petite touch is incredibly welcome, almost disturbingly calming.

He makes a face because he doesn’t like talking about his mental health and everything that’s wrong with it but he relents with a soft sigh and a shake of his head. “Nope. Doc said we could taper off them as long as I keep seeing her and nothing new comes up. But it’s fine, Pete. I promise. Just not all that comfortable, that’s it.”

When Peter only pouts but doesn’t argue any further, he eases his hands down from his own chest and rests them on the kid’s shoulders instead, preening inwardly when the boy meets his gaze openly without further prodding.

“I’m not going to die in the next couple hours. I promise.”

The teenager relaxes then, huffing and leaning forward to rest his forehead on his mentor’s shoulder and like clockwork calloused fingers find the tense spots on his neck and start kneading it gently. “I just – worry. I’m sorry.”

“Tell you what,” Tony grins, standing up and pulling the kid with him, “Let’s call it a day down here and catch a movie until Pep gets home for dinner, whataya say?”

“Can we just listen to music?”

“Sure we can, bud.”

They end up listening to one of the few recorded pieces of Guido Agosti, an Italian pianist that taught his mom to play when she was young and it brings him back to a time when touch was not yet forbidden. A time when Maria Stark would sing him to sleep and he stayed up well past his bed-time only to listen to her play.

Sometimes they would listen to recordings together, from her priced possession of vinyl and those are some of the few moments of his childhood that he still revisits frequently and joyfully albeit with a heavy heart.

It’s not that all that different now.

Peter’s ear is resting right above his heart, his breathing coming out in soft even puffs of warm air against Tony’s collarbone. He’s curled up into him, fitting into Tony’s embrace like he was meant to end up here. Like this has been life’s grand goal all along and if that’s true then Tony can’t even be mad at everything that’s happened so far.

His fingers run through the mess of curls ever so gently, working on the numerous knots with a proficiency that has come with hours and hours of practice.

The kid’s already starting to nod off to the quiet calming sounds of his mother’s childhood hero and he pulls him impossibly closer, index and middle finger coming to rest over the soft thump of his temporal pulse point.

 Peter Parker came into his life when he was lost, only held together by Rhodey and Pepper but always dangerously close to falling apart. He thought there was no more room in his heart. That there was no way someone could get past the barriers he’s built over the years and, honestly, he didn’t think there was any need to.

Somehow, and without meaning to, Peter has barreled past all of them and quietly but firmly made room between all the scars and the betrayal and the fear. He settled down between all the pieces, build himself a shelter and, simultaneously, filled an aching hole in Tony’s chest that he hadn’t even realized was there.

Tony leans over to pull a blanket on top of both of them, smiling into Peter’s hair when he nestles closer and lets out a soft snore. Before he drifts off to sleep, heart beating strong and steady and normally in his chest, he presses a kiss to his temple.

“I love you, Petey. Never change. Not like I did.”

#tony stark fic #tony stark #irondad #irondad fic #pepperony #pepper potts #james rhodes #rhodey #and what ever his relationship with tony is called #ironfam #josis fic #all my broken pieces #i am so incredibly tired

[lightcomingthroughthedarkness]

Do you think the show will let Clarke move on from the bindi wearing bitch? Or JRot was lying when he talked about how Clarke was gonna eventually move on?? At this point it would shock me to no end if they let Clarke have something other than meaningless sex. We all know she's not gonna move on with Bellamy but I still wanna know what you think about her other chances? Now, just want Bellamy alive and I don't care who Clarke fucks or not but still... Bellamy would be her LAST choice anyway.

Please don't call her a bitch. We can dislike characters without name-calling them.

I wrote this whole thing and then I deleted it because I'm just not doing fandom discourse. 😩🤦🏻‍♀️ Short answer is, no. I don't think they'll ever truly let Clarke step out of the shadow that is L and CL. And since I've given up on this story a long time ago, it doesn't really matter to me. When I say that I'm only here for the POSSIBILITY of a Bellarke kiss - just so I can get a visual of, even if it's just a dream - I mean it. Canon or endgame are not something I bother much with. 🤷🏻‍♀️

As always, I expect an ambiguous ending for Bellarke. That's about it. Whether or not Jason is lying, I have no idea. I guess we'll see.

#bellarke #ask answered

[queen-susans-revenge]

I don’t have time to do it right now but one of these days I really need to write down everything I learned from alt.tarot back in the day Some of it is about tarot but more of it is about how to fight with people on the Internet. I was reminded re-reading the Dickwolf Discourse and how Mike’s hard-won lesson from that is that he could have Just Stopped much earlier. Just Stopping is a great skill that I learned through many bruising fights on Usenet and specifically alt.tarot. See, most people who think they are Knowledgeable About Tarot in fact are Jon Snows to the subject: they know nothing. The received wisdom on tarot is complete garbage; you can easily spend years and read dozens of published books and come away believing things like “tarot was invented by gypsies and contains secret wisdom smuggled out from the fall of the Library of Alexandria.” Insert Luke Skywalker gif: every part of that is wrong. Playing cards were actually invented by the Chinese, reached Europe around 1360, and in the middle of the fifteenth century Italian nobles started using tarot decks to play a trick-taking game resembling bridge. The so-called Major Arcana, or trump cards, were mostly drawn from Petrarch’s poem I Trionfi which translates to “The Triumphs” (triumph=trump). I Trionfi was enormously popular, especially in Italy, and you see imagery from it everywhere during the time period and all kinds of card decks using it. (Looks down at wall of text I have just produced. Whelp. Time for a read-more!)

So almost nobody knows this basic fact, that the structure of the Major Arcana and a lot of the imagery on the cards comes from Petrarch originally. Instead they spend years reading dumb newage books that all regurgitate the same content, like, “Death doesn’t mean death, it means change.” To Petrarch, and to the Renaissance Italians, and to the likes of Waite and Crowley, Death literally meant death. Now they all believed that there were things like Christian faith that could triumph over/trump even death: Petrarch’s poem is structured like a Roman triumphal parade except with metaphysical forces involved, so like the great conquering emperor is brought low by the power of love, and the lovers in turn are brought low by the power of chastity, and the chaste in turn are brought low by the power of death, but death is conquered by fame, and fame is conquered by time, and time is conquered by the eternal Kingdom of God. This is the basic procession that you see in the trump cards. And yes this does mean that tarot was also explicitly Christian, from the beginning, and remained so even as the robes-and-wands set started appropriating Jewish kabbalah and mapping tarot onto it. That happened in the eighteenth century, in France. The two dudes responsible are Antoine Court de Gébelin and M. le Comte de Mellet, two more names that most people who think they know a lot about tarot will never have heard of. The line goes from them through Eliphas Levi, Papus, Wirth, those guys, through to Waite and then Crowley. Now all these dudes were occultists, and occult means clandestine, hidden, secret, so as you might expect they were not at all good at clearly explicating their beliefs. Back on alt.tarot I used to use a Waite quote as my signature: “Superfluities and interpretations notwithstanding, it is directly, or indirectly, out of the recent view, thus tentatively designated, that the consideration of the present thesis emerges as its final term, though out of all knowledge thereof.” (That’s from The Hidden Church of the Holy Graal. It’s all like that.) So, it’s definitely not their fault that most people don’t know about Petrarch and kabbalah and what Crowley really meant when he made such a big goddamn deal about how “Tzaddi is not The Star.” Even when the likes of Crowley or Waite did write books supposedly detailing the meaning of the symbolism of their decks, they threw in lots of misdirection and outright lies “to mislead the uninitiated.” Kabbalah is the key, they’ll tell you, but they won’t tell you that they used it as an athbash--forward and back, just like the Fool’s Journey goes both up and down the Tree of Life; divine power can be called down into Malkuth, the physical world, but one born into Malkuth can also ascend to Kether, unmediated experience of the divine. (So The Star is both Tzaddi and Heh.) Anyway, if you can’t trust the newage books and you can’t trust the occult books, are there any good books on tarot? Yes, there are two: Gertrude Moakley's groundbreaking (and out of print) book The Tarot Cards Painted by Bonifacio Bembo for the Visconti-Sforza Family: An Iconographic and Historical Study, and the equally groundbreaking and equally out of print Rhapsodies of the Bizarre, a collection of essays by Court de Gébelin and M. le Comte de Mellet, with translation and commentary by J. Karlin, the terror of alt.tarot. Jess Karlin was not his real name. He knew more about tarot than, I gradually came to believe, anyone else in the world. He was a jerk, and proud of being a jerk: Thelema is a religion of war, he said, and he came not to affirm but to destroy. He was my teacher, and he taught me a lot, and I tried to repay him both with money and by acknowledging the debt whenever the subject comes up, like now. One of the things he taught me was how to learn from someone who is giving you an actual answer but insulting you while they do it. (Try ignoring the insult and saying thank you, for the answer. They may have more to teach.) I say Karlin knew more than anyone else in the world because the academics after Moakley were disappointing; the field became dominated by playing card historian Michael Dummett, who was so invested in debunking the occultists that he really doubled down on trying to argue that no link between tarot and fortune-telling existed before the French guys came along. Which is stupid, because the links between games of chance and systems of divination have always been super tight--Fate and Luck are the same damn bitch. And you can find (and Karlin did find) very early references to witchcraft performed with playing cards. So because the playing card historians would have nothing to do with the occultists, and Karlin was doing these serious deep dives into formerly-untranslated eighteenth century French occult texts and even earlier stuff, he ended up understanding the iconography and symbolism of tarot way better than the people like Dummett who were much too serious to touch the occult traditions. That was another thing Karlin taught me: that academic consensus can sometimes be just as wrong as newage gobbledegook, and it really is possible, when you start doing deep dives into niche subjects, to outstrip the experts. Sometimes it’s not just possible but frighteningly easy. Anyway, he knew a ton--and he knew it in a field where the vast majority of people think they understand the material, but are very wrong. I think this had the effect of making him quite crabby. Some people came to alt.tarot saying they wanted to learn tarot; and those people, J. Karlin was willing to teach, although he might yell at them some for believing stupid things, if they did. And they probably did--I remember being twenty-one, a shiny new-minted college graduate, proud of my A in an undergraduate Quantum Mechanics For Non Physics Majors class, trying out some “maybe fortunetelling is a quantum effect” angle and getting my ass handed to me, deservedly so. But many, many more people came to alt.tarot back in the day thinking they already knew tarot. And they very much did not want to be corrected. They just thought the cards looked cool and they were perfectly content with their own “I’ll just intuit what I think the cards mean” approach to tarot. And to those people, Karlin was a relentless asshole. Because the symbols did in fact have an original meaning, and it is possible to trace the evolution of the iconography through time, and in fact all those centuries of artists and writers and...I dunno, warlocks and whatnot...working on the cards has created a much, much, much deeper and richer symbolic framework than what most people can make up off the tops of their heads just by looking at a random image from The Tarot of the Cat People or whatever. So that was maybe the first important thing he taught me: there is a truth. Even in symbolic matters, even in stuff that was all “just made up” at some point, it is possible to distinguish what’s important and true from what’s just people spouting off the tops of their dumb heads. And fourth or fifth was that if you argue with someone long enough and you find yourself getting boxed into a corner, fighting desperately to support propositions you’re not even quite sure how you ended up needing to defend, you can just...stop. Usually that’s the cleanest and clearest path. Karlin would not let people save face and he would not let them have the last word: if they were wrong, they’d either have to admit it, or they’d have to flounce off to another Usenet group, orrrr...they’d have to learn how to fucking shut up. It’s a good skill to have. I learned it in alt.tarot, being wrong a lot. I had many fights with Jess Karlin on alt.tarot. But to my knowledge I was the only one from that group that he offered to formally initiate into Thelema. If I have siblings in this lineage I don’t know them; and I never considered myself a Thelemite, even after the initiation. But I have tried to pass on what he taught me. Crowley wrote that the adept “must teach; but he may make severe the ordeals” and I always sort of thought Karlin was living by that principle. At the same time he liked to point out that it’s not necessary to hide your pearls from swine: they won’t take ‘em no matter how brightly you polish and how neatly you letter the sign, FREE PEARLS OF WISDOM, PLEASE TAKE. My worst fights with J. Karlin were always when I was trying to do something nice for him. I still wince remembering when I tried to give him a copy of Alan Moore’s Promethea; that ended with us not speaking for several years. So if he reads this he’ll probably be mad at me all over again but anyway he eventually started using his real name, Glenn Wright, for his Internet writings instead of the Karlin nym. He hops around websites too fast for me to keep track, but as recently as 2015 he had a blog on Tumblr​. Sometimes he offers tarot readings for sale--one card, yes or no question only. I recommend these without question whether you “believe” in tarot or not. (I’ve grown out of my quantum woo days and I don’t now think the cards are anything but a fantastic system for self-reflection). This is super long so I’m gonna stop now. Maybe it’ll do for that “what I learned from alt.tarot” post I always meant to make.

#tarot #stories from alt.tarot

[thesinglesjukebox]

LIL NAS X - OLD TOWN ROAD

[6.73]

We're gonna bluuuurb til we can't no more...

Katie Gill: The problem with "Old Town Road" is that it's more interesting as a thinkpiece than an actual song. The song charting, then being excluded, from the Billboard Country Music charts opens so many questions that can't be answered in one sitting. Is this a further example of the well-documented racism in country music? Or is this just a freak accident hick-hop song that vaulted it's way out of the depths of subgenre hell? Is a twangy voice and references to horses enough to make a song "country"? Does the presence of Billy Ray Cyrus in a remix that dropped on Friday legitimize the song's credentials or just make them worse? Where was all this controversy when "Meant To Be," an honest-to-god pop song, was holding steady on the charts? There are so many questions and so many points of conversation that spring out from this song, that it's a pity "Old Town Road" itself is just okay. Everything about it screams "filler track for the SoundCloud page," from the length to the trap beats to the aggressively mediocre lyrics. The song didn't even chart on it's own merits: it charted because it's used in a TikTok meme! This is like if "We Are Number One" or "No Mercy" made their way to the top of the iTunes charts and people decided to have a conversation about the limits of genre based on those charting. I'm a little annoyed, because the conversation around "Old Town Road" is something that country music should be having... but just not around "Old Town Road." [5]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: There are essays upon essays to be written about "Old Town Road" as a prism for the racial divides that have served as undergirding for the modern American genre system since the 1930s division between "hillbilly" and "race" records. It's the perfect hunk of think-piece fodder: a simple core question -- is it country? -- that can spiral out to all corners of culture until the song itself is obscured. So let's focus on the song, instead. Because beyond all world-historical significance, "Old Town Road" fucking bangs. It's all in the bait and switch of that intro -- banjos and horns plunking away until Lil Nas X's triumphant "YEAAAH" (second this decade only to Fetty Wap) drops and the beat comes in. It's a joke until it's not -- maybe you came in from the Red Dead Redemption 2 video, or from a friend of yours talking about the hilarious country trap song, or from the artist's own Twitter, which is more Meech On Mars than Meek Mill, but no matter the source, you'll find that "Old Town Road" has its way of looping into your brain, all drawls and boasts and banjos. It's meme rap, but much like prior iterations of this joke ("Like a Farmer"), Lil Nas X fully and deeply commits -- he doesn't drop the pretense for a single line, keeping the track short enough to not outlive its welcome while still exploring its weird conceit to its fullest. Yet even in its jokey vibe there's some actual pathos -- no matter how put on, the lonesome cowboy sorrow of Lil Nas X's declaration that he'll "ride till [he] can't no more" feels genuine. "Old Town Road" is everything at once, the implosion of late teens culture into one undeniable moment. [10]

David Moore: So here's a true gem of a novelty song -- a phrase I use with both intention and respect; I grew up in a Dementoid household -- that could launch a thousand thinkpieces about hip-hop, country, class, the object and subject of jokes, whether to call something a joke at all, you name it. But what I keep returning to is the economy of it, its simplicity, how there is so much in so little, the way that someone on the outside can grok things inaccessible to the insiders, maybe by accident or by studious observation and a fresh perspective, the way music can be a multiverse, characters from one world complicating or clarifying or confusing the limits of another in a mutually provocative way. I'm not a backstory guy, which is to say I'm not a research guy, which is to say I'm either intuitive or lazy or both, so I don't have any clue where this came from, but I know magic when I hear it, I know what it sounds like when you discover, or simply stumble into by accident, the path beyond the bounds of territory you presumed exhausted, territory that can always get bigger, always invite whole new parties to the party. It's a real party party; you can get in. [10]

Katherine St Asaph: "Old Town Road" is the "Starships" of 2019: a song that objectively is not great, but will be called great for the understandable reason that liking or disliking it now unavoidably entails choosing the right or wrong side. This tends to lead to hand-waving freakoutery about critics not talking about the music, man, but once The Discourse is out in the world, it becomes a real and critical part of the song's existence; not talking about Billboard punting "Old Town Road" would be like talking about "Not Ready to Make Nice" as an workaday country song. The problem is not quite as simple as "the Billboard charts don't want black artists," an argument with historical precedent but now doomed to fail: clearly, people like Kane Brown and Darius Rucker and Mickey Guyton (who's left off lists like this, somehow) have hits. It's more about respectability politics. Traditionalists hate the idea of memes, social media, and perceived line-cutting, all of which means they'll hate a song born not of the Nashville and former-fraternity-bro scene, but via TikTok and stan Twitter. But what they really, really hate is rap and anything that sounds like a gateway to rap; like if they tolerate this Cardi B will be next. Country radio, for the past decade or two, has been pop radio with all the blatant rap signifiers removed; its songs aren't about cowboys or horses but suburban WASP life. Of course, double standards abound. Talking about lean is out; talking about bingeing beer is fine. "Bull riding and boobies" isn't OK because it's from a guy called Lil Nas X -- I honestly think people would whine less if this exact song was credited to "Montero Hill" -- but "I got a girl, her name's Sheila, she goes batshit on tequila" is OK because it's from a guy called Jake Owen, and "Look What God Gave Her" is OK because it hides its ogling of boobies behind plausibly deniable God talk. Fortunately "Old Town Road" is better than "Starships" -- the NIN sample is inspired, and the hook is evocative and sticky. (It fucks with authenticity politics, too -- Lil Nas X wrote his own song, but the big corporate country artists often don't.) Its main problem is that it's slight: a meme that doesn't overstay past the punchline, a song that never quite gets to song size. [5]

Thomas Inskeep: Sampling Nine Inch Nails' "34 Ghosts IV" to (help) create a western motif is hands-down brilliant, so huge thumbs-up for that. Lyrically, this is pretty empty, a bunch of western clichés strung together -- but then again, the same can be said of plenty of Big & Rich songs. Split the score down the middle, accordingly. [5]

Scott Mildenhall: But surely this is how country music should sound? Lil Nas X has performed alchemy in combining two generic styles into something inspiring, flipping the meaning of "pony and trap" on its head. The mechanical sound of trap is rusted into the mechanical sound of fixing a combine, or at least pretending that is something you might do, and such performance is fun for all the family. Well, unless you're an American farming family tired of stereotypes anyway. [7]

Stephen Eisermann: Non country (trap) beat with subtle country instrumentation? Sounds like much of country radio, only way better! [7]

Nortey Dowuona: A burning, humming bass girds under sticklike banjos as Lil Nas X rides into town to water his horse and head back out onto the open road. [5]

Alex Clifton: I spent the weekend re-enacting this scene from Easy A with this song, so it's safe to say I like it. I especially love the "horse"/"Porsche" line, which is unexpected and amazing. [7]

Alfred Soto: The usual genre conversations threaten to smother analysis. If Lil Nas X can use trap drums, then why can't Sam Hunt use loops? Silly. (Chief Justice Charles Evans Hughes: "The Constitution is what the judges say it is"). The Kanye allusion ("Y'all can't tell me nuthin'") works extra-diagetically. An assemblage of modest, discrete charms held together by a solid performance at its center -- nothing more. I await the Future-Frank Liddell collab. [5]

Edward Okulicz: It's affectionate and actually quite deferential in its treatment of its parent genres. Crossovers like this have been hinted at, and gestured towards in the other direction quite a bit of late (country artists affecting hip-hop, less so the latter), and the two genres have more in common than the caricatures of the sorts of people who are supposed to listen to them do. Of course, I mean those genres as they exist today, and not in the warped imaginations of purists. You can see why kids have latched on, and it's easy to snarl at Big Chart for sticking their oar in. The kids are right; artists control the means of production and radio and chart compilers can accept that they aren't the tastemakers, and attempts to force their tastes down other people's throats will lead to a backlash. This is not a brilliant song but it's a picture of one of many potential musical futures and, at two minutes, the perfect length too. The right response is to smile, and "Old Town Road" makes it easy to smile -- it's an earworm. Sure, it doesn't give me the same immediate feeling of fuck!!! this is the best that I got when I first heard that version of Bubba Sparxxx's "Comin' Round" but country music survived "Honey, I'm Good" and it will survive this. It might well thrive. [6]

Joshua Copperman: I recently found out that I have a moderate Vitamin D deficiency, but looking up the song everyone was talking about and hearing this basically confirmed that I should go outside more often. There are definitely things to talk about: it's the logical conclusion to "I listen to everything except country and rap" jokes when the inverse has taken over the Hot 100, and it's a song that's set to hit number one because everyone is incredulous that it exists at all -- with a Billy Ray Cyrus remix to boot. The conversations about what makes a song "country" are all fascinating, but it's hard to fully enjoy pieces about something that, as an actual song, is so fundamentally empty. The Nine Inch Nails sample is interesting, but like everything else, more intriguing in theory than execution. This will wind up on every site's "best of 2019" lists, and then in ten years people will snark on how a song with "My life is a movie/Bullridin' and boobies" was so critically acclaimed. As a meme/discourse lightning rod, it's an [8], as a how-to guide for late-2010s fame, it's a [10], but there's little appeal in a vacuum. Adding a bonus point, because music has never existed in a vacuum anyway. [5]

Taylor Alatorre: Remember when the internet was still described as a realm of lawless and limitless potential, when open source could be touted as revolutionary praxis and "free flow of information" was a sacred utterance? Now one of the key political questions is whether private companies should be doing more to banish online rulebreakers or whether the federal government should step in to delimit what those rules are. Whichever side ends up winning, it's clear that the wide open spaces of the Frontier Internet are rapidly facing enclosure. Montero Hill learned this the hard way when his @nasmaraj account was suspended by Twitter as part of its crackdown against spam-based virality. While Tweetdeckers are nobody's martyrs, it's a minor tragedy every time an account with that many followers and that much influence gets shunted off to the broken-link stacks of the Wayback Machine. Rules must be laid down, but their enforcement always entails loss -- the bittersweet triumph of civilization over nature that forms the backbone of every classic Western. Maybe Hill/nasmaraj/Lil Nas X had this loss in mind when writing the jauntily defiant lyrics of "Old Town Road." Maybe he was just riding the microtrends of the moment like he was before. Still, this particular microtrend -- the reappropriation of cowboy imagery by non-white Americans -- feels too weighty to be reduced to mere aesthetics. Turner's Frontier Thesis may have been racially blinkered to the extreme, but the myths and yearnings it spawned can never die; they just get democratized. So it makes sense that young Americans, even those who don't know who John Wayne is, would subconsciously reach out for the rural, the rustic, the rugged and free, just as we feel the global frontiers closing all around us. Our foreign policy elites hold endless panel talks about "maintaining power projection" and "winning the AI race," but most normal people don't care about that stuff. We're all secretly waiting for China to take over like in our cyberpunk stories, so we can drop all the pressures of being the Indispensable Nation and just feast off our legacy like post-imperial Britain. And what is that legacy? It's rock, it's country, it's hip hop, it's "Wrangler on my booty," it's all the vulgar mongrelisms that force our post-ironic white nationalists to adopt Old Europe as their lodestar. In short, it's "Old Town Road." We're gonna ride this horse 'til we can't no more, we're gonna reify these myths 'til we can't no more, because when the empire is gone, the myths are all we have. (Oh, and the Billy Ray remix is a [10]. Obviously.) [9]

Jonathan Bradley: People suppose that genre exists to delineate a set of sounds, and while it does do that, it depends even more on its ability to build, define, and speak for communities. The question of whether "Old Town Road" is a country song or not is in some ways easily resolved: country music showed no interest in Lil Nas X -- or at least not until Billy Ray Cyrus noticed an opportune moment to complicate expectations and grab headlines -- and so Lil Nas X's song was not country. Even taking into account its sound and subject matter, his hit is best understood as a burlesque on country music, one that parodies and exaggerates the genre's motifs and themes for heightened effect. The kids on TikTok, who turned the long-gone lonesome blues of the song's tumbleweed hook into viral content, understand this intuitively: they use the incongruity that clarifies at the beat drop as an opportunity to engage in caricature and costume. And while Lil Nas X, a huckster and a trendspotter before he was a pop star, has been happy to embrace the yee-haw mantle that has been bestowed upon him, his song is a familiar rap exercise in play and extended metaphor. The Shop Boyz did much the same thing with "Party Like a Rock Star" and it would be obtuse to suppose that was a rock song. And yet, as the country historian Bill C. Malone has written, country since its inception has attracted fans "because of its presumed Southern traits, whether romantically or negatively expressed"; there has always been a bit of schtick to this sound. I wondered when we reviewed Trixie Mattel whether country is, on some level, intrinsically camp, and it's tough to declare definitively that Lil Nas X's bold hick strokes are that much more stylized than Jake Owen's performance of small town ordinariness. And just as a country music based on cohesive community rather than sound has found itself broad enough to encompass northern hair metal, Auto-Tuned club stomps, and Ludacris, the gate-keeping involved in keeping Lil Nas X out begins to look suspicious. After all, the first song to debut on Billboard's Most Played Juke Box Folk Records chart, the predecessor to today's Hot Country Songs, was "Pistol Packin' Mama," a hillbilly goof by the decidedly uncountry combination of Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters. As Malone has written, "While the commercial fraternity thought mainly of profits, the recording men, radio executives, publicists, promoters, ad men, sponsors, and booking agents who dealt with folk music also readily manipulated public perceptions in order to sell their products." One of the ways they did that was to tap into already mythological figures of American individualism like the cowboy, who is, after all, a creature of the west and not the South. "The respective visions of cowboy and western life drew far more from popular culture and myth ... than they did from reality," Malone writes of the early country singers who embraced cowboy personae; in some ways Lil Nas X's purloining of meme interest in that same culture places him within a rich country heritage. After all, when in popular entertainment has shameless self-promotion not been part of the aspirant's trade? It does matter how cultural communities react to the music made in their name, but when certain people are adjudicated not fit for club membership, it is worth asking why. Country's culture, I said recently, is "one that's implicitly but not definitely Southern, implicitly but not definitely rural, and implicitly but not definitely white," and it's easy to see how Lil Nas X doesn't fit into that. Country music's racism isn't unique to the genre -- the historical hegemonies of punk and indie rock are at least as determinedly white -- but it is particularly visible. Country is racist like the South is racist like America is racist. Lil Nas X disrupts that settlement, helping us imagine a country music that genuinely encompasses the music of the American South -- a genre that has space for "This is How We Roll" and Miranda Lambert, Lil Boosie and Young Thug, "Formation" and Juvenile, and perhaps even Norteño and banda sounds. That would be, however, not only a far different country music to what we know today, but the music of a far different America. [7]

Iris Xie: Yeet haw! Aside from the great pleasure I've had in showing this to my friends, (Me, two weeks ago: "Have you heard this country trap song???" My friends, this week: "Iris, that song you're talking about now has Billy Ray Cyrus on it??") and either slinging back and forth memey references, engaging in discussions on the state of white supremacy in the music industry while also debating about the song's merit, or hearing my friends start singing "can't nobody tell me nothing..." very quietly at any moment and I can't help but join in -- it's all been very fun. Aside from making plans to play "Old Town Road" on my next country road drive to Costco, something that's occurred to me is that this is a song boosted by the status and calamity of its metanarrative. We could always use more discussions of the double standards that Black and POC artists face in the industry when it comes to genres and participating in it, and I'm honestly glad Lil Nas X just made something that was fun and made sense to him, even if "Old Town Road" doesn't stray too much from the conventions of both trap and country, resulting in a well-balanced mashup that sounds more safe than surprising to me, but is serene in its confidence nevertheless. On the flipside of that genre-mashing, Miley wishes and is probably very jealous of her father now for hopping onto this train, lest we forget about all of her cultural appropriation attempts. But for the song itself, those long, relaxed drawls and the imagery of riding a horse to the trap beat -- why not? We live in weird times now, Black people's contributions to country music were erased, and it's kind of a relaxing song. Also, I'm a fan of the "Can't nobody tell me nothing" lyric, which has become an unintentionally defiant line in the face of all the backlash, resulting in a message to rally around. Now excuse me, as I text my friends that "I'm gonna take my horse down to the old town road." [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#Lil Nas X #country #pop #music #music review #writing

[cassatine]

Okay so! THE LAST JEDI. I wanted to do a coherent post and all but hings happened so. Spoilers ahead. Like a lot of spoilers. I recommend not reading if you haven’t seen the movie. No really don’t. 

The [tl:dr]: I loved it! I’m also glad I saw it twice. First viewing felt like a weird mix of things I’d expected (including things I expected two years ago and had started thinking would Not Happen) but the way it all worked together was a punch to the gut. Also I cried a lot, which is not great for visibility. Second viewing was more enjoyable. There’s something very smoke and mirror to the story; it plays with expectations and then turns things on their head. It’s a very clever movie, tho it’s definitely got its flaws. I hardly felt the two hours and a half, could actually have done with a longer runtime because some things moved really fast. It’s also very funny, when it’s not breaking your heart and stepping repeatedly on it. In a (mostly) good way. 

The more or less good:

Starting with that assault on the Dreadnought and Paige Tico’s death, the Resistance plot went where SW rarely does. Poe learning to look at the big picture and the sad economics of war and resistance, the bleeding out of Resistance forces, the unsurprising reveal that god guys and bad guys buy their military hardware from the the same sources, it’s a relentless onslaught. The New Republic is a non-entity, the First Order has weapons aplenty, and the stage is set for a new Empire to be born and a new Rebellion to rise, and it’s all very tragic, but it’s a Star Wars, so of course the good guys live to fight another day light the spark at the end, a source of inspiration for every child escaped from a Dickens novel across the GFFA

Finn and Rose’s plot was lovely - Rose was altogether amazing, and her line about fighting to protect what you love rather than destroy what you hate is... a tad cheesy i guess but in the best of ways. I love that she wants to protect her sister’s memory and that it’s freeing the farthiers that makes the Canto Bight events worth it (i mean they’ll probably be caught again in less than a week because that’s the way of the world, but attagirl!), and that “I saved you, dummy” line. That one reviewer that called her the heart of the movie was pretty much right. 

Luke throwing the saber behind him. Mark Hamill was nothing short of great, but this moment was so very understated and yet so defining, so meaningful. also: Rey’s reaction. 

Actually everything to do with Luke was pretty great. His backstory was kept sparse, but he’s basically following in his master’s footsteps by exiling himself on a nowhere planet after a massive fuck-up, very poetic. Being a Skywalker he’s got to take it one step further drama-wise, with the whole *the Jedi will die with me* thing. Vanity!, screams ghost Yoda. 

I love that it’s fundamentally a movie about failure, and what you do after. Luke’s failure of Ben looms large, and behind it there’s the Jedi Order’s failure but he’s not the only one. Poe fails at being a leader. Finn and Rose’s mission fails. Rey fails to turn Kylo, who kind of fails as a general rule. He failed and was failed by Luke, and he kind of failed Snoke as an apprentice, from a certain point of view. All the Resistance’s plans fail. Snoke fails and die. Chewie fails at keeping porgs away. It’s a debacle left and right, and then the 3D-marionette-Yoda gives us deep words of deeper wisdom than even Rose’s, reminding us that in every failure there’s a lesson. When it doesn’t kill you or you’re not a casualty for someone else’s lesson at least hahahaha. 

The Jedi Order’s founding texts and Yoda’s “page-turners they are not” yes thank you 

Snoke and his playing up Kylo and Hux against each other. From the moment he humiliated Hux publicly to his final words, Snoke is skin-crawling awful, moreso than in TFA. There’s not one moment I don’t want to point to and go “eeeeew” about, srsly.

Chewie eating a porg. I feel so validated. 

Kylo’s epic love story with bad choices. Attaboy. 

Force Bond. CAN YOU PUT ON A COWL SOMETHING thanks for this most cliché scene straight out of a romance novel I AM LIVING!!! fucking hell. On a similar note, Rey and Kylo’s handsex. fingertips sex? whatever, it was just wow, tag ur metaphorical porn star wars, please. also: Luke’s reaction. 

Vice-Admiral Holdo is the lady of my heart and if she had to die I guess her death scene was a crowning moment of awesome at least. I wonder if the discourse will now feature fights about “if it was that easy they’d have done it with the Death Stars” and “why didn’t they.” Not looking forward to that. Not looking forward any of the discourse. At all.

The Rey parentage reveal. The scenes on Ahch-to with the dark side spot calling to her and the vision were some of my favourites, and well, Rey Random’s always been my horse, so! Very satisfying. I’m kind of wary at this point, and not sure how much trust I can put in Kylo’s words tbh, but I’m choosing to believe. 

THE THRONE ROOM FIGHT WITH THE LOBSTERGUARDS??? The beginning with Rey and Kylo back to back was EVERYTHING and the whole thing was just perfect G O D

And then the Kylo/Luke fight happened and wow 

RENPEROR i mean - this is the one thing i wanted and had stopped believing in and i got it, he turned against Snoke in yet another crowning moment of awesome (HIS REAL ENEMY!!) and made Hux go long live the supreme leader - at which point i started to pity Hux. He’s having a no good, very bad, terrible day and he suffers so much it’s all kinds of amazing. Anyway, by the end of TLJ, Kylo’s more sympathetic than he was in TFA imo (for general audiences) and graduating to big bad. I kind of expected one or the other, but both at once? 

Something in me is disappointed at the Force plot - I wanted weird eldritch Force shit, and I guess I got some on Ahch-to, but nothing to do with Snoke. As much as I like pretty much everything, including how Snoke’s death subverted expectations and changed the game, I kind of miss the road(s) not taken. 

Speaking of subverted expectations - I think I need (more) sleep and another viewing or two or three to decide how much I actually like it all, but expectations were masterfully subverted. Who Snoke is doesn’t matter because he’s dead, Kylo is still conflicted, Rey kind of became a Jedi but wow does she flirt with the dark side, and Rey Skywalker was found dead and butchered in Miami. The Resistance ends up in tatters, Luke is busy with self-exile and never technically leaves Ahch-to

REY STOLE THE BOOKS oh my girl lbr i would have too

Luke’s final projection act and how beautifully set up it was and his reunion with Leia. Insert river of tears. 

The more or less bad and the stuff that made me sad:

Yoda looked fugly. I can’t not say it. 

I loved Amilyn, and her death was a crowning moment of awesome, but also, a woman died so a man could learn a lesson

on a similar note, a species (nick)named the Caretakers made up of feminine aliens engaged in (mostly) feminine-coded activities 

DJ was rather underwhelming as a character

Rey went really fast from murderous snake monster to ~touching Kylo’s hand - timeline wise, all this happens in huh less... than... 18... hours?? though Ahch-to is like, a vergence, which means time passes differently there, it’s just never made explicit, and it’s still less than 18 hours for Kylo Ben - head hurts - in any case just one more force convo laden with tension could have helped

*Everything* happened really fast tbh. There were a lot of twists and turns, and as I said it’s very clever, but sometimes at the expanse of character growth? it’s a bit bumpier a road

FUCKING INTENDED BOOK BURNING WHAT IS IT WITH YOU STAR WARS WEREN’T THE JEDI ARCHIVES ENOUGH??

RENPEROR yeah it’s both in the good AND the bad because: i wanted it, i wanted it dearly, but also: what. no really, what. 

noooooo rey don’t close the door on kylo don’t nooooo

Okay that’s not much on the bad and there’s things i’m undecided on but that’s long enough. 

#star wars #the last jedi #spoilers #i need a bucketful of coffee and for my hangover to go away #meta #lol more like a lot of squee #i'll be more critical later probably #when i'm done with the squeeing

[donttouchthegun]

Okayyyyy received a lot of anon hate lately so thanks guys 😂

Look my post is not me saying you can’t ship Dom and Kat. I even fucking specified that in the post that shipping them is okay and that I don’t mind when people do. If you could all learn to read you’d see that I was simply saying that the hate towards Ray needs to stop and people should not be trying to get Dom and Kat to admit they are a couple or pressuring them into anything. I literally even said that not all DomKat shippers are doing this, and that that post was only directed at the ones who were. I’m not going to answer the anons because I have a feeling they’re all from the same person and even if they’re not this answers them all anyway.

I am not calling shipping two people in real life together wrong. I even shipped them together in real life when I first started watching the show. That changed only because I saw Kat was engaged and realized I loved the characters together so much that I was projecting that onto them. I’m not saying this is how everyone is and I’m not saying shipping them is wrong. I never said that even once. What I said is that the hate and the pressure needs to stop.

I am not against DomKat shippers, I’m against the ones who are so convinced it’s real that they try to get them to admit it. Which doesn’t happen very often, but does sometimes happen. I don’t understand why some people aren’t getting that message but that’s what my message is. I’m sorry if I did anything that pissed you off, that’s not at all what I was trying to do. I hate discourse and now there’s tons of it.

Trust me, I hate arguing more than anybody, and starting one wasn’t my intention. People take things the wrong way when that’s not what they were intended for and I want to clear that up. If you still have any problems with me, address me personally on DM, not with some nasty message on anonymous. I don’t want to fight with you guys. If you want to talk, then we can talk. I hate fighting and arguing. It makes me feel awful. And I really didn’t try to hurt anyone’s feelings or make them get defensive.

If you guys have any questions or wanna talk about this, message me. Otherwise, just stop. This is how hate starts. People are always going to disagree no matter what, but this is ridiculous. We are a fandom together, and the show we all love is so incredible, and lately it’s being torn apart, and I fear that I added to that. I didn’t want to. I still don’t. Sorry if that’s how you read that post, but it is not directed at DomKat shippers in general. It’s directed at the ones who go overboard and make them uncomfortable. Kat specifically addressed the issue once and said it’s hard to play a character when people see her as that character rather than herself. Those are the people this was all directed at. Not you guys.

There are people I ship in real life who aren’t a couple and never will be. I know what that’s like. I get it. I’ve been in places where stuff like that was all I had, and it saved me from a lot more self harm than I actually did. Please believe me when I tell you guys that I know what it’s like to love a couple so much that it hurts. Ask my friends in real life, they’ll tell you.

This is the last time I’m going to be addressing the issue in a long post like this.

Just an edit to further clarify this, this is a direct quote from that post at the very start:

“Attention fandom

Because this is clearly still a problem

DOMKAT IS NOT REAL

Ship them, love them, write or draw them all you want. But do NOT start tagging them in stuff, or accusing them of hiding it, or any of this other bullshit I’m seeing.”

If you read that over, it’s very clear that the post was not at all directed at DomKat shippers themselves, but the select group of people who are taking it too far. I never once said ANYTHING about shipping DomKat itself being a bad thing. If you can show me that I did I’ll take the post down but I never once said shipping them together is bad or wrong. The entire post was all about not taking it too far and trying to make it real. That’s all I was saying. That’s all I’m still saying. I know lots of you ship them together. That’s perfectly fine! It’s just like shipping a couple in a TV show that isn’t actually together, which also happens all the time. The only difference is that these are real people, so you have to be a bit more careful about what you say. That’s all I was trying to point out.

#WayHaught #Waverly Earp #Nicole Haught #Dominique Provost Chalkley #Kat Barrell #Wynonna Earp

[courtinggrievances]

Omni And Proud

courtinggrievances You're out across the lot and the lawnring of the motel when the door to your room opens and Sollux stands there.

> You're stomping off in your boots and when you hear his voice, you stop. You don't look back, but you stop.

temptingannihilation > you don't. momentum, and everything churning in your head and under your skin, you don't stop or wait to see if he responds, you just keep going, across grass and dirty pavement, breathing hard in time with your feet hitting the ground until you’fre tripping right into him.

> which isnt nearly enough to knock him off his feet, of course, so you just... grab at him with shaking hands and desperate claws because you dont know what else to /do/

courtinggrievances > You know he's barreling towards you with all the grace of a steam train because you can hear it, you can hear him coming. You could easily avoid him but you don't, and he crashes into you, all grabbing hands and curling fingers and desperation, much to the amusement of a few onlookers.

> You don't know what your feelings are doing. You're all broody and moody and you have no idea what your emotions are doing.

temptingannihilation "You asshole--" you choke out, sounding more like you're about to collapse into frustrated tears (again, for like the third time) than anything. Pleading.  "You-- you can't just... say shit like that and then leave! What-- what do you want me to /do/??"

courtinggrievances > You're literally about ready to punch his stupid face.

"You can't fucking hide under a lounge chaisse, refuse to talk to me, and then get mad when I decide to leave to sort out my own bullshit feelings, godamnit, Temp!" You hiss at him gently, taking one of his hands and clenching it.

"I wanted to talk to you, and you're being cryptic as you are a fucking crytid. I get you don't want to talk about this shit, **I** don't want to talk about this shit, but you put words in my mouth, I'm frustrated, fuck, I'm frustrated as all fuck! Why wouldn't I be? How am ***I*** the asshole here? Fucking talk to me, jackass!"

temptingannihilation "I was /trying/!" you grind out between your teeth, clutching at his hand right back as tight as you can, both sets of claws digging into one and the other, but the slight sting of pain is almost grounding. "I could barely see my fucking /screen/, okay...??"

"I /want/ to talk about it, I just dont fucking know how, I dont know what I want, I don't-- I don't /know!/ I dont-- when did I put words in your mouth??"

courtinggrievances > You punch him right in his face with your fist, wrenching it out of his grip. How dare he??? It's like he's playing with your emotions, it's like he's keeping secrets, it's like he's privy to some big joke that you know nothing about.

"You tried to tell me I thought your emotions were a fucking game, you tried to tell me I thought that you were cute when you were having feelings and emotions, you tried to put words into my mouth without fucking asking about my opinion- Now, I may be a MASSIVE fucking asshat with a brick wall for a pan, but I don't fit the stereotype of brawn equals dumb, Temp, or at least, I didn't think so until tonight!"

> You're shouting a little bit, beads of red curling at the corners of your eyes.

"I don't know what's going on, I'm overwhelmed by you being upset, I have no fucking clue why you're upset! I got the anons in my box and while I was trying to deal with the flustered feelings of 'Hey, maybe you should kiss Sollux!' and jackasses trying to goad me into talking about pailing you, the dashboard fucking exploded with discourse about quadrants that I'm just NOT in the fucking MOOD to deal with, and when I turned around to try and sort out my feelings with the ONLY person who fucking understands me, you're under the lounge chair and I've got NO fucking clue why, I'm blindsided, I feel like I was fucking hit by a truck, so will you just fucking... Tell me what's going on? I'm out of the fucking loop here, and I hate it!"

temptingannihilation > You reel back, hands cupped over your bleeding nose, and before he's even done talking you're yelling too

"I WASN'T TALKING ABOUT //YOU//, ASSHOLE!"

courtinggrievances > Throw your hands in the air???

temptingannihilation "I wasn't-- /you're/ not the one who was making a game of it! Okay?? Do you fucking get that now?? That fucking-- anon bullshit... I made the mistake of opening my fucking mouth an inch and got that for my trouble!" courtinggrievances

> Your voice is quieter, now, and your fists are held to your sides, shaking, while you listen.

"Explain yourself."

temptingannihilation > You're breathing hard, spitting out blood, a nasally, snotty mess.

"I was just-- fucking talking with some people, and the subject of...quads and their bullshit rules came up. I didnt even mention your fucking name, or anything, I just wanted to let off some steam because I never know what the fuck I'm supposed to feel about anything or how to /deal/ with it or-- just. /Fuck/."

> You wipe at your face, sniff loudly and start coughing as a result, great.

"And-- and they thought it would be super fucking fun to tease me about being flustered when that wasn't the fucking /point/ in the first place. And no I wont tell you who, it doesnt matter, they didnt mean to. I just... I didn't--"

temptingannihilation "And I was fucking embarrassed, okay?? That wasnt the kind of thing I wanted all over the dashboard, but there it went!!"

courtinggrievances > You hold out your hand and you take his, and you pull him to you for a short, rough, sloppy kiss you have to stand on your tiptoes for.

temptingannihilation > your teeth meet with a painful click, and you're smearing blood all over his face, a cracking sound in your throat, and when he lets you go you just... flop down onto the ground like a string-cut puppet and tug at him until he joins you

courtinggrievances > This is not a good place to be? You let him tug but you don't join him, instead you lean down and you pick him up and carry him, bridal style, off into the bushes lining the motel space.

> You sit him down in your lap when you sit, though, and you are quiet, and you'll wipe his nose before you keep kissing him.

temptingannihilation > you honestly kind of lost feeling in your legs there for a moment, but you know what, sure. this works. what a fucking scene you've already made, goddamn it, whatever, anyone stupid enough to get nosy is getting fried and you wont even feel bad about it

> and you just... you let him, and try just to focus on This for a little while, on him. it doesnt take the place of words, but it has its place too

courtinggrievances > You hold him there to you for a while, and you're quiet about it, until, eventually you speak.

"... Did someone try to pressure you into putting a name to us?"

temptingannihilation > You shake your head where it's bowed next to his, while you work your arms around him, fingers curling in his shirt.

"No, it-- it wasn't anything like that, /I/ want to, KK, I've /been/ wanting to, I just... don't know how. I dont want to try to make it just one thing, I can't, I-- I dont know if it's omni or smearing or /what/, but I can't... And I dont-- I dont know if I hate myself more for feeling that way, or still feeling like there's anything /wrong/ with it. I dont know how you can /stand/ it when you've been dealing with my shit since we were wigglers, it's not fair to you, how can you /want/ this??"

> goddamn it, you are just so sick of crying

courtinggrievances > You chuckle, softly, and wipe his tears. It takes you a few minutes to respond, you're choosing your words carefully.

"I... I'm fine with it being omni. I'm fine with it being whatever we- or you- want it to be. I'm so fine with this, all of this, and I WANT all of this, just because, like... Fuck, dude. I want you. It's not This Particular thing," You say it with inflection on each word, "That I want, but I want YOU. I'm fine with not knowing about it, or knowing about it, or knowing what's up with our stupid little relationship, because I'm fine with you. You infuriate me and you make me feel a hundred times better about myself, you can calm me down and you can rile me up."

> Take a deep breath, pet his hair. "It may not be fair to me for you to want to put a name to it if I'm not ready for that bullshit, but did you ever consider that it definitely isn't fair to you for leaving it to your imagination? I couldn't stand to put you in just one quadrant. The empire's view of quadrants is whack anyway- They're only in place so that the empire has statistically  more combinations for slurry. You don't deserve to fucking... pick one. You deserve all that I have to offer, red or pale or black or grey."

temptingannihilation "I /know/ it doesn't matter what we call any of it--"

> you are trying. so hard, not to just break down all over him again because you have no concept of an emotional filter whatsoever and everything he's saying is just... once those floodgates are open, they just. go.

"I don't-- I don't know why I keep getting so fucking hung up on it! I dont-- want to try to make it into anything /different/, I dont want a box, I-- I just..."

> you drop your head against his shoulder, curl yourself close, your voice quiet and hoarse, your own shoulders hitching, trembling.

"I'm /scared/, KK... I /know/ you are too. But I'm not-- I'm not fucking scared of what they'll do, I don't /care/, it wont /change/ anything. But we could-- fucking die tomorrow for all we know, and I-- I'm scared that if we dont think about it /now/, we'll never get to..."

courtinggrievances > You nod. You get it. You do. And you'll do everything in your power to help him figure it out.... So, you get out your phone.

> You message Fex a quick second, and then return to Temp.

"I once sent in a message to a Ezine about this sort of thing, let me see if I can... pull that up. It pulled this sort of thing all together, it'd be really helpful for us... Do you want to go back inside? It's... kind of risky to talk about this shit out here, you know."

temptingannihilation > you snort faintly, and just kind of butt your head against his shoulder a little.

"Dork..."

> ...you nod though, even if you're still fully prepared to turn anything that gets too close into charcoal.

"Yeah... Let's. Let's just... yeah."

courtinggrievances > You pick him up again (You love doing that, he's all legs and arms and no nothing else, you love his sharp corners,) and carry him back in, where you carefully slide him back under the chaise lounge and somehow manage to fit yourself under there too. > Fex has managed to reply to you in this time and you shoot him off a small response.

> Next, you pull up >> https://fluffpuffandstuff.tumblr.com/post/156045666788/what-the-heck-am-ii-feeliing-labeliing-your << that you got from Fex, and you show Temp, quietly, waiting for a response.

temptingannihilation > it aches a little somewhere in your pusher because it's still hard to shake off that feeling of being a burden, of All of you being too much for one person, but... you have to trust him to know what he wants, because you'd be lost without him.

> it's cramped and dusty, but you dont have a proper pile, and right now... you feel better just sort of hidden away from everything right now. there's a couple inches of clearance, at least, and with a little maneuvering you can huddle up against him and look at the same screen

> you sigh a little, long and unsteady-- and then you sneeze, and curse, because goddamn it your nose fucking /hurts/.

courtinggrievances > You point at the part where Pal talks about boiling it down to one thing.

"... You want to boil it down, let's. I just want you to be happy and safe, but I gotta fucking tell you, I'm having a really fucking hard time boiling my emotions down into just, protect, soothe, intervene, and improve."

> You bunt your head against his, leaning there with your warmth and sturdyness.

temptingannihilation > you almost laugh, at how much better you feel already just to lie here with him like this. you could have avoided all this bullshit if you'd just fucking gone to him in the first place, but you'd been... ashamed? definitely embarrassed, to show your face, after subjecting him to all that out of nowhere.

> "I don't know if I can, either... I don't think I /want/ to. I mean-- all of that, it's there, yeah. Not always at the same time, but it's-- it's not really This Thing and then That Thing either, and I /know/ it feels different when it's more pitch, or more flush, or more pale... But it's more complicated than that and I mean. I'm /happy/ with that. If it wasn't that, it...wouldn't be. Us."

> You roll over so you can hide your face against him. Your ears are burning, your voice is quiet.

"...I. I just... wish it was easier to put 'us' into a word that felt like /enough/. To-- fucking love you in /every/ way that's as real as any quadrant..."

> It's... the first time you've said it so plainly. But after he had... You couldn't let yourself do any less.

courtinggrievances > You're uncharacteristically quiet.

> the silence stretches on, and while it does, you rub his skin with your fingers, you explore his feet with your own, you get good and cozy with your body to his, and after five or six minutes, you say, "Then... Let's just be omni. Not just omni quad, but Omni, with inflection. There's mate and pitch and pale and ash, and we'll just... be Omni. Our all in ones. Home runs, hole in ones, strike, ace in the hole. Can we just do that? I fucking love you, and I know you love me, but... With all the shit happening, I don't know if we even have the time or capacity to... BE anything... specific."

> You trail off.

temptingannihilation > you'd start getting knotted up with anxiety, if he didn't make sure to keep gently touching you here and there, enough contact to reassure /without/ going into full blown pale territory, to let you know that whatever he was thinking, it wasn't going to end in him pulling away or-- or getting up and leaving you there again. though you could really only blame yourself for that, at this point.

> you blink, slowly; find one of his idly wandering hands and hook your fingers around his and tentatively nod.

"I... that could be okay. Yeah. I-- fuck, KK, I don't... I dont care what we /do/ with it. But we're... 'Best friends' hasn't been enough for a long time, we're past that, you know that, right? Is it-- Can it just be okay to want /more/? Even if nothing really changes...?"

courtinggrievances > You nod, pushing your face into his chest.

> You decide to be honest? Yeah.

"... Listen, alright? We both know I've been... super stressed out about this absolute horseshit. You.. You're really the only thing in my life that's... Stable. You know? There's Kanaya, but she doesn't come close to the modicum of comfort you provide. I can't... do this, with her. I don't want to do this with anyone else. Best friends isn't enough, you're right, but... I mean, are you sure? You fucking... I don't know what the penalties are for hanging around with a mutated fuck like me. You're lower class, to them, but I'm a fucking..."

> You heave a  mighty sigh and put your face in his chest. "Wanting more, even if nothing changes, is the epitome of a relationship where nothing can be settled. There's no name for us, and there shouldn't be, here on this planet, but... I like Omni just fine."

temptingannihilation > /Sigh/.

"You're /what/? An off-spectrum walking cull offense? KK, I don't-- fucking /care/ what the penalties are, they'd throw my ass in a rig first chance they got even if I wasn't wanted for fucking treason, and-- And even if /that/ wasn't the case. What difference does it make?? I'm staying //right here//. I wouldn't... I wouldn't be /saying/ this shit if I wasn't sure..."

> He burrows himself close, and you just...wrap yourself around him and squeeze him tight. "KK, I don't...want to think about where I'd be right now, if I didn't have you. Nothing else matters, against that... So let's. Let's just have this, and damn the rest... Okay?"

courtinggrievances > Your ears flick. If nothing else matters, why was he being so serious about this? You felt pressured into choosing and now you didn't, and you don't know what to feel. You've always had more emotions and feeling than was good for you, but this was exceptional.

> Still. Fuck it, you decide, and you let him wrap around and squeeze. "Okay."

> Pause.

"... Your nose okay?"

temptingannihilation > you grimace, and reach up to touch it gingerly. it feels hot and swollen, but not broken, at least.

"Can't believe you fucking punched me..."

courtinggrievances > You don't speak for well over a minute. When you do, it's small, ashamed. "I expected you to punch back. With the way you were gripping my hand-"

You raise it, to show the welts from his claws.

"I just figured you might want to let out some aggression, or some bullshit like that."

temptingannihilation > You look, and flinch your eyes away, ears low.

"It's-- That wasn't... What I needed then, I just...  I don't know. I felt really messed up and I dug in. Scared, I guess..."

> you sigh, and reach for his hand so you can look again, carefully brush your thumb over the welts. "... ...'m sorry."

courtinggrievances > You lean over and put your head further into his chest. "It's fine, knucklehead. Okay? Let's just... Move on from this shit. We're omni, now, yeah? Heh... Fex is going to be so fucking pleased, he's always rooting for that sort of thing. I wonder if anyone else will be..."

> You yawn. It's almost dawn by now and you haven't been sleeping well still. (It's gotten better, but not perfect.).

temptingannihilation "You sure?" you mumble, because it's hard not to feel guilty for...well. All of it. Kicking it all off, the misunderstandings... Making him feel like he had to deal with it because it was eating you up.

> You sigh... Give him another squeeze. Smile a little. "Yeah, heh... I dunno. Guess we'll see. ...cmon, we probably...shouldn't fall asleep under here. 's fucking dusty and we're not gonna have the coon for much longer..."

courtinggrievances > You make absolutely no move to change your position against him. "I've slept in worse places," You mumble soft. "If you want me to move, you're going to have to fucking. Make me." You pucker your lips in a mock kiss up at him, making it very clear what you want.  Hecking nerd. If you were allowed to kiss him without judgement or his feeling bad about it now, you were totally going to.

> Part of you worries how Kanaya will take it.

> Part of you still wants to keep it secret.

temptingannihilation > You give a snort, and a crooked grin

"You're a fucking dork, KK..."

> ...you feel kind of silly, actually. And silly for /feeling/ silly. And for the silly things your pusher is doing right now. When you got right down to it, you /do/ fluster easy as anything, it's painfully obvious... It's different somehow, than kissing in the heat of the moment, whether that meant pailing or just some long pent up emotional outburst. Now, it's...

Deliberate. And you'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about it a lot, lately, kissing him without it being some Big Deal, just... Nice and easy. ...and he wants it too. So...

> Kiss the boy

courtinggrievances > See?? This was good. This was very good. Ahhh? The tips of your ears flush red and the surge of heat to your body makes you literally turn into a space heater, especially in such a close and cramped space as under this couch thing.

> He kisses you and you only let it linger a moment or two before you roll out from underneath the lounge and sit up, stretching. "Come on, nerd."

temptingannihilation > At least he's not the only one... You've gone more than a bit yellow, and you might be sporting just the tiniest hint of a goofy smile as you worm your way out from underneath, sitting up to brush the dustbunnies out of your hair.

"Who's the nerd, huh..."

courtinggrievances > You pick him up with both hands and hoist him up over your shoulder, balancing his bony ass on your palm for a few seconds. The ease with which you can pick up his 'I only weigh a hundred pounds' body is amazing. You've carried 60+ pounds on your back for well over four perigees now, Sollux is easy.

"You are, nerd," You keep him balanced there at your shoulder height, grinning wide.

temptingannihilation "SDfgsd--"

> It's not /fair/ how easily he can just toss you around like this! Not fair at all! And you really shouldn't enjoy it so much!! Like, fine-- you have a type, and that type falls squarely into the category of "could break you in half without breaking a sweat". It's not a high bar to reach, but damn it, it's something.

"KK, oh my /god/, stop feeling me up and put me down!"

> You try to sound irritated, but you're trying really, /really/ hard not to laugh. You could turn the tables easily, of course... but you dont want to.

courtinggrievances > A cocky, arrogant smirk peels across your face. "Yeah? You want me to put you down, lightweight?"

> And you toss him like a basketball, aiming for the rim of the recuperacoon, (And when he assuredly lands in, you bend over laughing, a loud, full bellied laugh that hasn't been heard in literal perigees.)

temptingannihilation > Aw, shit.

"KK, GODDAMN IT!"

> He tips you right into it, and you flounder around before pulling yourself up over the rim, dripping slime-- your clothes drenched, ugh, you /hate/ that!!

You're covered in the goop. And he's laughing like you haven't heard in ages, too long, you just have to kind of marvel at it a little.

> Then you throw a handful of sopor at him.

courtinggrievances > You can't believe he didn't say it coming, the way you'd asked if he wanted you to put him down was clear, with the corners of your mouth crinkling up with the inflection of your words.

> You're still laughing when the sopor ends up clipping your chin and drops down your chest and by then, you're stripping everything down just so you could climb into coon with the one thing you felt the world couldn't take from you.

> God, you loved Sollux Captor.

#this is important #important #plot advancement #i think? yeah #and also like.... holy shit #hey good job at those anons this was shit that needed to happen for a long time #like #a really long time #these two have been fucked up about this since their creation #a whole year ago almost #damn #i dont think i need to tag anything for this!! #ask to tag