#so it's hard to tell if he's genuinely bigoted and just good at hiding it or well-meaning but too dense to realize u cannot say that shit

[mosspapi]

Can't decide if this dude in my studio course is well-intentioned but ignorant as fuck, or just straight up a bigot :(

#he's very friendly. apologizes when he says/does smth over the line. I don't get bad vibes from him n my gut instinct is usually p accurate #but then he does shit like last night where he repeatedly and aggressively called someone a 'fucking fruit' bcuz he didn't like the lecture #(now. I don't have the full context of that bcuz I was just overhearing parts of it. from what I gathered he's not doing well in that class #and was frustrated with the lecture material and taking it out on a guest lecturer who was talking abt feminism? but I don't actually know) #(however. he was Very Much using 'fruit' as a slur in this context and being derogatory. regardless of Why he was doing it) #so it's like. brother idk if I can excuse that. like yes it's possible he doesn't realize that's not ok. but also dude ur like 25 or smth. #but again. he strikes me as a genuinely decent guy so I'm like kinda surprised #idk he gives off like. ur stereotypical 'class clown' or well-meaning idiot if that makes sense. #so it's hard to tell if he's genuinely bigoted and just good at hiding it or well-meaning but too dense to realize u cannot say that shit #armchair speaks

[paperbackribs]

Demisexual Eddie who assumed he's straight by default so when Steve says his soulmate words he thinks it's a platonic match.

Steve Harrington looks a hair's breadth away from kissing him and Eddie doesn't know what to do about that.

He eyes him nervously as they linger inside Rick's boathouse; he can hear outside the faint sound of Robin telling Max that they'll drop her off with Dustin. The torch Steve carries shines a yellow light onto the pine floors, while the full moon illuminates enough of the room to see Steve's eyes intently trained on Eddie's face, flickering at moments to his lips.

Eddie clears his throat and shuffles his feet. The tension that had drained from him once he realised that Dustin and his friends were here to help rising again, reminding him of the jolt of shock when Steve had said his soulmate words by crying out for Eddie to wait wait wait as he rushed him with a broken bottle.

"So, uh, I think you should come home with me. My place is empty but for me and it'll be safer than hanging out here," Steve offers.

He glances at Eddie's hair, which must truly be bedraggled by this point after the amount of times he's clutched it in fear and anxiety. "You can clean up and get a meal too; you must be exhausted."

And it sounds like a really fantastic offer, but Eddie's worried about the slight sway in Steve's bearing, like he's close to swooping in to kiss Eddie when he's not even like that. It fuels the tension until Eddie blurts out, "I'm not gay."

"What?" Steve blinks, pulling back, but curiously Eddie doesn't feel any better for his withdrawal.

Nevertheless, he takes the moment to edge away, just slightly because he doesn't want the guy to think he's a bigot. It's just that he doesn't see Steve like that.

"Yeah, I mean, I said your words so I know we're soulmates..."

Steve looks down at his wrist, thoughtfully thumbing what are you doing here. "But you don't like guys?"

Eddie shakes his head gently, genuinely sorry in the face of Steve's confusion. "No, but that just means we're platonic, right?" A jitter of an old fear runs through him and he bites his lip against it, simply asking, "Is that okay?"

Steve's brow furrows and his eyes flicker to the car barely visible in the dark of the night outside. He exhales a long breath, "Sorry, I know I'm repeating myself here but it's a lot to take in. You're straight."

Eddie nods sympathetically. He knows what it's like to live on the fringes of what's considered normal, it must have been really hard for Steve to be gay in small town Hawkins. He wonders if all the rumours of him being a ladies man come from overcompensation or from the rumour mill running overtime.

Either way, it must have been hard for Steve to navigate when all he'd wanted to do is date boys. Probably find his gay soulmate too, Eddie thinks sadly.

"It's rare, but not impossible, right?" He frowns at his bicep where the words are hidden under his jacket, "Though I don't have two marks. Do you?"

Steve huffs a laugh as he rubs at his temple, looking like he doesn't know where to start. "Rare is right, but, yeah, two soulmates." He taps his chest, over the heart where the second mark must lay, and Eddie thinks that is only further proof. His romantic soulmate's words over his heart, what further evidence do they need.

He smiles, relieved for Steve even as he thinks that he'll need to unpack his own feelings over apparently not having a romantic soulmate. He's not sure it'll change much for him he mulls before he's distracted by the expression that crosses Steve's face, uncertainty falling to what looks like determination.

"Either way, it doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting you a safe place to hide. If we could find you through Family Video's records then the cops can't be far behind."

Dread is almost electric in his mouth at the thought, thinking of shouting voices and raised guns. Eddie nods jerkily, "Yeah, good point. Are you sure it's okay? Soulmates or not, you're taking a risk by harbouring the guy who looks like he killed the queen of Hawkins High."

The hardness in Steve's face breaks, softening like gentle rain. He touches the edge of Eddie's sleeve very carefully like he's trying to offer comfort without any skin contact, "You didn't do it and you deserve to not hide like a rat in the dark."

Steve looks around, noting the wet wood and the ever-present creaking of a structure over water. His nose scrunches, "Plus I don't know how you can take the algae smell, man. I'd be running towards my offer."

The tension inside Eddie falls, a gentle cascade like a piece of paper fluttering to the ground. "You're right, how could I live with myself," he says wryly, trying to hide how warmed he is by Steve's insistence.

"So you'll come?" Steve asks hopefully and Eddie nods, passing him to walk towards the car, "Let's get going, big boy."

more steddie fics here

#soulmates #steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson

[scrabble-scribbles]

ok. fuck you.

I am so tired, and im gonna try to put to words the realization I just had after arguing with another brain-dead adult

Queer people will NEVER be safe. never, not in this world, and not for a good, long time. No other minority group will EVER be safe, not for decades or centuries. You know why?

Any amount of bigotry aimed at my community is a threat. any bigotry has the chance to grow and grow non-stop, even if it starts with one person, it will grow. the argument that “you have rights now, you’re safe” is such fucking bullshit, and I genuinely do not understand how anyone can believe that.

You know what was a right? Abortion. Guess what is no longer a right, because bigoted people were left to their hatred, because “its a right now, abortion is safe” was used to quiet anyone trying to get the SCOTUS case codified? Thats fucking right. Abortion is no longer a right in the US. it was. but bigots were allowed to keep feeding their hatred, their ignorance, and because of that still-existing bigotry, no matter how quiet or small they might have been, got to remove my rights to bodily autonomy. 

The argument that once you have rights, they’re there forever, shows SO MUCH ignorance in how the world works. having rights means dogshit. a piece of paper saying “you have the right to live” MEANS NOTHING. 

I dont get why this is so hard to understand. having rights doesnt equate to saftey in ANY WAY. Black people have rights. they’re still killed by the cops. Queer people have rights. How many trans people have been killed by bigots already? how many kids have tried killing themselves because of the slurs thrown at them? How many queer people are homeless and starving because they were kicked out for their sexuality? Disabled people have rights, but if i wanted to adopt, I’d have to prove that my disabilities dont make me any less of a person. Disabled people still suffer from lack of autonomy, how many times have you seen a douchebag refuse to listen to a wheelchair user when they say they dont need help?

Having rights does not mean that bigotry is gone, it just means that the government (who we all know gives absolutely ZERO fucks about anyone) did the bare minimum to pretend they care so they look good for their voters, and stay in power. 

I will never be safe as long as queerphobia exists. I will never be safe as long as abelism exists. There is not a single minority in this world that will be safe as long as bigotry exists.

laws are written words. laws are fucking worthless. no law will stop the transphobic people from killing trans people. no laws will stop a racist cop from shooting an innocent man. no laws HAVE ever stopped bigotry.

what do they do? they tell bigots they need to hide, and be quieter with their plans and attacks. they tell minorities that our lives are only worth a few bits of ink on powerless paper. 

saying I have nothing to be scared of because the government codified gay marriage is one of the most ignorant things i have ever seen.

a law wont protect me from the football player who called me a dyke when he saw the rainbow on my shirt

a law didnt stop the TSA agents who refused to touch me when they saw my trans pin

a law didnt materialize to keep me from being shoved into a wall by a security guard when I tried going to the bathroom

a law didnt stop my friend from being strangled to death by someone who thought they were a threat for simply existing.

the law didnt help my friend who was assaulted when they accidentally let slip that they were queer  

a law didnt protect the people who were murdered simply for existing in public, or the people beaten for it.

We will not be safe until bigotry is gone. Never. we can’t be. until bigotry is gone, there will always be people who’s hatred overpowers their caution. there will always be people who hate me so much that they would risk going to prison just to hurt me, because in their eyes, my existence is something so utterly vile, something so horribly evil and wrong, that any method justifies getting rid of me.

I’m not safe. Neither are you. and we won’t ever be.

#tw bigotry #rant #queer #transgender #gay #trans #look #i spent 30 minutes debating someone #and at the end of it they called me a #fucking useless fag that's going to die sad and alone #so i believe i have a reason to be slightly perturbed #but yeah #the realization that you arent safe sucks #and i am aware others have talked about this before #and i did know it #like #subconsciously #but its different to have the CONSCIOUS realization smack you upside the head

[bestworstcase]

farran rereads lost lagoon: chapters 16-17

back at it.

re: romance novel: “I saw a patch of red flowers, and I thought they would be striking against Cass’s dark hair. She wasn’t exactly a flower wearer, but maybe she’d let me pin one on her dress? The color would set off her fair skin so perfectly. And she could at least keep some in a vase by her bed. I refused to believe there was a person alive who didn’t feel better with freshly cut flowers in her room.” that’s gay rapunzel

i do admittedly have some ambivalent feelings about this passage. on the one hand it’s - yes, very gay. but also it feels to me like such a clear illustration of the difficulty rapunzel has with empathy and listening to other people when their experiences or expectations or needs diverge from hers; she acknowledges that cass isn’t into flowers, but follows it up with “but maybe i can get her to wear some anyway,” and of course there’s the whole refusing to believe anyone could feel differently about having flowers in their room than she does. and it also has this weird undercurrent of - god, i don’t know how to phrase it in a succinct way.

this specific passage was on my mind when i wrote this bit in moonless air chapter 4: 

Still. She plucks at the stitches of her jack-of-plate, self-conscious.

It’s the nicest thing she owns. Soft green velvet sewn over sturdy layers of canvas and steel. Armor. She’d saved up for more than a year to buy it for herself on the anniversary of her adoption two years ago, and at the time it had been nothing but a frivolous luxury. Stupid, really. She’d never had real reason to wear it in Herzingen, not for anything besides teaching herself how to move with its weight and entertaining ridiculous fantasies—but last night, Moira had intimated that their destination in Vardaros is fancy as well as dangerous. So the jack seemed… appropriate.

Sharp. She twitches.

Clothing—fashion isn’t– Cassandra’s always hated dresses. It’s a trait that demands a certain amount of indifference to what other people think of her appearance.

And she can do indifference. Cassandra has indifference in spades. But nobody’s ever paid her a compliment quite like that before: baldly appreciative. Straightforward. Not like all the times Rapunzel coaxed her into tolerating crowns of late-summer flowers because the colors look so nice with your complexion! and not like the Commander’s gruff praise for how grown-up she looked in the hideous pastel gowns that had come with the lady-in-waiting gig.

because – like, cass is butch, and “not a flower wearer,” and here in lost lagoon we have this passage where rapunzel expresses this pretty straightforward attraction to cassandra but in the context of imagining cassandra presenting in a much more feminine way than she is comfortable with - in a dress with flowers in her hair etc - and it just... rubs me the wrong way a little bit. and this is not to say like cass can’t be butch and put a flower in her hair but when it’s paired with rapunzel specifically acknowledging that cass doesn’t WANT to wear flowers then it - yeah i feel weird about this passage. 

and that translated into cass having a whole little crisis over being complimented for her appearance without implicit pressure to be more feminine for the first time ever

anyways

i still can’t get over the name monsieur lefleur 

rapunzel summarizes hervanian culture as “brash but can be funny; distrustful but not mean-spirited” so, basically, they are americans

she is feeling very Prepared to meet with them, in contrast to every other time she’s met with foreign dignitaries or nobility before this. eugene tries to warn her that cass is PISSED with her and she just brushes him off, as one does, by saying that cass is “not all bubbles and moonbeams” but that she is “a softy” inside. 

of course this leads up to cass blowing up and going off while rapunzel tries to calm her down and just - groan this line. 

“People don’t change! You told a criminal a detail that puts my entire future at risk!”

how many times have i said “cass doesn’t act this way in tts” i feel like it’s a constant drumbeat. but i have to say, again, that cass doesn’t act this way in tts. i don’t think it’s unrealistic for her to think like this, given that her father is essentially corona’s chief of police and she idolizes him, but i feel the need to reiterate that there is zero sign of cass having this mindset in tts proper. and it does sort of bother me when people read this into cass’s character because it undermines and delegitimizes her dislike of eugene in early s1. 

which like. tts itself sort of frames their mutual dislike as a mutual problem, but it’s... really not? and imo the best illustration of this is in this exchange from cassandra vs eugene: 

CASSANDRA: Unbelievable. Did you eat all the cookies?

EUGENE: I’m not a pig, Cassandra. I ate all of your cookies; I’m saving mine for later.

CASSANDRA: Ugh– you are nothing but a self-serving, inconsiderate, arrogant freeloader!

EUGENE: [scoffing] You know, I can rattle off insulting adjectives describing your personality, too, but to do so would imply that you actually have a personality, and I just wouldn’t feel right about doing that!

this is the dynamic every time they squabble in early s1. 

1 - eugene does something selfish or thoughtless - in this case taking all the cookies and milk for himself. 

2 - cassandra calls him out for it, and he doubles down, often taking a potshot at her in the process. 

3 - cassandra gets mad and calls his behavior what it is (self-serving, inconsiderate, arrogant)

4 - eugene gets defensive and insults her as a person, typically with variations on calling her icy / unfeeling / humorless / joyless. 

which is to say, their fights are initiated by eugene’s poor behavior, and cassandra attacks his behavior but eugene attacks cassandra herself. like, eugene is the dude who insults you and then goes “pfft why can’t you take a joke” when you get upset with him. that’s what this is. 

moreover, when eugene’s, for lack of a better term, residual flynn rider-ness starts to taper off, cassandra’s criticism of his behavior also tapers off, AND she gets much gentler about how she phrases this criticism once he starts to actually take it on board. but there’s no accompanying shift in the way eugene speaks to and about her - the jibes about her being humorless or cranky or soulless literally never stop and at no point does he ever seem to consider that cass might not appreciate them as much as he thinks she does. 

(to be clear, i don’t think they bother cass very much if at all - but they do create and reinforce a perception on eugene’s end that cass Doesn’t Have Feelings and the background radiation of that contributes to the toxicity that develops in season 2.)

like again, pulling from cassandra vs eugene here, eugene is extremely insulting towards cassandra even when he’s ostensibly coming to her defense: 

RANDOM THUG: Look at that, Fancy-Boots has got something to say!

EUGENE: Name-calling? Come on, we’re better than that, aren’t we? Sure, we could sit here and make fun of each other—tease Cassandra for her chronic joylessness, or me for my uncommonly good looks, or you for your poor dental hygiene, tragic fashion sense, robust body odor, and what are clearly woefully misguided decision making skills, but do you really want to go down that road?

ALL OF WHICH IS TO SAY - besides demonstrating an obvious willingness to give eugene another chance once he starts doing the bare minimum to not be a dick to her, cassandra doesn’t like eugene because eugene is an asshole to her and takes the enormous privileges he is given completely for granted. 

saying “well she doesn’t like him because he was a criminal and she doesn’t believe criminals ever change” erases that completely and reframes the conflict as cassandra treats eugene unfairly because of bigotry that she needs to unlearn. lost lagoon takes this even one step further in that lost lagoon eugene is genuinely trying to be responsible, he is taking his new lot in life seriously. he doesn’t need cass to tell him off for acting like an ass because he doesn’t act like an ass. he shows actual interest in getting to know cass and makes an effort to break through her hostility in order to get along. unlike his tts counterpart, lagoon eugene really doesn’t do anything wrong, and that makes cassandra’s intense hatred of him on the grounds that he was a thief look completely irrational and, like i said, bigoted. 

it’s just very frustrating to me.

anyways

rapunzel tries very hard to persuade cass that it’s actually totally fine that she told eugene the secret because she just can’t keep secrets from eugene (except the lagoon which she has arbitrarily decided is totes fine to keep secret and i am pretty sure this contradiction never gets pointed out) - and cass is having none of it, and of course arianna interrupts before anything can get resolved. 

they rush out and monsieur lefleur interrupts them, asking questions about the lost lagoon. he reveals that he heard an ~elegant cloaked person~ inquiring about it in the library. he asks for the book. they say no. the red herring smells to high heavens, and the chapter ends with rapunzel subtly telling cass to hide the book ~for the safety of the kingdom~ and oh my god i just can’t handle the low stakes. 

seventeen picks up from there with cassandra’s point of view; she’s suspicious of lefleur and angsts a lot about how she has no time to train and she needs to get out of corona yada yada. her plan is literally to just walk until she finds someone to hire her on as a guard which. lol. this kid.

i feel like this is the strongest passage in the whole book: 

She said there couldn’t be any secrets between Eugene and her. But why—especially when it meant sacrificing my future and everything I held dear? I’d read about romantic love in poems, and it seemed to me like a spell. Sounded great for the lovebirds, but what about the other people.

Did I just not matter in the face of this love, even though I had been the one to risk everything to show Rapunzel the world? Was I just supposed to fall on my sword because Eugene was uncomfortable that he didn’t have every last piece of information about Rapunzel?

she has a brief argument with owl, who is a pretty obvious stand-in for her own doubts / feeling that she truly belongs in corona and doesn’t actually want to leave. but she has no choice! but it’s stormy, so she can’t leave! oh no!

(i think if tts really strongly felt she had no choice but to free corona, a measly thunderstorm would not be enough to stop her.)

#lost lagoon reread #cassunzel

[yggdrasil-mith0s]

I need some serious psychological help: Confessions from the blog owner.

Okay, so feel free to ignore this but I feel like I need to get some things off my chest and seriously talk about some things. This blog has been my lifeline over the past few years with my followers becoming my only friends. My best friends. People that genuinely care about me and listen to me. So I feel the need to say some things, let you all know where I am currently at in life, and possibly receive some advice if anyone reads this.

First, let me say I think I have gone through life with undiagnosed AD(H)D. Everytime I am genuinely interested in something career related or getting back into school, I start to get things together. Before I know it, I lose all interest and completely leave it behind, never to follow through. I have a bad problem with this in almost everything I do. It's also why I have 10 different save files in different games and none of which ever get beaten except maybe 1 or 2. I haven't made any significant strides or moved forward in life at all.

Another thing I have come to realize is I hate who I am. No, I don't mean my morals or how I am genuinely empathetic. I mean I have believed I was a straight cisgender male for 3/4s of my life. Being in quarantine has helped me figure out a few things. Mainly that I am Nonbinary and I am Pansexual. I am sure of that now. It's lead to quite the mental breakdown and uncovering bottled emotions and traumas. Others had me convinced I was cisgender male by hateful words, cunning deciet, and manipulating tactics and twisting my mindset into thinking I was wrong for considering anything other than cisgender male. @prideknights had a beautiful submission that basically opened my eyes to how hateful words have caused me to hate myself, for I was forcing an identity that didn't belong to me to satisfy those that wanted to give identities or take them to fit their agenda/beliefs. I fell for it. And it's no wonder I have been dealing with depression, dysphoria (though I didn't understand what it was till someone recently told me "yeah, that's gender dysphoria notbro (They say notbro instead of bro because they are nonbinary and use notbro as a NB way of saying bro lol). So I have dropped he/him pronounces and go by they/them. Still, I am unpacking a lot of trauma and beliefs that aren't my own mixed with those that are mine. I haven't gone completely public with my revelation because of fear and anxiety. I'm not ready to announce it on FB and have family I hardly talk to and other people know. I'm not ready for that in case I receive hate in any way because that's what caused me to suppress myself to begin with.

It's hard to love yourself while hiding the real you deep inside because of what others have said and done. What society does is create a world where people live in their own bubbles and anyone who enters that bubble is expected to follow their rules and beliefs. Eventually, entering enough of other people's bubbles, mostly toxic ones, will shrink yours to the point where nothing belongs to you, not even your gender or lack there of.

My sister's boyfriend recently moved in. He is great to my sister but incredibly abusive to me. I have left hints but my sister hasn't noticed. He is mentally abusive and recently he shoved me really hard. I can't outright tell my sister because she loves him and I'm kind of scared of what he might do if she breaks up with him because of me tbh. So I am trying to move out but have no money or anything to do so. I have found somewhere I can stay but I need a $250 down payment. I have $70. So I still need $180. The abuse is getting worse and worse and I think he knows I am NB now and I believe he is secretly a bigot. Again, I can't say anything and I am scared for both my sister and I. Though he does treat her really great. I think he just might have issues with me. I'm not sure why, though. Maybe he just hates LGBTQ+ people and knows. My sister knows I am Pansexual and I have brought a trans guy I had a crush on over... So yeah. I need to get out while she is dating him.

If anyone wants to help with my downpayment of $180 then you can donate to PayPal.me/yggdrasilmithos

My email for that PP is [email protected].

That isn't necessary, though. I am also in search of a true therapist because I seem to have a lot of issues and things bottled up that I haven't unpacked. I want to know what's wrong with me and why I always lose interest, why I constantly find myself in traumatic experiences even though I try to avoid it. I want to find out what trauma I continue to hide while it still hurts me.

It might help my depression and anxiety to see a good therapist and truly talk to someone and open up completely without holding a single thing back.

Im trying y'all. I truly am. Please hang in there. Soon I will regain my full interest and post a bunch of content again. One thing that has held my interest is this blog, the people involved on this blog that are friends now, and the Tales of series. Though it fluctuates in how often or how much interests I'm currently holding.

Anyways, if anyone has any questions, feel free to ask. Feel free to message me as well. I could use some friends, tbh. I don't have anyone in real life to talk to which is why I confide in this blog.

Also, if anyone donates and would like a post dedicated to you, gifs of some videos or gameplay made then just message me and let me know. I will make content for anyone that wants me to and donates, even if it is a dollar! I will make everyone gifs if their choosing or random Tales content gifs. My Paypal and email is 5 paragraphs up lol.

But it's 100% okay if not. I posted this just to let y'all know where I'm at in life right now.

Edit: I'm hanging on by a thread and had a good cry moments ago which is why I felt the need to post this and share with you all (my friends).

#personal #op #my life #thoughts #lgbtq #nonbinary #pansexual #breaking from old beliefs #finally free of lies i used to tell myself like i was a cisgender straight male #all lies #okay to reblog

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Within the Circles

Good Omens Spooky/Whump fic.

This fic was written for the @tricketyboo2020 “Trick-or-Treat” prompts; @peppervl requested a scary angel/demon summoning, with the summoners wanting to hurt their captive, a rescue, and Hurt/Comfort (non-graphic and SFW). Well, I have Part 1 ready to go, but rescue and comfort are still being written! I’ll try to get out more later today!

This fic is massive (part 1 is just under 5k), so please consider reading on AO3!

Part 1: Circles of Protection

Crowley snapped awake, fighting off the dream, just as the sun rose. He could still taste the salt and smoke, still see the black candles, the silver sigils laid into the floor, still hear the careful chanting – the words changed over the centuries, but the intent always remained the same.

Someone had started the process of summoning a demon last night, and Crowley was the unlucky target.

“Bad dream?” He shook himself out of the reverie to see Aziraphale smiling down at him, reaching over to gently brush strands of bright red hair from his eyes. “You always get clingy when you have one.”

“Nh.” Crowley was pressed as close to his angel’s side as he could get, arms twined around soft stomach, one leg hooked over Aziraphale’s knees. There was a warmth emanating from him, surrounding them both, a warmth that had nothing at all to do with Hell or Earth, a warmth that could heal everything in Crowley within seconds. “Better already.” He pressed his face into the soft tartan flannel, soaking it all in.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” A little too quickly, perhaps, but Aziraphale didn’t try to pry, simply pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing deeply, as if he enjoyed the burnt-match smell that still clung to Crowley even after all this time out of Hell.

“Alright. Get some more sleep then, darling, it’s only just after seven.”

But Crowley didn’t have time to sleep. He needed to prepare.

Was the New Moon tonight? Most likely. And it was halfway between the Harvest and Hunter moons. The night the humans would have the most power. More than Crowley could resist on his own. Hard to judge how strong they were – felt like at least three, could be more. Already he could feel their hook in his mind, tugging at him. It was just lucky his mental defenses were still intact, or else they’d have him now, bound to a circle, and the questions…

Aziraphale noticed how tense he was, rubbed a hand down his back. “Crowley, dear, it’s alright. Just a dream. It’s over now.”

No, it wasn’t over. It had barely even begun.

“Angel…” he started slowly, not wanting to pull away. “I’ve got…some things to take care of today. Why don’t you head back to the shop?”

“Oh, no, I’d much rather stay with you.” There was no denying the growing concern in his voice.

“Really has to be done alone.”

“Can you tell me about it?” Now Aziraphale’s fingers clutched at the back of Crowley’s shirt.

“Ngh.”

He could. Aziraphale could probably help him. Even with his defenses, Crowley would be in for a fight tonight, and there was no one else he’d rather have at his side.

Except.

Except Crowley would have to tell him. Would have to say the words out loud. Would have to admit to all that fear and pain, and see the horror he could just barely keep buried reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes and then what was he supposed to do?

No. Much better to face this alone, as he always had. He could fight this off, and after the New Moon the humans wouldn’t be able to do more than irritate him, no matter how large their group. They’d lose the trace on him in a day or two, and that would be the end of it.

Besides, Aziraphale would only worry. And fuss. And get anxious and lose his appetite, and a thousand other things Crowley had sworn to keep him safe from.

No, this was the way it had to be.

“S’nothing to worry about.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand, kissed the back of it. Covering up his nerves as best he could. “Just demon stuff. I’ll call you first thing in the morning when I’m done. We can...mmm…go for a picnic?”

“It’s a bit cold for a picnic,” Aziraphale admonished, wearing his most put-upon frown. “And you know I would much rather spend the day with my husband.”

“Nh, I’m in trouble.” Crowley tried to smile, pushing himself to sit up. He felt a wave of cold the moment he moved away from Aziraphale, his mind filling with that echo of chanting, but he quickly slid beside his angel, head on his shoulder, arm around his middle. Back into the warmth. “I know you only call me husband when you’re angry at me.”

“Or when I’m angry at someone else. Do you remember that rude man in the park?”

“How could I forget?” This time his smile was almost genuine. “You made that old bigot cry. It was beautiful.”

“Well. I obviously didn’t want to use such harsh language, but there were children around. I couldn’t have them thinking his behaviour was socially acceptable.”

“My hero,” Crowley said mockingly, lifting Aziraphale’s hand to kiss it again.

“Stop trying to distract me. Why don’t I stay here and, I don’t know, make you tea? I know how to stay out of the way.”

“I just...it’s easier this way.” Another kiss. “And we do whatever you want tomorrow. Dinner? Trip to Paris? What are you in the mood for?”

Aziraphale pulled away a little, trying to see his face more clearly. “And...you promise it’s safe?”

There was no hiding the way Crowley hesitated, but he pushed through it quickly. “If everything goes right, worst thing that’ll happen is a sleepless night for me. No one else gets hurt, promise.” Not unless something went very, very wrong.

“I still don’t like it,” Aziraphale sighed. “But…I suppose…a nice walk in the woods? See the leaves?”

“Yes! Whatever you want.”

“Scarecrow competition?” Crowley nodded eagerly. “And...a maize maze? Oh, a vegetable grower’s contest! There’s one at that farmer’s market over in Oxfordshire – we can stop by Tadfield and see how everyone is. And then we can fly kits and carve pumpkins and – and have a bonfire with marshmallows—”

“We can’t do all that in a day!” The demon slumped back down with a dramatic groan, head hitting the pillows with a thud.

“You said whatever I like. And if I’m to be deprived of your company for a day, I expect you to make it up to me.”

“Fine,” Crowley growled, rubbing his jaw. “S’Friday tomorrow anyway. We can make a weekend of it.” He’d need to recover, and a weekend out of London sounded more appealing than ever. “Just promise you’ll let me take a nap first. Then we can head over, take the kids wherever you like. I’ll even do jack-o-lanterns. Show them how to make a proper one out of a turnip.”

“Alright. It’s a deal.” Aziraphale leaned across and kissed his lips. “And if you insist on being mysterious and secretive, that just gives me an entire day to think of wonderful autumn activities for you. There will be fuzzy jumpers. Maybe a crown of leaves.”

“Bastard.” Crowley kissed him back, trying to pull in every ounce of that warmth.

He’d need it to get through the night.

--

The back room of Crowley’s flat contained his most important possessions – an eagle lectern rescued from a bombed out church, several artworks by Leonardo da Vinci, a photograph of Aziraphale, the first he’d taken when they no longer needed to keep themselves a secret.

He hadn’t meant for the room to have a theme, but all the important things in his life tended to have something in common.

He tugged open the safe that had once held his flask of Holy Water. The flask itself was long gone - Aziraphale had whisked even that away, a gruesome reminder of his greatest fear. Crowley had never considered asking for a replacement; the first had nearly cost Crowley the most precious thing in his life, and that was too high a price to pay.

Still, he wondered how Aziraphale would react if he knew about the box.

Tucked in a corner of the safe sat the simple chest of dark wood, sigils traced across the lid with little more than a hint of the silver that had once inlaid them. Still, they remained strong enough to keep the box safe, and to keep Crowley safe from it. Even picking it up made the hair prickle down his arms, his fingers tingle. It was almost too heavy to lift.

He carried it to a table in his solarium, settling it between trembling plants. They, at least, would have a relaxing day. No time to shout at them now. The lid rattled when he set it down - it had once locked securely, with a key that he carried everywhere, until an emergency caught him unprepared and Crowley had shattered the latch to get inside. He should get it replaced, probably, but in truth the only one he needed to keep out was himself.

Crowley flipped back the lid.

The inside was lined with deep red velvet, worn and torn in many places, and packed tight with rows of glass vials. Some held salt, others spices, herbs, small stones, one even had a jumble of tiny iron nails; the largest held pure black ink. A side compartment held larger stones – amethyst, agate, selenite, quartz. In another, a bundle of candles, black and white and deep violet. An Evil Eye pendant, the back carved with symbols of protection even more obscure.

Every good luck charm, every token of protection that humanity had ever devised. Everything that had ever been waved at him in fear, in an attempt to ward off the evil spirit - everything except holy symbols. Not because he feared them more (though he did), but because they wouldn’t be any help to him now.

Even without the Holy Water, Crowley could still be a danger to himself. Every object in this chest, if used properly, could harm a demon – some of them almost fatally.

He’d learned long ago that sometimes he needed to take risks to protect himself.

--

Crowley decided to make his stand in the bedroom. No windows, only one door, practically a cave, though a literal cave would have been better. He miracled out all the furniture, leaving a glass-fronted concrete cube, facing west across the solarium to the windows, then set to work scrubbing walls, floor, even ceiling until it was almost astringently clean.

Grabbing a bowl from the kitchen, he mixed salt, black pepper, cayenne and a few other ingredients, muttering words of power few humans would still remember. His fingers began to sting as he stirred them through the mixture, but that just meant it was working. Crowley carefully poured a thin line of black and white powder, moving in a clockwise circle in the center of the bedroom, being careful to leave a gap to move in and out through.

Four black candles, set at the cardinal points; four white halfway between them. Three violet, inside the circle. He wasn’t sure if those last ones did anything, but he’d never been summoned while burning them, and he wasn’t going to risk it now.

Another clockwise pass through the room, putting down incense burners – cedar, cloves, dragon’s blood, sandalwood. Even unlit, the scent of them made his lungs ache. He could feel the power building in the room, like a charge of static electricity, like lightning looking for a place to ground itself.

The vial that should have held garlic was empty. He’d used it all back in the 70s and never replaced it. Stupid. Careless. He could miracle some up, but he’d learned the hard way that anything he manifested would be useless for protection until cleansed by a witch. Book Girl would probably help if he asked, but not without asking questions and making it a whole thing. She wouldn’t be as bad as Aziraphale, but it still wouldn’t be good.

Besides, he didn’t even have time for a trip to the grocery store, never mind Tadfield.

The jar of ink, thankfully, was filled to the top. He snapped his fingers to create a paintbrush – that, at least, he could manifest safely – and set to work dabbing sigils of protection on the floor and across the walls. They were hasty, badly formed – but each one hurt, a burning flash of pain up his arm as he finished it, some of them jabbing at his heart. He couldn’t imagine what a proper sigil would do to him, so he went for quantity over quality.

Sixteen around the outside of the salt-and spices circle, eight more around the inside, and one on each wall. In between he set the stones, piles of herbs, and glass jars filled with dried flowers and less savoury items.

The protection in the air was almost palpable now, dragging across his skin, clinging to him like the heat in a sauna. It made his head spin, and he wasn’t even done.

The box was nearly empty now, just a pile of assorted good luck charms – a horseshoe, a rabbit’s foot, a stone with a hole worn through the center – and the Evil Eye amulet.

They burned when he picked them up.

Fumbling, Crowley set the last items around the innermost circle, barely leaving himself space to sit.

Every time he stepped into the solarium, it was like the shock of a cool breeze on a hot day, or the flare of a campfire on a frozen winter night. Both at the same time. A relief. The bedroom repelled him.

He leaned against the table, eyeing the empty chest, trying to think of anything he’d missed.

Nearly sunset. No time now.

He reached for the box of matches, then hesitated.

Heading to the back room one more time, Crowley made a quick call on his mobile phone.

“Hello,” a cheerful voice called across the line, and a little worry unknotted almost immediately. “I’m sorry, you just missed us. We’ve been closed since August—”

“It’s me.”

“Oh! Crowley! How are you? Did you, er, take care of what you needed to do?”

“Nh. Finishing up now.” He grabbed what he needed and turned back, feet dragging as if he could delay the inevitable. “Few more hours. So. Um. Don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Well, of course I’m worried, you silly thing.”

“Really you don’t—” The sky burned red as the sun sank behind the buildings of Mayfair. The hook in Crowley’s mind stirred to life.

“It’s my job to worry about you, dear,” Aziraphale went on. “Why don’t you let me come down and help. I’m sure whatever it is—”

“Nuh. No chance.” He snatched up the box of matches, hand shaking so badly half of them immediately spilled onto the floor. Get it together, Crowley! “Stay wh – where you are.” 

“Crowley!” Now there was no mistaking the deep concern. “Something is wrong, I can hear it in your voice.”

“S’fine.” Why was his voice so high?

“I don’t believe that for a second.” A pause, while Aziraphale probably paced around the room, lips pressed together. “I...I know you have your secrets, and I’ve never pried. I won’t start tonight. But, please, just tell me...are you sure everything is alright?”

Crowley took a deep breath, pulling off his glasses to rub at his eyes. No, he wasn’t sure. There was nothing sure about summonings. He’d be in for a fight tonight, and the smallest thing to distract him or throw off his wards could bring disaster.

He knew what he was doing, he was good at this, really. Hadn’t lost the fight in centuries. Not since 1386, when a group of seven summoners had overwhelmed all his defenses. Of course, Crowley had barely escaped them, and when he had…

No. He would not – could not – tell Aziraphale that.

But he wouldn’t lie, either.

“Honestly…no. But I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

“Crowley…”

“S’fine. M’gonna feel…” His throat closed up, and it had very little to do with the lingering scents of incense. “Feel so much better when I see you tomorrow.”

A short pause, and then a voice so soft it nearly broke Crowley on the spot: “I love you, dearest.”

“Yeah.” Crowley wiped at his eyes again. “I, uh…” Swallowed, tried to clear his throat. “I…”

A tug of power at the back of his mind, almost too subtle to feel. So strong already. The sun hadn’t even fully set.

“I gotta go.” Crowley’s voice was rough, even to his own ears. “Call you in the morning.”

He shoved the mobile into his pocket and hurried back into the bedroom, striking a match as he went, trying to keep his fingers from trembling and putting it out.

Moving clockwise around the room one last time, he carefully lit candles and incense, filling the room with thick, cloying scents. The tug on his mind weakened, but the protective charms were almost as bad, flaring across his skin like red-hot razor blades.

When everything was complete, he settled in the center of the room and poured out the last of the salt-and-spices mixture, closing the circle. At least seven layers of protection surrounded him, candles and charms and sigils and everything else humanity’s fantastic imagination could devise.

Crowley tied the amulet around his neck, where it hung like a millstone, and placed the object he’d retrieved from the back room in front of him: the photograph of Aziraphale, smiling at St James’s Park, three days after the world had ended and a better one had taken its place.

The picture wouldn’t provide any protection, but it made Crowley feel stronger anyway.

“Right, Angel,” he managed, crossing his legs and hunching his shoulders. “Here we go.”

Through the windows of the solarium, he watched the sun vanish.

--

The first attack came an hour after sunset, at 7:18 PM, just as the tension was beginning to make Crowley’s back ache.

Candles flickered around the room, and the flames turned violet-black, one by one, growing, towering almost up to the ceiling. Whenever a candle shifted, it tugged at Crowley, absorbing his own power as much as the power invading his space.

A wind stirred around the circle of salt, sending stray grains rattling and tumbling away. Glass vials rattled and clicked, but so far everything held. Crowley tried to recite the mantra he used - Latin, very dignified and appropriate - but he kept messing up the words.

The air of the room sucked at him, like the sea going out before a wave, and Crowley barely had time to brace himself before the wind solidified, slamming against his circle like a physical force, swirling around him, coiling, boiling, trying to find a way in. 

Each impact rattled him, and the hook in his mind pulled, trying to drag him towards the door.

“No, no, no, fuck off!” He braced his feet against the floorboards and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He gave up on the Latin and tried something more his style: Get the fuck out of my home, repeated, over and over, until it was no longer words, just a wave of sound.

The power slammed against his circle again, nearly knocking him over. One foot lashed out, and his toe caught one of the glass vials of protective herbs. It teetered - spun - and fell over, rolling towards the circle of salt. “Oh, shit, no--”

Before he could put the blessed thing back, the power sensed the hole in his defenses and struck. It hit him in the chest, like an arrow, like a harpoon, and the force of it threw him to the ground. Gasping and twisting, Crowley sprawled on the bedroom floor, scrambling for something to hold on to as the line of power started to pull, dragging him towards the door. He scratched at the concrete floor, the ink-drawn sigils, but there was nothing to hold. His toe tapped another vial.

Fuck, why did I put so many of these things in here? He used the pull on his chest to force himself to sit up, despite the pain, and caught the vial before it fell. The first one had come to rest just shy of the circle of powders, leaving them unbroken. Where did this one come from? All the blessed trinkets made circles within circles, and if he didn’t plug the gap—

Something not-quite-solid shot around Crowley’s neck, constricting, squeezing, pulling him to his feet, up, off the ground. It was a hand, he could feel it, fingers digging into his flesh, becoming more real as it tried to pull him to his destination. Crowley twisted in the air, helpless, feet kicking futilely at a captor who stood miles away, scratching at his own neck in his desperation to get free.

One finger shifted, brushed across the amulet he wore, and suddenly it released him, dropping Crowley in a heap in the middle of the circle. He coughed and tugged at the charm, which sliced his finger like broken glass even though it was still intact, and crawled across the sigils to the gap in the circle of stones and jars. Another bolt of pain struck his shoulder, insubstantial fingers plucked at the collar of his shirt, but with a scream of “Leave me the fuck alone,” Crowley slammed the little glass jar back into place—

A flash of black light and a shock of pain through every nerve—

And suddenly everything was still again.

The candles burned, blue flames steady, the circles unbroken.

Crowley curled into a ball at the center of the circle, shielding his wounds. Everything hurt, his ribs, his shoulder, his back, his neck. He felt like he should be a bloody, bruised mess, but apart from the tiny cut on his finger there was no sign of injury. And beyond that, the cold, every part of him down to his core, a bone-deep cold beyond shivering.

With a great effort, he managed to push his sleeve up enough to see his watch.

7:24 PM.

It was going to be a long night.

Already, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the chanting again, calling to him. The candles started shifting from blue to black. Already.

His eyes fell on the picture of Aziraphale, smiling like a bastard by the duck pond after stealing Crowley’s ice cream. Crowley hadn’t been angry. He’d ordered Aziraphale’s favorite for a reason.

“S’gonna be alright, Angel,” Crowley muttered, forcing himself to sit up even though his arms and chest and head felt like lead. “I’ll see you soon.”

No wind this time; the summoners tried a different approach. The quartz crystals began to glow and hum, a high-pitched noise that ground against Crowley’s eardrums.

He braced himself, eyes on the door.

“Alright, you assholes. Do your worst.”

--

Crowley was not winning.

Candles lay scattered across the floor, most with flames snuffed out, and he had long since lost the power to miracle them back into place. The charms, the herbs, the incense - everything had failed, one by one. Even the sigils were smudged beyond recognition.

Every part of his body was bruised, broken, sore.

Now Crowley clung to the ceiling as a powerful wind shifted the circle of salt, grain by grain breaking down his last barrier. His fingers dug into the light fixture, even as more lines of power than he could count buried themselves into his bones, hauling him towards the door. Metal twisted under his fingers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned as the circle below grew thinner – thinner – and vanished altogether, breaking the protection with a snap he felt in his soul.

The forces pulling on him – harpoons and snares and hands and everything else the bastards had thrown – suddenly became irresistibly strong, ripping him free, dragging Crowley back along the ceiling.

His feet slammed into the glass above the door, bracing him, but only for the moment. 

It was the last line of defense, the last thing keeping him safe – once he passed through the door they would have him. He pawed at his jacket looking for any other tricks – the amulet had burst shortly after midnight, all the powders burned to nothing, even his mobile phone was gone, lost in some struggle he barely remembered.

Nothing remained but his legs bracing against the wall and ceiling, his mind bracing against the pain and the call, and his glasses…

Shit, that might work.

He pulled them off and glared at the lenses. More black holes than mirrors, but they might be reflective enough.

It was dangerous, trying to reflect power back on the attacker. It worked best if you knew who was attacking you and where they were. A desperate stab in the dark could go wrong in too many ways.

Worse, leaning forward to attempt this might tip his balance enough to drop him through the door, ending this fight entirely.

But what else could he do? Try to hide in this corner until dawn released him?

The glass cracked under his feet.

Now or never.

Planting his feet on the ceiling, Crowley swung his head down, glasses in hand and pointed west, through the door, in the direction the power pulled him. Shoved them right where the pull was strongest and snarled, “Get out of here! Find some other bastard to play your games. I’m not fucking going!”

And just like that, the power released him.

Crowley hit the floor – hard – hard enough to crack his ribs, if they weren’t already damaged, hard enough to slam his teeth against each other. He spat out a mouthful of blood – had he bit his tongue? Or some other injury in the night, ignored until now? – and wriggled across the floor, grabbing four candles as quick as he could. North, east, south, west, all around him. One still flickered and he used it to light the rest before the attack could come again.

But…nothing came. Not even the chanting in the back of his mind.

He looked at his watch, cracked but still running. 5:08 AM.

Had it worked? Had he made it through the night?

Crowley shook his head and let his gaze drift around the room, trying to focus on anything.

What a mess. Broken glass, plant matter and powders scattered everywhere, formless smears of ink, burnt-out wax stubs. Even his glasses were destroyed, frames twisted, glass melted.

Would he have to do this again tonight? Most summoners could only manage an attack like this on certain nights when the forces of the universe aligned, but these had been strong and persistent. There was a chance…

At the center of the room, Aziraphale’s picture suddenly burst into flames, turning to ashes in a heartbeat. Too quickly for a stray spark, for a mundane fire.

“Shit, no, no,” Crowley’s eyes darted around the wreckage for his mobile. Had he dropped it in the corner? Blown out of the room in a stray wind? He snapped his fingers, trying to summon it, but he couldn’t find a whiff of power.

It could be a mistake. It could be a trap. One step out from his makeshift candle circle, and they’d have him, and Crowley didn’t have the strength left to endure what came next.

But if something had happened to Aziraphale, that didn’t fucking matter, did it?

One cautious step past the candles, half in and half out. Nothing.

Three steps to the door, leaning through into the incongruously still-clean flat. Nothing. The plants didn’t even stir.

He crossed the solarium, gazing out through the windows at the night sky. The miracle that allowed him to see the stars despite the lights of the city was rapidly fading, as he hadn’t even the strength to sustain it, but he could still see Venus, clear as lamplight, and Regulus, and Leo…

It wasn’t even near dawn.

And still, nothing tugged at him, nothing beckoned.

Which could only mean…

Crowley ran from the room, all pain forgotten.

--

“No, no, no, shit, shit, shit, no, no, shit, fuck, no,” he muttered the entire drive to Aziraphale’s shop, an excruciating three and a half minutes at speeds the Bentley had never previously reached.

The east window lights were on, the rest of the shop dimmed, the way Aziraphale liked it when he was reading all night in his favorite chair.

The door was blown wide open.

Crowley slammed the Bentley into park right in the middle of the road and staggered out. “No, no, no, Azira—”

There, lying in the doorway: a suit, a waistcoat, a tartan bow tie.

Aziraphale was gone.

Crowley had told the summoners to find some other bastard, and they had. They’d found his bastard.

He collapsed in the street, and for the first time that night, screamed in pain.

--

Thank you for reading, and I’m so sorry! More coming soon!! Special thanks to @angel-and-serpent who gave me so many ideas for protection magic, I’m probably going to have to write MORE fics with witchcraft in them! In particular, thanks for the idea that the protections would hurt Crowley as much as help him, which really allowed me to go off.

#good omens fanfiction #tricketyboo2020 #spookylvl2 #angst #whump #aziraphale and crowley #hurt crowley #scared crowley #witchcraft #demon summoning #after the apocalypse #established couple #My writing #good omens #ineffable husbands #ao3 link

[thtdamfangirl4]

1.) Who eats all the snacks?

kind of all of them but something inside me is saying it’s octavius? @harps-for-days can you confirm or deny?

2.) Most likely to break something?

obviously Reginald

3.) Most likely to steal something?

Octavius

4.) Most likable character to others?

ooooh. that’s tough. I think (no offense) it’s definitely not Reginald or Dorian. Reginald is insane and Dorian can be scary. I think people kind of wish they were Octavius but he can also be a lil intimidating and jealousy plays a part so some petty bitches probably hate him. I think Jasper can be kind of quiet and standoffish at first so he doesn’t always leave a lasting impression until you have a full conversation with him, which is when people realize he’s great. I think people generally like Archie but he can be like A LOT, so I wouldn’t say him, but he is definitely well-liked, and unless you’re a PTA bitch named Jessica, he is desperate for you to like him. But for most likeable, I’s say it is probably down to Eustace or Nathaniel. Eustace is kind and lovely and a little snarky when you get to know him and Nathaniel is so sweet and sarcastic and funny but terribly genuine at the same time and let’s be perfectly honest: he’s a himbo. I’d give the edge to Nathaniel, but it’s possible that I’m biased.

5.) Least likable character to others?

my first instinct here was reginald but like... I don’t think so. I think though Reginald is strange as fuck, we’ve discussed that people eat that shit up. Reginald is like human Gritty. I want to guess that it would be Dorian because he just does not give a fuck what anyone thinks. And I know the people on the HOA hate him, so. And that’s not to say people don’t love Dorian, he’s the best and I love him and so do lots. But I feel like he causes the most beef. My only other thought is the way basic blonde bitches who were bullies in high school probably hate Octavius (but secretly want to be his best friend) because he wears heels and skirt better than they do. Stay mad about it.

6.) Most talkative character?

Archibald. Quincy. Pemberton.

7.). Least talkative character?

dude they’re based on us and literally none of us ever shut up. Maybe Dorian? Eustace?

8.) Most likely to set something on fire?

how is this even a question. Rabbit Boi himself, Reginald Worthington.

9.) Who would/does own the most pets?

I think it’s Nate and Archie? They have four dogs at one point. Though I would not be surprised to find out that Reginald has an entire condominium simply filled with exotic birds that squawk furiously at him every time he shows up. 

10.) Most manipulative character?

oh god. Dorian? He technically manipulated everything and made the bois show up in 2020 to get out of marrying someone, and he’s the kind of guy who will do whatever it takes to get what he wants (read: he will do whatever it takes for Octavius or any of the bois or to spite bigots and the patriarchy) and we RESPECT it

11.) Most artistically talented?

i mean, archie can decorate baked goods and cakes so beautifully, but I’m gonna give this one to the obvious choice: Octavius Sinclair

12.) Which characters hate rain, and which love it?

I actually think all of them like rain? They’re largely (sometimes) depressed gays or otherwise very immature so like? For example, Reginald loves the rain because it’s sort of chaotic and also he likes to splash in puddles. Jasper likes the excuse to stay inside all day and work on writing or something. Eustace likes to pretend he’s in a sad music video while watching the droplets go down the window. Octavius likes to force Dorian to reenact the first proposal scene from Pride and Prejudice. Dorian likes to light candles and he loves thunderstorms (so does Octavius btw). Archie likes to drag Nate outside for kisses in the rain while playing Sparks Fly by Taylor Swift, and then bake all day. Nathaniel likes being dragged out for kisses in the rain and he loves drinking coffee and then switching to tea in the rain and reading on a window bench. They are all rain bitches, sorry not sorry.

13.) Which character is the hoarder?

Reginald is definitely the worst about this, but I also think Octavius cannot go to an antique store or estate sale without buying at least four things, and Dorian does the same thing with any sort of vintage weaponry or armor, so their household isn’t great about it either.

14.) Sweetest couple?

Natchie. No this isn’t bias, it’s just a fact okay? They are the sweetest!!!!

15.) Who loves reading the most?

Nathaniel. fuckin nerd.

16.) Who has the worst sweet tooth?

Archie. I mean, the man is a baker and he’s also me. So.

17.) Best and worst kissers?

LMAOOOOO okay.... so here’s the thing. I think kissing and level of skill comes into play to a certain degree, but past a basic level of acceptability, it’s mostly about compatibility? but I’ll give this a go in terms of what I think would be pure skill

from worst to best: Jasper, Reginald, Eustace, Octavius, Nathaniel, Archie, Dorian (once you get to Octavius, you’re at a fairly elite level of kisser though so the differences are marginal. but Dorian and Archie are the biggest hoes so they know what the fuck they are doing)

18.) Best and worst cooks?

from worst to best: Dorian, Reginald, Jasper, Nathaniel, Eustace, Octavius, Archie

19.) Who is afraid of the dark?

Jasper

20.) Most likely to fall asleep on their job?

I honestly only remember what Nathaniel, Archie, and Eustace’s jobs are for sure? and it’s none of them. But Reginald. MAYBE Jasper.

21.) Most commonly found drunk?

Octavius and Archie (often together)

22.) Strongest/most powerful character?

well, Dorian’s got some witchy stuff goin on which I love, but if we’re talking physical strength I like to think that Nathaniel is secretly jacked like Chidi on the Good Place lmao

23.) Most likely to be found in a coffee shop?

Nathaniel. This bitch drinks so much coffee, I swear. Plus he likes to grade papers there sometimes.

24.) Most clumsy character?

Jasper

25.) Most trustworthy character?

again, this is hard. I think it’s either Eustace or Archie. I think they’re all very trustworthy on like a friend level, but if you break it down to its base and you think about the most trustworthy in every situation, i’m thinking, who can you tell a secret to? Reginald might forget what you told him, which is a plus, but he also might tell any Doug who asks your juiciest gossip. Dorian and Octavius are not above blackmail and they LOVE gossip. Jasper is such a bad secret keeper, you immediately know he’s hiding something. It’s like Nick Miller on New Girl. Don’t do it. Nathaniel will try but his brain is always spinning at like 100 miles an hour so there’s a good chance he’ll tell people even if he didn’t really mean to. And then it comes down to Eustace and Archie, and I think I’m gonna give the edge to Archie. Cause Eustace won’t tell anyone your secret EXCEPT that  he will tell Tyler because he tells Tyler everything, and if it’s a good secret, Tyler can’t help himself, he’s such a gossip. But Archie knows that sometimes, he does not need to pass on the secret that was entrusted to him to Nathaniel, because this is the kind of secret that would probably hurt someone if Nathaniel accidentally told someone. He tells Nathaniel everything he needs to know, and if he doesn’t need to know and it’s not really their business, he knows to keep it to himself. So... Archie.

#rfb #regency frat bois #archibald q pemberton #nathaniel qolicott #octavius sinclair #dorian fitzgerald #eustace marfleet #reginald worthington #jasper sculthorpe #the bois #natchie #octavius #tyler lawrence #tystace

[inspector-montoya-fox]

#13 - Menace from the North, eh!

Setting part 1: i mean......... whatever, right? at this point, India got 2 levels and Prague got 2 levels so i’m like ok, let’s get this over with. and i genuinely believe this and Anatomy for Disaster are the game’s two weakest episodes, despite the great conclusion. look, SP... they fucking delivered. they served absolute excellence with episodes 2-4, but it’s getting redundant and Menace from the North, eh! is just Menace from the North, meh? (please forgive me Lord). the game takes a weird environmentalist turn, which i fully appreciate but am ultimately confused by, seeing as He Who Tames The Iron Horse had absolutely nothing to do with Jean Bison’s pollution aspect. it feels weird to return to a Canadian outing after the gang had such a successful run in the previous episode, which felt like a conclusion even with the absence of a bossfight. like, SP could have easily inserted a Bison bossfight at the end of He Who Tames The Iron Horse in order to add another Klaww Gang member for an extra episode or maybe replace Menace from the North, eh! with the lost Monaco episode. it sounds like i’m bitching a lot, and i actually am. what really takes me aback every single time i play this game is that after you complete the Rajan/Contessa saga, it all becomes so anticlimactic. and i can’t comprehend why. by the end of this episode, the stakes are so high but the drive just isn’t there. and it’s not because the gang is demotivated. Sly has been having so much fun throughout the game, even with Neyla’s backstab being a huge obstacle. so getting down, dirty and serious is a much needed mood change. but i feel like i speak for all of us when i say that episodes 5-7 are overshadowed by episodes 2-4. with a few alterations to the order of the episodes and some changes to the script, i really think we could have had an awesome Contessa vs Clock-La final showdown episode and have Bison come right after Dimitri. because, honestly, Canada feels like ‘second episode’ material.

Setting part 2: i’m splitting it up because i don’t want my rant above to spoil the actual writing. the gang sticks around for another Canadian caper after some kooky stuff goes down with the environment and, mainly, the Northern Lights, which as we’ll soon find out, play a rather unexpectedly significant role in the grand scheme of things. and we’re treated to a log-chopping area, an off-the-maps secretive camp which really ups the ante, because Jean Bison is being such a jerk to nature. we’ve got deforestation, we’ve got melting ice, exploitation of wild animals, and Bison getting a raging red boner by literally destroying the environment in order to flex in the Lumberjack Games..... both the player and the gang have had enough of this dude, and i think SP used the fact that his only traits are being an angry idiot and a bigot to their advantage. instead of providing the necessary character development as they did with the Contessa and Rajan, Bison and his actions (especially his communication with the mYsTeRiOuS Arpeggio) are used as a prelude to Anatomy for Disaster. there’s not really a lot of dialogue apart from the final mission and bossfight, because the overall Klaww Gang plot begins to unravel, and particularly so by the time we find out about the lighthouse and its technological contents. in fact, if you think about it, Anatomy for Disaster starts with Clock-La’s shitshow and an info-dump at the beginning, which, if you’ve been paying enough attention to the details (i know that until i turned 12 and replayed the game as a young teen i hadn’t been paying attention to shit so it was all gasp!), is just the connecting of the dots. Menace from the North, eh! is essentially the last piece of the puzzle, before it’s all given to us in full detail by Arpeggio. i mean, apart from Dimitri serving dishes with drugs in them (i still can’t get over that at the age of 21), the rest is all things the player could pick up. and that’s this episode’s main focus. trying to prevent the inevitable under countdown, before Arpeggio’s blimp arrives to collect the Northern Lights energy. so it feels very anticlimactic and strange to put in all this effort without purpose. if you’ve played it before, you know it’s all for nothing since all the parts will be gone by the end of the episode. and it’s even more anticlimactic (although hilarious in tonal shift) to see how the gang scrambles under the pressure of preventing the Klaww Gang’s doomsday by hacking boats and having all these grandiose plans involving the lighthouse, just to then resort to taking part in the Lumberjack Games, without even a clever scheme but actually just cheating, and finally have Bison, an idiot, foil their plans by finding out where they’ve been hiding. and the bossfight is fine, but again, meh... i mean, woohoo Bentley! or whatever the fuck.

Characters: let’s talk about Jean Bison and his mistreatment as a character. we first meet him at Rajan’s ball, where Bentley introduces him as a Canadian shipping baron and says that he owns half the trains in Canada. later on, during the introductory cutscene for He Who Tames The Iron Horse, we get his backstory and how he’s risen from being practically dead, frozen since his time, and back with a vengeance against the environment. in my previous #episodeproject entry i said: SP plays up Bison’s savagery and gruesome nature by spotlighting how his plans affect the environment and even going so far as to call his house ‘the lair of the beast’. this is all true but is never put into practice. like, Jean Bison is all tell and no show, y’know? even the cutscene that plays when Sly gets caught in Bison’s cabin during He Who Tames The Iron Horse’s first mission shows Bison getting angry, but hunty, that’s about it. apart from the Lumberjack Games and his bossfight, it’s all oh Bison will get angry and oh Bison will kill us with the talons. well, where is it? where’s the fucking Canadian shipping baron with a vengeance against the environment? my baby heart was legit quivering when we had to steal Rajan’s blueprints as Bentley, and the Contessa was such a grand sleazebag of a woman, like what a douchebag - and you see that, although i’m often flamboyant in my writing (!!!), the way i describe these moments with these villains is both effective and relatable, because they showed up and lived up to their descriptions. Bison was written to be a ferocious beast of a villain but never showed that. and that’s on SP. whatever... let’s talk about the gang. now, despite the gang looking seriously badass in the opening cutscene for this episode (image below), they’re actually in a pretty good headspace. they’re only missing the talons and whatever Clockwerk parts Arpeggio had before collecting all of them. so it’s only natural for them to feel a bit cocky, and that’s actually gonna be their demise. before that, i just wanna mention that almost all the missions here (as with He Who Tames The Iron Horse) are group missions: Sly and Murray infiltrate the moose club in RC Combat Club, all three of them work together in Lighthouse Break-In, Boat Hack, and Old Grizzle Face. what really stood out to me every time i played this episode, is how, at the end when they take down Bison and they rush to the battery, each member has a different way of entering it, which is a small detail but important nonetheless. this further reinforces how united the gang has become since the Contessa levels and how their bond has strengthened. now, lemme circle back to how they’re cocky. i mean, apart from Jean Bison, Menace from the North, eh! doesn’t present any immediate danger or like trouble, seeing as both Neyla and Carmelita are absent. without any interference, the gang had lots of breathing space to plan ahead, even under countdown before Arpeggio’s blimp arrived. and they kinda wasted the opportunity because, as i’ve already mentioned, the operation was an absolute train-wreck. there’s no plan b, or like something clever or whatever. and usually, the operations tend to get disrupted by third parties, such as Carmelita or Neyla, but here, it failed because it was never smart. and it’s only natural for them to fall hard (by losing all the Clockwerk parts) after feeling all cocky (maybe i’m being too harsh). and all this directly leads to some more Bentley character development.... again. look, i’m all for character development, but the turtle already faced his demons when he busted Sly and Murray out of jail. i know we got Murray vs Rajan, but i don’t know, Murray was always kinda just there throughout the game. the hippo had his ups and downs (face-off with Rajan, imprisonment, losing the van), but not a fully realised story arc. that’s why, when Sly 3 starts off with his enlightenment and return, that story arc is instantly so iconic. i could go on about how Bentley gains self-confidence after defeating Bison, but um, we’ve already done that sis.

Themes: He Who Tames The Iron Horse and Menace from the North, eh! should have been one episode and i truly believe that. they could have shared the same themes. for the former, i said there’s the speed theme, and that applies here too because the gang are under pressure. the countdown lights a fire under their asses and it’s all very destructive. again, there’s an antithesis between the calm Canadian atmosphere and the chaotic energy of the missions. but it’s not just speed theme anymore, it’s more like theme of ferocity. everyone’s kinda on edge??? Old Grizzle Face is a motherfucker and we get up close and personal with the eagles, lasers destroy huge ice pieces, there’s a mammoth, the destroyed oil manes create fiery air drafts... chaos. and it all results in the disastrous events and outcome of the Lumberjack Games, which make Menace from the North, eh! the straightest episode in the game. yuck. it only makes sense for the missions to become less sneaky and more destructive as the stakes get higher and the gang is in a hurry, and that kinda embodies the pollution motif/ environment motif. it’s less of a theme and more of a motif because it’s so story-centric, but that’s the other things the comes into contrast with the calm environment. saws, the buzzing, chopped-up logs flowing down the river, tree stumps spread across: these embody the pollution and the harm Jean Bison has been doing even though it’s a forced storyline in my opinion. and finally, size theme. it’s not major, but it feels like everything’s bigger in Canada... Sly feels so puny in this episode, like especially when climbing the lighthouse. the wild animals are huge, the structures are huge, Jean Bison’s house is huge. it’s just lots and lots of nothingness. if you took absolutely nothing and enlarged it by 10 times, you’d have this episode’s hub. and this is also seen in the bossfight when tiny Bentley takes on Jean Bison. so yea.

What I Like: gliding off the lighthouse and throwing fish onto already stinky guards before Old Grizzle Face rips them to shreds. also, those cute lil catfish-lookin viruses in Bentley’s hacking! they’re so adorable.

What I Don’t Like: erm... it’s not that i don’t like this episode, but i find it kinda boring? apart from interacting with the wild animals, the missions are meh. and i hate the Lumberjack Games...

Quote: Get too close and old Grizzle Face will be eating barbecued raccoon for dinner.

#He Who Tames The Iron Horse and Menace from the North eh! should've been one level #good morning #episode project #sly cooper

[divinedecay]

Kindness Kills, Part 3

Prompt: They were a ww, he was a vamp, can I make it any more obvious Pairing: Vamp!Kuroo Tetsurou x WW!Reader Word Count: 1,994 Warnings: Blood mention, bad writing lol Taglist: @writeiolite​ A/N: Damn, the final part... I hope its alright Part 1 // Part 2

Of course.

Of course it would come to this.

Of course it would come to you and Tetsurou circling each other, prepared to lunge, to wound, to kill.

Of course.

    You really, truly, should have known better. After what happened before, you should have known. Should have expected this. But instead, you had allowed yourself to do something stupid. Not only had you allowed yourself to have feelings for a Vampire - granted, this wasn’t exactly something you could control, but still - but you had also given in to those feelings. As you stalked around Kuroo, you couldn’t help but marvel at what a damned idiot you were.

    After leaving Teru’s apartment, you had known your time was short; you had to either find a very good hiding place, or find somewhere to wait. Somewhere of your choice.

If it was to be a fight, you were determined to have it on your terms.

    So you’d found a place, and waited. It hadn’t taken long for Kuroo to come to you.

    You had both heard and smelled him coming; he had made no effort to hide it. You hoped that wasn’t arrogance that drove him, because, if so, he was in for a nasty surprise. 

“Y/N,” his voice had sounded from behind you, and the tone he took sent your anger skyrocketing.

“Don’t,” you snarled the word, “don’t you dare say my name like you love me when I know you’re here to rip my guts out.” He hadn’t said anything after that, and you had simply stood and turned to face him, letting the anger and betrayal burn brightly in your eyes as you stared him down. “I should have known. I should have known better than to trust you. It was always going to come to this, and I was stupid enough to believe that maybe it wouldn’t. Stupid of me to expect the past not to repeat itself."

"Y/N, I don't-"

"Have a choice?" You cut him off, teeth practically bared. "Don't give me that bullshit. There's always a choice." You pause, scoff, roll your eyes. "Then again, it was choices that got me into this mess, wasn't it? I should have known better than to trust a vampire again after what your kind did."

"Y/N-"

"Shut up, Blood Drinker." You look at his eyes, at the barely masked pain there. You could let him speak. Give him time to explain. You could. But you're too busy remembering what happened before, what led you to this entire situation in the first place. You almost laughed at the parallels, at the sheer twist of fate that caused this. What happened before, before anything to do with Tetsurou, it made you so beyond angry at this entire situation. Angry at Tetsurou, for being a Vampire. Angry at your former pack leader, for being naive. Angry at yourself, for being a complete and utter dumbass.

    So he doesn't get to speak, to explain, you decide. He's here to kill you, why should he get to explain himself?

    You feel your teeth elongating, your nails growing as you began to slowly move to the side. Kuroo copies the movements, backing away and trying to keep you in front of him.

Not that it will matter, you grin, shoving your hurt deep, deep down. Now wasn't the time for hurt, now was the time for anger. No matter how this turned out, you won. If he died, you got your revenge, your vindication. You rid yourself of him forever and you can move on.

    If you died, you were taking as much with you as you could. You'd make sure he had scars from this encounter, make sure he remembered you for as long as his miserable life lasted.

“Y/N,” for fucks sake, the way he said your name drove you insane. Shaking off the pang in your heart at his voice, you lunge before he can say another word. Your claws graze his cheek as you practically tackle him to the ground, the claws on your other hand starting to sink into his shoulder. You see the shock in his eyes as his body reacts before his mind can catch up, and he practically launches you off of him, sending you basically flying halfway across the clearing.

    You land, hard, on your side, your breathing heavy, but you don’t launch back up. Especially when you hear him inching closer.

    As soon as he’s close enough to you, you swing your legs, knocking him over and launching yourself on top of him once more, but the glint in his eye tells you he was expecting this, and he uses his strength to turn the tables so that you’re pinned down, not him. A drop of blood falls on you from the bleeding scratches on his cheek.

“Just listen to me!” His voice is rough and desperate, and it takes everything in you to ignore it.

“Why should I?!” The anger is written plain on your face. The hurt. The betrayal. And you know it. Kuroo’s face is different, all frustration and determination, and then suddenly his lips are at your neck and his fangs are sinking into your skin.

“Are you fucking insane?!” You didn’t know how Vampires reacted to Werewolf blood, and you weren’t sure you wanted to find out. In that moment, you were too shocked and baffled to remember that you’re supposed to be angry, but your emotions quickly boil back over, anger flushing your face once more.

“Just listen for one fucking minute!”

“No, you listen! You have absolutely no right to ask me to listen! None!”

“Why the hell not?!” There’s a look in his eye, a wild desperation.

“Because this has happened before,” you’re yelling now, screaming with anger, with every bit of emotion you have. His face changes, just for a moment.

“Wh-what?” The confusion in his voice is so genuine, the shock so real. You scoff.

“What? Your treacherous, backhanded, slimy despot of a clan didn’t bother to tell you how they wiped out an innocent pack, minding their own business?” You like to think that if Kuroo had the ability to pale even more, he would have. “Well,” you sneer, “let me educate you.

    Once, there was a small clan, who lived just outside the city. They kept to themselves and bothered no one, the whole shebang. They were kind to everyone. And, one day, their pack leader fell in love.

    She was a sweet Wolf, cared about her pack and others around her, but love… love destroyed her. You see, she fell in love with a Vampire. But what none of us knew was that this Vampire wasn’t actually in love. This Vampire was sent to us. To destroy us. Just for being what we are. Because our pack leader dared to fall in love with a ‘higher’ being.” The words that you spit out are filled with disgust, but old wounds that still stung. Kuroo watched your face, watched as years of anger and sadness came raging out. “One day, I was out, away from the pack, running errands, and I came back to-” your voice catches, halting and tripping over itself, “to carnage. Everyone. Everyone was dead, and the whole place stunk of Vampire, of Vampire work.” You shake your head, fighting back the prick of tears in the corners of your eyes. “I made the mistake of thinking you could be different.” Your voice is quieter now, your eyes averted, but still angry. “So, yeah. Fuck you and your clan.”

“Listen,” he takes a breath, fighting to keep the disgust out of his voice so that you can’t misinterpret his tone, “for just- for just a minute, and then, if you still want to rip me apart, you can. I’ll stand here and let you.” Your eyes snap to his, and you blink a couple of times in surprise. “I had no idea about your pack, Y/N, and I had nothing to do with the horrific actions my clan took.

    I am not my clan, and if you’ll give me  your ear - not literally-” a flash of a shit-eating grin, then it’s gone again - “I’ll explain everything.” He paused, searching your face for a sign to continue. You blinked at him again, and he could see the war behind your eyes, but you made no moves against him, nor did you speak. He took that as permission to continue. “My clan gave me the ultimatum, yes. Kill you or die. And, yes, I told them I would kill you.” Anger flashes in your eyes, but he continues, unfazed. “What my clan fails to realize is that not everyone is as bigotted and backwards as them.

    I have no intentions of killing you, Y/N. None at all. In fact, I… I really intend to leave the clan. And I hope you’ll come with me.” His voice is almost scared, and you have to replay his words over and over in your head to make sure that you understood him.

“Why?” It’s the only thing you can utter for a moment, then questions start flooding out. “Why? Why on this God-forsaken planet would you choose me, a Werewolf, over your clan? I’m not even immortal, this is the worst possible decision-” And then his lips are on yours, hesitant and soft. He’s never kissed you like this, like he’s scared and desperate, but he is now, and it makes your brain short-circuit a little.

“Because,” he mutters, his face mere inches from yours, “I love you, Y/N. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone, and I’d rather be with you for however long you’ll have me than sell me soul out to beings who probably don’t even know what love it. I’d rather go through everything that comes with being with you than live one more undead day without you.” The words are pouring from his lips, flooding your ears like a tsunami. The weight of them threatens to crush you, but something in your heart leaps with hope. You struggle for words, stumbling over syllables until the only thing that manages to leave your mouth tumbles right on out.

“Say sike right now.” He blinks, then starts laughing, and it's the best thing you’ve heard all day. And the most terrifying.

“No, babe, there is no “sike.” I love you,” that grin, that damned grin, spread across his face, and you knew that, as much as you wanted to be angry with him, it wasn’t his fault. It was his clan’s. And he wasn’t his clan. “So, what do you say? Be a cliche and run away with me?”

    There were so many things that could go wrong, so many things that could backfire. There were so many risks, so many problems. And yet… you couldn’t help but think that it would be worth it. You loved him, you really, truly, did, and, if he was to be believed, he loved you, too. You were happier than you’d been since before your entire pack was murdered, and you knew it.

    You take a deep breath and close your eyes, trying to teach yourself how to give in to the feeling once more. It was easy, truth be told. Kuroo was, well, Kuroo, and that was enough for you.

    You open your eyes to the same easy grin, but there’s worry in his eyes. You bring your hand up to his cheek, wipe away the blood, let the anger leave your body. 

“I love you too, Tetsu.” If it was possible, his grin gets wider, and his eyes get brighter. An expression of pure joy washes over him. There would always be complications, sure. There would be troubles and risks and things that go wrong, but you could deal with all of it, every single bit, so long as Kuroo was by your side. 

Perhaps his kindness wouldn't kill you after all.

#kindness kills #my writing #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo tetsurou x reader #kuroo x reader #haikyuu #hq!!

[nerdygaymormon]

Maybe you've answered this before, but why don't you just leave your church? Doesn't it bother you being part of something that rejects you? Don't you want love? I don't understand why gay people ever stay in that church.

I get these questions from time to time. Never sure what to make of them. I get that it’s unusual for a gay guy my age to still be part of church. I hope part of this is they like me and want me to be happier. But it also feels like they are looking down on me, idk.

I don’t have a short, simple answer, so strap in, it’s going to be a long ride.

1)   I was a teenager in the 1980’s. It is hard to be gay now, but it was so bad back then. Being gay was shameful. The 80′s was the AIDS crisis, so mostly what I heard about being gay was death. There were no legal protections, society was against us. Actively hostile, bigoted statements were common. My own dad told homophobic jokes to big laughs. Coming out looked like I’d be condemning myself to a terrible life and strip all the good things from me.

Also, with no role models, I was having to work through what it means to be gay. I also did manage to get ahold of a gay porn magazine (this is long before internet was a thing). I was crazy to think I could hide it. I shared a room with three brothers so no privacy. Despite my denials, my parents knew this was mine and they were so upset. My dad now tells me he wishes he sent me to conversion therapy once he learned I had this magazine. Can you imagine?

2)   I grew up believing in this church, which included the terrible things taught about me as a gay person. At age 19 when my bishop challenged me to pray about going on a mission, I instead prayed to know if God could possibly love me (which is really sad that a kid could grow up in church and not know that). I felt love radiate across my body as a voice in my ear said “You are not broken.” That experience sustained me for a long time

3)   I went on a mission in the 1990’s. If you haven’t been on a mission, it’s probably a surprise that it can be a relief. There’s no pressure to date. I could form close bonds with other men, and even though these are non-romantic relationships, they are intensely close.

4)   I was still in the closet when I went to the church schools in Rexburg & Provo. At the end of my first semester, my roommate came on to me and let me feel him up and stuff. I went to sleep thinking maybe the two of us could leave the church, transfer to a different school, say goodbye to my family and we could have a life together. It would be a huge sacrifice for both of us and I thought he felt the same, but the next morning he turned me in to our bishop. I thought I was going to get kicked out of school, be sent home in disgrace, maybe disciplined out of the church, but instead I was put on probation and had to stay the summer in Rexburg. I was heartbroken and swore off love and focused on school. At the end of the summer, to my surprise the bishop made me the elders quorum president.  

That first roommate, we were best friends. He is Bi and decided a life with a woman would be easier, and considering it was the 1990′s, he was correct. He left school a few days later, met a woman and got married. I hate how he ended things, but I don’t blame him for the future he chose for his life.

5)   BYU in Provo was my backup school, and reluctantly it’s where I transferred to. It turned out that I genuinely liked BYU with 2 exceptions, the severe restrictions the Honor Code placed on LGBT students (which was the same as at the Rexburg campus), and the fierceness with which the Honor Code Office sought to enforce those restrictions. Occasionally I’d hear rumors of sting operations they had done to catch gay students. There was this low-level fear always of getting caught whilst a student in Provo. My roommates also expressed their dislike of anything remotely gay. Even though I kept the rules, I didn’t dare tell anyone that I’m gay because the potential cost was high.

While at BYU I had a major faith crisis. I no longer believed a lot of the truth claims of the church, but I wasn’t about to lose all that tuition money. I stuck it out. So not only was I pretending to be straight, I also had to act as though nothing about church bothered me.

6)   The same voice that told me I am not broken would occasionally tell me that it’s okay to pursue relationships. It gave me great hope. I still get that message. Being a good Mormon, I thought this meant that somehow God was going to change the church. In the temple I’d hear that it’s not good for man to be alone and the law of chastity was presented in a way that could include me if I was married to a husband (the temple says no sex except “with your husband or wife to whom you’re legally and lawfully wedded”).

7)   After BYU, I should have come out and gotten on with life, but I didn’t. My first job was working for a Mormon boss. A landlord who is LDS gave me a deal on rent. Coming out seemed like it would disrupt my life in really negative ways. Plus YSA Wards were a source of friends and support network.

8)   In my 30’s I was no longer in YSA wards, and the world was getting better for gay people. The fight for gay marriage was in full swing, and so many of the people in my life were very opposed to it. It bothered me that the church was so opposed and fought gay marriage because in my head, it was a way for me to follow God’s promptings and pursue a relationship.

Being a Mormon is very much an identity. It’s hard to peel off. It’s my social network, it’s what much of family life revolves around, It’s a belief system and way of viewing the world. it’s a map of what one’s goals in life should be, and so on. Staying in the closet kept the rest of my world intact.

I know you’re thinking wtf, you’re a grown man, own your life!!! I grew up in an unstable family situation (we had many financial troubles and moved frequently), so I crave stability. Remaining in the closet and in the church were keys to maintaining that stability.

9)   Squashing all my romantic and sexual feelings also shuts down most other feelings. I spent most of my 20’s & 30’s feeling numb, like I was watching life but not a part of it. I spent those years wishing I was dead, that a bus would hit me or a major disease would strike. Those kinds of deaths would end my misery and also be okay for my family because they wouldn’t have to know I’m gay. I recognize now how messed up that is.

10)   The great source of happiness in those years was being an uncle. I’m the oldest of 7 children, my siblings had lots of babies born in those years. The joys of being an uncle only increased the pressure to stay in the closet and in the church because if I didn’t, my only source of happiness might be taken away.

11)   I finally reached the point where I was tired of going through the motions of having a life. I was ready to come out. Rather than make some grand announcement, I decided to be honest with anyone who asked about my life. When someone tried to set me up with their friend, I would ask if she had a brother. As these sorts of situations came up, I was coming out to people one by one.

I didn’t exactly “come out” to my family. I figured since my parents had found the gay porn mag when I was a teen, and then gay porn malware on the computer when I was college student, they probably already knew (and they did, but were in denial). Also, I thought coming out would be saying I’m not trustworthy and an awful person for having pretended to be something I wasn’t for so long (not true, but that’s how I thought of it).

12)   I’m such a late bloomer that I sometimes am embarrassed about it, especially now that so many people come out in their 20′s and even as teenagers. At the first Pride parade I attended, someone told me that we all come out when it’s right for us, and this was my time. I think that’s true.

13)   Most of my adult life in church was being pianist in Primary. Shortly after I started telling people I’m gay is when I was called to be in the stake young men presidency. My stake president says he looked over at me playing piano one day and thought, “that man has much more to offer.” I wonder if it’s because I was more confident, my identities were less in conflict than they’d been in the past, I wasn’t afraid and hiding.

As stake young men president, I made sure I knew by name and something about every youth in the stake. I wanted them to know they were seen, they were heard, they were loved. Teens go through such hard things and I wanted to be a kind, supportive person in their life. Most youth don’t know who the stake youth leaders are, but they all knew me. Several told me about hard things in their life and some even came out to me. Parents of gay teens would come speak to me and I’d let them know life in church is hard and unfair, ways they could help support their teen, and prepared them that their child’s likely path would be out of the church. I felt like I bloomed in this calling and made a difference.

14)   In 2015 marriage became legal for same-sex couples across the USA due to a Supreme Court ruling. I thought that finally the church would have to come to terms with it and accept it. But then came the November policy banning the children of gay couples from being members. It felt like a punch in the gut and I nearly walked away. I was still stake young men president and weighed whether the difference I made in this calling was worth putting up with how church clearly didn’t want me. 

15)   To help my parents buy a house, I had a bunch of their debt put into my name and I lived in the house with them. At the time it seemed a good way to avoid the loneliness of being on my own. But living with them also made walking away from the church tricky.

16)   A month later I hit the 3-year mark of serving in the stake young men’s program, I was released from that and called to be stake executive secretary. My stake president told me that anyone can make appointments, but he wanted my unique viewpoint in all the highest councils of the stake. In this calling I occasionally meet general authorities and I speak with them about being gay in the church. My stake President recently joked that he has twice been a counselor in a stake presidency and now is a stake president, and in those years he’s met many general authorities, yet I have way more impact on them than he ever has.

17)   Shortly after getting this new calling, in 2016 I started my tumblr blog. Eventually I used the blog as a way to examine, explore and record what it’s like to be gay in the LDS church. In some ways this blog is one giant pep talk to myself.

18)   In 2017 my blog exploded, one of my posts went viral. It’s almost like God got tired of waiting on me, now I was out to everyone who knows me, and many more.

All of a sudden I had so many hurting Mormon LGBT people contacting me, most were teens and twenty-something’s. I’ve tried to help them, to affirm them. In many ways it feels like the years as stake young men president working with teens, the years I spent developing a spiritual independence, the studying & thinking about how being gay can work with the gospel, the fears & worries that are part of being in the closet, all of that prepared me for this.

19)   Later in 2017 my mental health dived. I became suicidal. I started therapy. I finally had to face how harmed I’ve been by my time in church. I also had to admit I will never be enough in this church, I can never reach the goals & purpose of life as laid out by the church,. My therapist helped me see that I need another framework for what a successful life looks like and what would make for a joyful life.

In 2018 I was still in therapy and was diagnosed with social anxiety disorder, which partly explains why coming out and leaving the church were so difficult. The major driving motivation of this disorder is wanting to not disappoint people.

20)   My therapist says I feel things more deeply than most people, but because I’d pushed down my feelings so long, it’s actually a bit scary to feel so much. I also started dating and trying to get gay friends. These sorts of big changes were hard for me. The psychologist said, in an amused tone, that I fully examine a path before I’m willing to take a step down it, meaning I’m cautious and slow to get going, but am certain when I begin of where I’m going.

21)   Some of my family openly embraces me as gay and loves me no matter what. Some make their love and access to their children conditional on my being in church.

22)   I thought 2018 would be the year I leave the church. There’s a personal reason I haven’t; I feel there’s one more thing to do, a friend whom I can help. That I came ahead to pave the way for this friend.

I know this all sounds crazy, talking about a voice telling me it’s okay to have gay relationships or that I have some missions in life to accomplish. That’s part of faith, I guess.

23)   It’s unfair to say I’m still attending church for my friend. First, I don’t want him to feel any pressure. Second, it’s my decision, not his. I also am working on paying off debt so I can more easily live on my own, I’ve joined Affirmation and met a lot of LGBT Mormons/post-Mormons and feel like there’s something of a potential support group/friendships there. I’m thinking of changing jobs, even moving to a different university. In other words, I’m laying the groundwork to make any shift more smooth. Whether I take a breather from church or not, these are good things to do.

24)   I’m in my 40′s and can see that in some important ways I’ve lived a stunted life. But I’m also able to use my voice to speak up for LGBT individuals inside the church, to try to make this little corner of church kinder and more receptive.

25)   I can’t even imagine what you’re thinking of me. A hypocrite, someone who stays with an organization that contributed to my own mental health crisis. Someone too afraid to live. I can’t undo my past and all that lost time. I’ve made a lot of progress and am moving forward. I also believe and hope that things I share on this blog and things I say in my local church help LGBT members.

Maybe you can understand, maybe you can’t, why my life went so differently from yours. I’m certain you won’t agree with a number of decisions I made, but they were mine to make and they explain where I’m at now.

#David gets personal

[anonthenullifier]

In your one-shot where Billy comes out to his parents, it's mentioned he practiced telling them with Tommy. I really like the idea that he told his brother first. :)

I’m glad you like it! Here’s a little drabble of how that might have gone. Hope you enjoy it! 🙂

“Tommy, could I, um, talk to you about something?

His brother slides the headphones down to rest on his shoulders and turns towards him. “Is this about gym today? I swear Darren started it, I was just defending the family name.”

For the life of him, Billy can’t even remember class today, whatever altercation that occurred not big enough to worry about, which is good, because his mind has been careening down into a chasm of anxiety for the last five days and he doesn’t need more. “No.”

“Oh, good,” now Tommy tosses his pencil on the desk, officially abandoning their trig homework, and swings a broad smile his way, “Then I can talk.”

“Awesome…” When Billy finally realized the truth, he knew that Tommy would be the first he’d tell, that, however, doesn’t make the process any easier. It’s highly likely, given their fairly strong bond and regular mental connection, that his brother already knows, especially given the pointed and annoying jokes Tommy has made about Teddy’s ass during training (it is a very nice ass). The thing about his brother is that serious, heart-to-heart conversations are not high on his list of strengths, which means Billy’s run through dozens of ways to tell him. This morning he finally decided that a nonchalant confession housed inside a plea for help would go over best, Tommy loving to give (sometimes bad) advice. “I want to come out to mom and dad but don’t know how to do it.”

A faint, knowing smirk flickers across Tommy’s mouth. “Alright, who do you want me to play?”

The two ton boulder chilling on his shoulders breaks in half, one half of which falls to the ground while the other clings on for life. “Um, dad?”

“Got it, just one sec.” Tommy stands, straightening out his spine and then shaking his arms, dramatically over correcting his expressions until he looks haughty and a bit constipated. Another shake of his hands and he sits, back straight, right leg folding over his left knee, and his hands sitting clasped in his lap. “William,” the accent is horrendous and briefly Tommy breaks character to snigger along with Billy, then he resumes his acting, “you wished to talk?”

“Yeah, um,” he really thought it would be easier to do this, but as he stares at Tommy’s expectant face all he can imagine is his dad’s face contorting in anger or disgust or him phasing away, all things he doesn’t think would happen, but he can’t seem to stop his mind from falling down that rabbit hole. “So I wanted to tell you that,” Tommy raises his eyebrows after four seconds of silence and waves his hand, beckoning the rest of the sentence out, “it might be hard to understand or accept, which I get, but um, I’m, um-“

“Are you failing math, young man?”

Billy jolts at the intrusion, thoughts reeling back furiously in order to figure out how to change directions, “I- no.”

An exaggerated nod and stroking of his chin accompanies Tommy’s posh, “Good, that would be difficult to accept and understand.”

Billy glares at his brother’s wink, “No, I wanted to tell you that I’m,” the word settles on his tongue, heavy with fear despite the rightness of it, “gay.”

He can’t tell if the smile spreading across Tommy’s face is as their dad or as his brother, both interpretations welcome. When he speaks, the awful accent and higher pitched tone make it clear he’s savoring his assigned role. “That is no harder to understand or accept than how a reality warping witch married and had children with a synthetic man for whom the internet still isn’t sure has a dick or not.”

“Seriously?” Tommy cackles as he claps his hands together, “That’s not helpful.”

“Why not? It got you to say it out loud.”

Maybe this part was a mistake, Tommy incapable of treating anything seriously for more than 10 seconds, “Listen, I’m really afraid to tell them and-“

The air between them loses the lightness of Tommy’s laugh, his face falling into what almost looks like disgust, “You really think they’re going to be angry?”

“I-,” the answer is no but there are so many stories he’s read about this going poorly, about people finding out that supposed unconditional love doesn’t extend beyond biases, “What if they are?”

“Billy, when have they ever, in the history of our lives, in the history of the Avenger’s archive,” something Tommy has not perused near as much as Billy, “shown any sign of being bigoted assholes?” Before Billy can think about the statement, a qualifier is thrown out, “Except in their overuse of grounding us and not letting me walk through walls.”

It’s a fair point, they are strict about rules, especially ones at school and those pertaining to appropriate use of power, but they’ve never derogated who either of their sons are as people. “I just, what if they hate me for it?”

Tommy executes the perfect Scarlet Witch eye roll, adding to it a fine tuned, deflated sigh typical of their dad when he’s at the end of his rope. “Let’s try again, for real.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t make it sound like an apology, there’s nothing wrong with you.” 

Billy feels his lips curl up and a courage he’d lost slowly coming back. “Okay,” 

His brother gets back into the rigid posture of his part, and waves his hand to commence their scene, “What did you wish to discuss with me, William?”

Billy centers his mind, taking in several breaths, and then tries again. “Mom, dad, I wanted to tell you and, um, it could be hard to understand,” the heat of Tommy’s glare is palpable, but he ignores it, not wanting to be distracted, “but I’m, um, gay.”

“William,” now he looks at his brother and finds genuine affection in his eyes, “we love you, no matter who you are.” He didn’t want to cry, especially not in front of Tommy, because he’ll never live it down, yet he can feel tears pool in the corners of his eyes, so he stares at his hands, trying to hide his relief. “Hey, um, Billy?”

Curious at the change in demeanor and the loss of the atrocious accent, Billy glances up. He finds that Tommy’s muscles are looser and his face is a bit uncomfortable with all the emotions in the room.  “Yeah?”

“Thanks for telling me.”

Billy nods, wiping away the few stray tears that broke free, “Of course.”

“So,” an impish smirk forms on his brother’s face, one he knows too well, his body tensing at whatever is coming, “this mean you really do like Teddy’s ass?”

The spell is most definitely broken, all seriousness gone and the room returning to its equilibrium. “Shut up.”

#Tommy shepherd #billy kaplan #scarlet vision #the maximoffs #ask anon #mine #deathofink #thanks for distracting me from endgame with your asks #it's much appreciated

[sapphicscholar]

Pride Month Prompts Day 7: Underground (SuperLane)

From this Pride Month Prompts post! I’m taking the opportunity to write some short fics for a variety of pairings that I haven’t written for as much, maybe at all. They won’t be going on AO3, so I’ll be sure to tag them all with #pride month prompts so you can find them later if you want. 

Day 7: Underground

Pairing: SuperLane (Kara/Lucy) - another new one! (Set after Manhunter)

Perhaps taking off the helmets had been a bad idea. Scratch that: it was definitely a bad idea. But Kara had wanted to see Alex, had wanted Alex to know that she would always come for her, even if it meant stealing DEO property, shooting down a truck owned by the U.S. government, and freeing two supposed criminals being hauled away for treason. And seeing Alex’s reaction when she realized that Lucy had switched sides for them was pretty great too.

For a while, it seemed as if everything had gone fine. J’onn and Alex took off on the bikes, Kara flew Lucy back to the base, and they both acted surprised by the news of the escape (and were genuinely surprised by the news of Lucy’s promotion).

Neither of them took into account the fact that a vehicle headed for Cadmus would likely be equipped with multiple cameras sending live feed footage back to the military.

The following morning, a heavily armed squad showed up to arrest them both, and it was only Kara’s super hearing that gave her the extra few seconds she needed to swoop Lucy up in her arms and fly them both far away from the DEO and the military officials toting guns loaded with kryptonite-laced bullets.

Within a day, they’d gone completely underground. Kara was opposed to stealing, but she’d swept through stores faster than anyone could see, throwing money onto the counter in her wake. That was how they’d acquired a stockpile of food, new clothing, wigs for going out, and two burner phones that were being saved for an emergency. She’d also grabbed a few bottles of wine for Lucy, who had only recently reconciled herself to the idea of breaking the law and was looking a bit pale as the realization that she was a now a wanted fugitive with her own father hot on her heels sunk in.

On day 5, Kara finally got up the courage to apologize. “If I hadn’t...I should’ve made sure that we stayed covered, checked for any cameras.”

“It’s Cadmus, Kara. I’m sure they were livestreaming the footage.”

“Still. I could have kept them from knowing you were the person under the other helmet.”

But Lucy shook her head, rubbing at her temples before draining the rest of her plastic cup of wine. “Long term, this is the decision I’m proud of. I’ve pushed down a lot over the years, but I don’t think even a lifetime of practice at repressing shit would have been enough to keep away the guilt if I’d sent your sister and J’onn off to be tortured at Cadmus.”  She refilled her cup, frowning when the rest of the bottle only brought it up to two-thirds full. “So really, I’m the one that should be apologizing. You just pulled my head out of my ass long enough to see that I wasn’t living the kind of life I could be proud of.”

“Hey, no, I’m sure you’ve done some amazing things.”

Lucy snorted, something dark flashing across her features as her face twisted in disgust. “Like what? Break my ex’s heart because I’d rather hurt her...hurt us both, than risk a dishonorable discharge? Side with my father even as he got more and more bigoted just because every so often he’d pat me on the shoulder and tell me I made him proud? Come flying across the country to restart things with a guy only to break up with him all over again?”

“We’ve all done things we regretted. I’m pretty sure the whole world saw some of my worst choices splashed across newspapers and broadcast internationally just a few weeks ago.” She really wished wine did anything for her; it’d be nice to have something to dull the pain of the too fresh memories. “I also know a little bit about not wanting to believe that a parent could be so wrong about something, about waiting too late to realize there are two sides to every story.” She swallowed the tears that threatened to fall. “But Lucy? You’ve done a lot of things to be proud of.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to believe it these days.”

In a split second, Kara decided to start listing things, as many as she could think of, anything to make that look of sadness, of self-loathing disappear. “You’re a freakin’ major in the Army, which means, like, a lot of people have recognized what a badass you are. And you have grad degrees from Harvard. And you’re super great at Taboo and Charades and Pictionary. And you were willing to put everything on the line once you’d realized you’d made a mistake, which is almost better than just never making mistakes. Because you care, you cared enough to fix it.” She took a deep breath in. “Also you offer great legal advice. And those cookies you made for game night were so good; I ate half of them when you weren’t looking. And you won over Cat Grant in, like, two seconds flat, which, let me tell you, isn’t easy! And you always smell really nice, even at the end of the day, and you’ve got such great hair, like seriously great hair.”

Lucy looked over at her, some emotion swirling in her eyes that Kara didn’t recognize. “You know that the things you did while drugged don’t magically undo all the good you’ve done for the world, right?”

“Oh please, weren’t you the one saying Supergirl didn’t exactly measure up to expectations?”

Lucy ducked her head. “Might have had a bit more to do with jealousy than anything else.”

Kara’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Jealousy?” Lucy had the guy and the job and Cat’s attention. What could she have been jealous of?

“Seriously? You have superpowers, Kara. And a sister who would do anything for you, and this whole group of friends who adore you. Even when James was talking about finding apartments with me to really make things work, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. And, to make it all worse, I couldn’t even blame him because you’re fucking gorgeous!” With a huff of bitter laughter, Lucy pulled herself to her feet, swaying slightly—the first sign that the bottle of wine might have affected her. “I should… Night, Kara.”

---

After that night, things seemed easier between them. The guilt and apologies and bad memories had been excised, leaving room for something new to grow between them. Slowly but surely, they began opening up, sharing stories of growing up and years in school and awkward dates. Kara talked about the things she’d had the hardest time getting used to on Earth, and Lucy admitted that she hadn’t thought about how difficult it must be for aliens. She’d moved a lot as an Army brat, having to switch schools constantly, but even during the awkwardness of middle school, at least she’d always known how to speak the language, had a vague sense of what social life would be like, knew what would be taught in her classes and the kinds of clubs that would be offered.

One night, after a glass or two of wine, Lucy opened up to Kara about coming out, not that she’d had too many people in her life she’d been able to tell. Kara admitted that she hadn’t realized it was such a big deal on Earth until she’d asked Alex if she was courting her best friend Vicki and been swiftly and promptly kicked out of their shared bedroom for hours, not let back in until Eliza had demanded that Alex unlock the door for bedtime.

---

On day 18, they woke up to news that all of National City’s residents had been turned into automatons with the exception of Max Lord, who’d published statements about alien threats and how proud he was to be a human who had prepared for this, who had known from the beginning not to trust them, and Cat Grant, who’d posted a very public call for Supergirl to return from hiding and a plea that the government grant her amnesty.

“You’re going, aren’t you?” Lucy asked.

“I have to. National City...no matter what happened or how many people have decided I belong in prison, it’s still my city. They’re still the people I’ve sworn to protect.”

“Be safe.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. I”—Lucy swallowed heavily as she reached out a hand, grabbing one of Kara’s and holding it tight enough for her to feel it—“I want you to come back to me alive.”

And there it was again, that frisson of something that had been crackling between them for so many days now. Only this time Kara didn’t mumble a quick “goodnight” and speed off to her corner of the decrepit old cabin they’d moved into after the first week. Instead, she held Lucy’s gaze and raised a hand to Lucy’s face, sweeping her thumb across Lucy’s cheekbone. “I promise.”

Lucy was the one to lean forward, but Kara wasn’t sure who it was that actually started the kiss. All she knew was that there were soft, warm lips pressed against her own, and if she’d thought she wanted to date Lucy before because she smelled amazing, well, now she knew she wanted to date Lucy and for so many more reasons. But eventually, the reality of everything happening in National City, the hurried phone calls to J’onn and Alex, the continued broadcasts being sent out by Cat, all caught up to them.

“If you can find a way for me to come back within city limits, you’ll call?” Lucy gestured at their one safe burner phone left, and Kara nodded.

A few moments later, they heard the soft thud outside the door that signalled J’onn and Alex’s arrival.

“I should be fighting by your side,” Alex was already arguing as she and J’onn made their way inside.

“I won’t be able to stay focused if I’m shielding your mind.”

“I swear, if we can get into the DEO and get our hands on your prototypes, we’ll be back in an instant, okay?” Kara promised.

“Fine. In the meantime, I’m trying to see if I can’t bypass some DEO security protocols while everyone there is out of commission. I can only imagine that Non is going to want some of our prisoners back, so I’ll try to secure the system from external interference.”

While J’onn was busy talking to Alex, Lucy squeezed Kara’s hand again. “Come back, alright? We’ve got a kiss to finish.”

Kara grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

#pride month prompts #superlane #kara danvers #lucy lane #fanfic #ficlet #slight angst #supergirl

[tacittherapist]

We open on a familiar scene: Rose perusing media on her laptop. Yes, she’s doing the narration thing and concurrently performing the actions described within the narration. Don’t judge her. If a certain pointy-spectacled too-much-hairspray anime blowhard can do it, so can a depressed goth nerd. Some semblance of rain pours outside: a faint cloud of cosmic dust they’re passing through pelts her windows with sawdust-sized particles. Her eyes glaze over as she goes through her old chat logs.

tacitTherapist [TT] started trolling carcinoGenetics [CG].

TT: Karkat. Let’s talk. I know you have time because I’m currently watching you sitting on a couch in the aftermath of yet another homoerotic tussle with Dave.

CG: ‘HOMOEROTIC’ YET AGAIN MEANS NOTHING HERE YOU RUSTPANNED SHITWEASEL.

TT: I’ve been thinking lately.

CG: OH, REALLY? WOW!! INCREDIBLE LALONDE, YOU MIGHT BE ONTO SOMETHING THERE.

TT: Don’t interrupt me. I’ve been thinking about our situation.

CG: WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘OUR SITUATION?’ ‘OUR SITUATION’ AS IN HOW THIS ENTIRE FUCKING STRUCTURE IS IN LITERAL AND METAPHORICAL SHAMBLES?

CG: LET’S PUT ASIDE THE NEAR CONSTANT ANTAGONIZING BY DAVE’S PREPUBESCENT THINLY-VEILED WAILS FOR HELP CLEANING UP HIS OWN OVERFLOWING SPIRITUAL WASTEPANTS AND PERHAPS ADDRESS THE FACT THAT YOU AND MARYAM HAVEN’T SPOKEN FOR OVER THE EQUIVALENT OF SEVERAL WEEKS?

CG: NOT TO MENTION TEREZI IS STILL MISSING, ALONG WITH A SMALL PORTION OF OUR EVER DWINDLING RATIONS THAT YOU POMPOUS GODTIER SHITSTAINS APPARENTLY STILL PILFER DESPITE NOT EVER NEEDING TO EAT.

CG: OH, AND THERE’S A HOMICIDAL CLOWN LOOSE IN THE VENTS. THERE’S THAT TOO.

TT: Yes, all of those things are items I considered.

CG: OH GREAT. FUCKING GREAT. LET ME GUESS, YOU’VE CONJURED ANOTHER CRACKPAN SCHEME TO SOMEHOW MAGICALLY -- SORRY, ‘MAJJJJJJYYYYKLY’ WHISK ALL OF THIS SHIT AWAY?

TT: No. Our situation is bleak, Karkat.

CG: COLOR ME FUCKING SURPRISED. OUR SITUATION IS BLEAK? HOLY SHIT LALONDE, I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS WHAT YOU SPENT DAYS IN ISOLATION FORMULATING IN THAT ALL-SEEING MIND OF YOURS.

TT: I do have a proposition. And if you’d be kind enough to quit hammering your clumsy sausage fingers upon that poor phone for even a second, you might even get something from this conversation.

CG: ...

TT: Ellipses wholly unnecessary Karkat. Take your fingers off the buttons.

TT: I have a plan to alleviate our circumstances. It’s risky, but better than sitting here for another few years.

TT: Yes, I know you use sweeps and I’m a totalitarian bigot for not using it here.

CG: YOU PREEMPTIVELY ADDRESSING IT DOESN’T MAKE IT LESS TRUE.

TT: Karkat. Fingers off the buttons or I magically disassemble your phone again, and this time I won’t help you reinstall the macro you use specifically to hide Dave’s long rambling text walls about the economy.

TT: Now then, I haven’t received a vision in several months. I can only presume this means the game is testing my mettle by withholding this power from me.

TT: After weighing the factors behind our predicament, I’ve ascertained that there are two latent states to our position, and the game in general.

TT: Moving and stillness. There exist no states outside of those two. Both a successful and a doomed session move; they may only take on the states of ‘successful’ and ‘doomed’ after having progressed to their ultimate conclusion, after all. A null session, by contrast, stands still. Forever locked into a state that is neither successful nor doomed.

TT: If we were to translate our position into one of these two states, we would be null. This is arguably worse than a doomed session, as demonstrated by the slow malaise gradually overtaking everyone’s moods for the past few months.

TT: Obviously we missed our target somehow. Whether by some small deviation in our course, or a slight miscalculation by Sollux, we are definitely not reunited with Jade and John, who were supposed to have crossed paths with us some months ago.

TT: So instead of sitting here, waiting for one of us to miraculously drift into the other, I propose we recalculate our trajectory.

CG: HOW. IF YOU HAVEN’T NOTICED, SOLLUX FUCKED OFF TO TRAIPSE ABOUT THE AFTERLIFE OR AFTER HALFLIFE OR WHATEVER THE FUCK KIND OF NOT DEATH NOT LIFE THING HE HAS GOING ON WITH MEGIDO. SO WE’RE A LITTLE SHORT ON TELEKINETIC POWERS TO GIVE US ANOTHER PUSH.

TT: Incredibly telling that you refer to everyone by first name when you hold more affection for them over everyone else. It’s really not subtle here, Karkat.

CG: FUCK YOU.

TT: Yes, we no longer have psychic powers at our disposals. But I’ve done some detailed calculations on our current path and where we need to be.

TT: There are a number of small cosmic bodies about to pass us. If we simply jump onto one in particular, we should be able to correct our course and meet up with the others to get our session restarted.

CG: IS THAT WHY ALL OUR NAPKINS HAD INANE CLUCKSCRATCH ON THEM?

TT: Yes, but no more inane chickenscratch than all the penises you and Dave drew on them.

CG: OBVIOUSLY YOU KNOW I CAN’T GO ALONG WITH THIS.

TT: Why not?

CG: WELL FIRST, I’M NOT ABOUT TO TRUST NAPKIN MATH. SECOND, IF THIS ISN’T A ONE HUNDRED FUCKING PERCENT CONFIRMED THEORY, I WON’T CHANCE OUR MORTAL LIVES ON A HUNCH THAT YOU GODTIER ASSHOLES FIGURED MIGHT HELP US STARVE TO DEATH EVEN FASTER.

TT: Dave has no hand in this. You’re the first person I’m telling.

CG: WAIT, WHY?

TT: Because I need you to get everyone on board. You’re still the de-facto leader.

CG: THAT’S A LOAD OF HORSESHIT AND YOU KNOW IT.

TT: Your continued denial of this simple fact is more evidence to the contrary.

CG: SO WHAT? YOU WANT ME TO SINCERELY PEDDLE THIS IDEA THAT WE JUST HOP OFF OUR HOME FOR THE PAST TWO SWEEPS BANKING ON THE HOPE THAT WE JUST MEET UP WITH EGBERT AND HARLEY?

TT: Well yes, but I was thinking you’d make it a bit more palatable to everyone else. That’s more your specialty than mine.

CG: YOU REALLY HAVE TO BE FUCKING WITH ME RIGHT NOW. ABSOLUTELY FUCKING WITH ME. THE VERBAL DIARRHEA COMING OUT OF YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW CANNOT BE GENUINE.

TT: We’re both typing on phones right now Karkat.

CG: YOU KNOW WHAT I FUCKING MEAN, ASSHOLE. IF YOU CAN’T EVEN CONVINCE ME THIS WILL WORK, WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I CAN CONVINCE EVERYONE ELSE IT WILL? YOU’RE REALLY NOT GIVING ME THE HARD SALE HERE.

TT: I know this, but please just hear me out. Our food will run out in three weeks at most, and that’s if both Dave and I curb the hunger pangs with something else to distract us. Yes, we won’t die, but you will likely suffer more antagonizing at the hands of a Hungry Dave.

CG: NEVER. *EVER*. ****EVER****. CAPITALIZE HUNGRY BEFORE DAVE LIKE THAT EVER AGAIN.

TT: Deal. On the condition you get everyone else on board.

CG: NO DEAL. FUCK YOU AND FUCK THIS DEAL. YOUR PLAN IS A FAT LOAD OF SHIT AND I REFUSE TO EVEN CONSIDER THIS A LEGITIMATE CONVERSATION GIVEN YOU’VE BEEN HOLDING ME AT METAPHORICAL GUNPOINT THIS ENTIRE TIME. I DON’T MAKE DEALS WITH TERRORISTS, LALONDE.

TT: If you could drop the performative morality shtick Dave has been foisting on you for just a moment, what exactly could I say to change your mind? Perhaps you’ll feel differently in two weeks when we’re down to our last few loaves of alchemized bread?

CG: ...

TT: Tell me, does a large ‘JUST’ or ‘HEROIC’ sign pop up when mortals die? I’ve personally never seen it before, but I imagine of the four of your twelve original session remaining, at least one of you must have seen a non-ascended death. Do you think starvation counts as just or heroic? I mean, Dave and I are precluded because the ascension really did remove our need to eat, but maybe if we find one of your quest beds on this desolate laboratory, we might be able to spare at least one of you from eating the others in desperation.

CG: FINE. FUCKING FINE. YOU’VE TWISTED MY ARM. YES, METAPHORICALLY, SHUT THE FUCK UP. I’LL MAKE A DEAL.

TT: Good. Your terms?

CG: YOU HAVE TO GET MARYAM ON BOARD FIRST. IF YOU CAN DO THAT, I’LL TAKE CARE OF CONVINCING THE OTHERS.

tacitTherapist [TT] has stopped trolling carcinoGenetics [CG].

carcinoGenetics [CG started trolling tacitTherapist [TT].

CG: HEY. WHAT THE FUCK?

TT: My finger slipped.

CG: NO IT DID NOT YOU AGGRANDIZING FUCKHOLE.

TT: Did you just call me a ‘fuckhole’?

CG: I’M TIRED AND HUNGRY, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

CG: WHY DID YOU ABRUPTLY CLOSE THE WINDOW.

TT: I don’t know if I can convince Kanaya.

CG: WHY’S THAT? THIS IS THE PERFECT FUCKING CHANCE FOR YOU TWO TO FINALLY TALK. I THOUGHT THIS WOULD ACTUALLY BE EASY FOR YOU.

TT: It’s not that simple.

CG: OHHH WELL EXCUSE ME FOR GETTING MYSELF ENTANGLED IN THIS COMPLEX HUMAN MATING RITUAL. YOU HAVE TO FORGIVE ME IF I JUST MAKE SNIPPY REMARKS EVERY CHANCE I GET WITH CONTEXTLESS DESCRIPTORS THAT ARBITRARILY DESCRIBE YOUR GENDERS.

TT: It’s just not a good time.

CG: HOLY SHIT. YOU THINK IT’S NOT A GOOD TIME? REALLY? WELL I GUESS WE’VE ALL JUST BEEN PLAY ACTING A FOOD AND GRIST SHORTAGE FOR THE PAST FEW WEEKS. HA HA, WHAT A FUNNY AND ELABORATE PRANK WE’VE ALL BEEN PLAYING ON OURSELVES THIS ENTIRE FUCKING TIME.

TT: I mean it’s not a good time to bring this up with her. I’m still sorting out where I stand with her and how I should approach this.

CG: FOR ALL THE “”““CALCULATIONS”“““ YOU JUST PULLED ON ME JUST MOMENTS AGO, SUDDENLY YOU CAN’T NAVIGATE YOUR OWN STUPID IDIOT EMOTIONS?

CG: WOW. JUST WOW. YOU KNOW, DESPITE HER TOTALLY BONEHEADED APPROACH TO VIRTUALLY *EVERYTHING* AT LEAST JADE KNEW HOW TO TACKLE THINGS HEAD-ON. MAYBE WE DO NEED HER HERE RIGHT NOW, IN SOME TWISTED CATCH-22 MOBIUS DOUBLE REACH AROUND AS ALWAYS.

TT: I can convince Dave.

CG: SO CAN A BOTTLE OF FUCKING CIDER.

TT: I mean that as a counter offer. If I convince Dave, you convince the others.

CG: NO DEAL. NOW THE FOOT COVERING IS ON THE OTHER LEGSTUMP, EH LALONDE?

TT: You just used ‘foot’ in the same sentence as ‘legstump’.

CG: YEAH AND I’LL SHOVE MINE STRAIGHT UP YOUR POLYESTER-SWADDLED ASS IF YOU TRY ANY MORE NEGOTIATION. THIS IS MY ULTIMATUM. IF YOU REALLY BELIEVE IN THIS PLAN OF YOURS, IT HAS TO AT LEAST HOLD CONVICTION STRONGER THAN YOUR REFUSAL TO FACE YOUR OWN EMOTIONAL TURMOIL WITH MARYAM.

CG: GET KANAYA ON YOUR SIDE, OR NO DEAL. FINAL OFFER.

TT: ...

TT: Fine. I’ll see what I can do.

CG: GOOD LUCK. SINCERELY THOUGH, LET ME KNOW HOW IT GOES.

TT: Thanks. I told Dave you were talking shit just now, by the way. You should make yourself scarce unless you want an hour-long lecture about how gossip is destroying society and by extension the economy.

CG: FUCK YOU. BYE.

carcinoGenetics [CG has stopped trolling tacitTherapist [TT].

#long post #pesterlogs

[renaroo]

Sweet Home (3/4)

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence, PTSD and past trauma, Mentions of wartime Rating: T Synopsis: [Modern AU] In the aftermath of war, Wash is left with little direction in his own life. On his own, he takes up an ad for a roommate and suddenly finds himself wrapped up in the perplexing life of Doctor Emily Grey.

A/N: Long time, little see, and I’m truly sorry about that <3 For those who don’t know, as of January this year I have taken on quite a few more jobs than what we had before. I am a graduate student but on top of that I began teaching classes for the university on my own and I have been working very hard on my research project which is picking up steam now that the mating season for wolf spiders has begun! So busy busy here though I do hope everyone has had a good few months themselves and that this story is still worth the wait for those who come back to it <3 I appreciate you all more than you know

A special shout out to @secretlystephaniebrown, @splendiferousblog, @freelancerfeels, @ziggyzagzag, Yin, om3g4, and Zed Said from AO3, ffn, and tumblr for the feedback and support! You guys really help to make this experience that much more rewarding!

Drawing Lines

It has been a very long week and, despite knowing that the town is less than a few miles wide at best, Washington hasn’t brought himself to do much more than accompany Emily Grey to the store and back in order to carry groceries.

As he lays in his bed that still doesn’t feel very much like his, it really and truly hits him how small the world seems after the war. He left for it with this idea that the universe is large and vast, that he is truly fighting for things to be better and for home to be stronger and more taken care of than it ever had been before.

But the world is small and knowing it intimately only proves to show Washington the worst of its cracks and pitfalls.

He fought for this town, he fought for a place like Sweet Home to live up to its name. But the streets are cracked, the roads have holes, and most of the properties have grass reaching for higher standards than the owners.

Sometimes, laying in his bed outside of his supposedly only two hours of consistent sleep, Washington finds himself staring at the proverbial and literal wall, holding his breath and counting to ten.

He’s waiting for an answer. He’s waiting to be told what it is that he sacrificed everything that once made him human for.

He’s waiting for things to make sense again. But without reveille or shouts or marching orders, it just doesn’t.

And the world just gets even smaller around him.

For every morning that Wash woke up to a full course meal and a half naked housemate, there is a morning where he wakes up to absolute silence and solitude.

Asking questions, even if normal and social, feels invasive and uncomfortable, even in concept, for Wash so he opts instead to rely on powers of observations and checking for patterns. The most easily noticed of these being the way the stacks of books all over the house change by the day, and especially how much they change — or how much they grow — on the days that Emily is absent in the mornings and not back until the late nights.

It is then that Wash puts together that his housemate, the already-doctor, is actually still a student. That is why so many younger college age people are coming in and out of Sweet Home.

It’s as questionable as the anomaly that is Emily Grey herself, but again, the anxiety of actually phrasing a proper question that isn’t intrusive, rude, bigoted, sexist, out of touch, judgmental, arrogant, condescending, or just plain vague is too much and Washington fumbles it even in theory.

So he sticks to counting book stacks and making himself cereal on lonely mornings.

Not lonely. Solitary.

Lonely implies that Washington doesn’t prefer it and, well, he doesn’t. But he doesn’t unprefer it either.

And that’s the rub of it.

For all the draining exhaustion that proximity to Emily’s rotation of guests brought him, Washington finds himself not doing much with his solitary time either. Just checking the news, getting the mail, and digging through his own thoughts with all the caution and malaise afforded to a gravedigger.

He’s in the middle of just that one particularly solitary morning, a cereal bowl still in his grasps, when the back door next to the stove opens up with a loud BANG. It’s as if a tornado was trying to rip the door from its hinges, and Washington can’t even process it before the solitary space he has masked himself in becomes occupied by a bounding creature with fur and teeth and an odor similar to tarmac.

There’s a moment, after the sharp paws are buried into Wash’s chest but before the back of his chair is going to find itself addressing the floor, that Washington thinks a bomb has gone off — one that bends reality and warps the quiet he strangles himself with optionally is transported back to scorching heat and screams and the worst that people can do to one another.

It’s a hysterical notion, one that would possibly rival the sort of genuine psychosis that seems to get his housemate all riled up about his sleeping habits, but it’s the only thing Washington can think before he’s dazed on the ground with a literal dog standing on his pajama covered chest, rotating around like it’s looking for the next challenger in a game of King of the Hill.

“Freckles!”

Washington takes in the moment once again. He’s not dying. He’s not shot. There’s not a war in the kitchen, only whatever intrusion Emily Grey has brought upon his life again. And he doesn’t even get in a count to three for his anger exercises before the fury erupts from him like a volcano.

“What the hell is going on!?” he gets out, only to have the dog’s attention whip right back to him.

The dog is a sharp looking, large chested doberman. Chocolate colored where Wash’s senses tell him it should be black, tan where it should be brown on its nose and wrapped around its feet like socks. The eyes are yellow, intimidating, and it has ears pinned high from cropping. Washington hadn’t even realized it was a practice with animals anymore, but he supposes on reflection that inhumanity isn’t restrained to what people do to each other.

What is just as shocking is the man who the voice belongs to.

He comes around the kitchen island with a curious, wide eyed look on his face, lips drawn together in a surprised oh as he examines the situation he brought upon Sweet Home.

The man is large and bulking. Wash’s instincts are to think it’s fitting of his extremely large dog but, somehow, the man is even too large and thick even for that to be a complete fit. He’s not chiseled so much as he’s built large, and his head is weighed down by a mess of spiky, unkempt hair that stands end on end in a way that tells Washington the man’s less familiar with a brush than even Wash is. His skin is tanned hide but not wrinkled or old, just worn and not as well taken care of as he could use.

He’s wearing a blue hoodie and khaki pants that have not a single wrinkle, and those are the strangest things in Wash’s mind because the man is also wearing with them standard issue military boots.

“Hello!” the man says loudly.

“Is this your dog!?” Washington demands just as loudly. There’s a low stage of panic beginning to set in as the dog looks less happy to have Washington talking and Washington’s chest is feeling less happy to have a dog standing on it.

For a moment, the man seems more surprised than Wash, and he glances toward the dog as if there is some other dog that Washington would be addressing. And a big, goofy smile crosses his face as he looks back down to Wash.

“Oh! Yes. This is Freckles. He is a very good boy. Aren’t you, Freckles? Aren’t you a very good boy?” the man coos toward the dog.

Taking his gaze off of Wash, the dog turns around and looks at the man, nub of a tail wagging so hard his entire butt is moving with it. The dog’s front paws pick up and ram down many times excitedly on Wash’s chest. Then it barks loud and keening.

“Get him off of me!” Wash demands in a hiss between gasps of breath.

Blinking again, the man glances down at Washington, then looks around the house in confusion. “Oh, no. I don’t know you. I thought this is the Sugar House. Oh no. This is very bad. I do not want trouble again. I only want the nice lady doctor in the Sugar House—“

The man sounds panicked, and the more he panics, the more the dog reacts. First with a whining bark, then with finally leaping from Wash’s chest toward the man. It prances around its human before pressing the flat of its head into the palm of the man’s hand.

And, suddenly, Wash begins making sense of things. The solitary doesn’t come back, but he’s not gone into chaos anymore.

Not any more than usual, by any means.

“Do you mean Sweet Home?” Wash asks as he raises up to a sitting position, holding onto his no doubt bruised ribs.

“Yes!” the man calls out excitedly. “Oh! Oh! Do you know where it is? I am very lost. Which is strange. Because Sheila told me where to go and I did not believe I was lost so now it is me being confused where I thought I was not. You see?”

Washington feels himself slipping into the chaotic one more time but he fights it, instead clearing his throat and repositioning himself into a more confident stance. “I don’t know who Sheila is, but yes. You are at Sweet Home. You aren’t confused. Well. You’re not anymore confused right now than I am. Uh. I live here now. With Doctor Grey. Emily. Doctor…lady. Am I making sense? I don’t think I am.”

However, the confused posturing seemed to be speaking to the man’s language because his grin only grows and grows the further the conversation goes down the rabbit hole.

“I am at the Sugar House?” he asks. “And you’re the new friend at Sugar House?”

“I’m… what?” Wash asks, the chaos threatening to swirl out of control.

Without clarifying, the man pulls out a large smartphone from his pocket and holds it flat close to his chin. It looks a little awkward from Washington’s angle, like the finer motor movements are lacking refinement.

“Sheila!” the man shouts across the surface of the phone, causing the screen to light up with a familiar app — the service assistant. “Thank you! I’m here!”

“I am happy for you, Private!” the smartphone cheerfully responds.

And, again, Wash pieces it all together.

After all, the service assistant had been offered to him, just like every other veteran from the War. The high tech phone app was a personal assistant for recovering servicemen and women. It was a bit of an insult to be offered one, even though almost no human soldier left the terrain without it being beneficial to have one.

The stigma had been enough to keep Washington away from accepting the service assistant at the time, and as a result he unwittingly had refuted future medical and mental health claims he could take from his service. It seems that pride was a good way to keep those who gave almost everything to their country from actually receiving anything in return.

While judgments flared up in Washington’s mind, driven into his instincts from basic, he also wondered if the man before him is actually a secret genius.

“What branch did you serve in?” Washington finds himself asking.

The main blinks at him, stroking the dog’s head as he fumbles his phone back into his pockets.

“I was marines,” Washington offers again.

“Yeah, I was with Church and Tucker,” the man says happily. “Did you know them?”

Wash feels his brows knit together in concern. “I… no?”

“Oh, okay. They were with me. I never remember being in a tree,” he states with a shrug of his large shoulders.

“Okay,” Wash says. “Well, my name is Washington.”

“That’s a funny name,” the man says with no tact. “I am Michael J. Caboose.”

“That’s a funny name,” Wash says sardonically before he can even catch himself.

Almost as if he understands, the dog pins his ears back against his head and lets out a low string of growls in Washington’s direction. He doesn’t seem to appreciate Wash’s sarcasm. But his master doesn’t seem to mind.

“It is funny. We both have funny names. I’ve never met a General Washington. I bet you’ve never met a Caboose. Or maybe you did. Have you met any of my sisters? I have many of them. It wouldn’t surprise me,” Caboose says breathlessly.

“Who knows in this town,” Wash says with a soft laugh of his own. “And believe me, I’m no general. Kind of glad I’m not… except for the retirement benefits.” He tries to laugh again but sees only blankness in return from Caboose. Wash coughs to clear the air and then tries to move things along in a way that may not hint to the other man that Washington has absolutely no idea how to handle social situations. At all. “I’m sorry I wasn’t expecting you. Emily didn’t mention anything about someone coming in today. Not… that she ever mentions it… But she’s never gone for too long if you want to sit in and wait.”

“Oh, no, thank you, no. I cannot stay. I cannot stay because I have to go. Sheila has told me many times already that I have to go. She has been reminding me everyday that today is the day that I have to go.” Caboose explains without any semblance of explanation. He then looks like an idea has just crossed his mind and he fumbles in his pockets again to repeat the move with his phone. “Sheila!”

“Yes, Caboose?” the service assistant says, lighting up.

“Tell Mister Washington how I have to go!” he says with the excitement of a kid at Christmas.

“Private Michael J. Caboose must be at the platform in forty-five minutes in order to depart on the 343 train to—“

“See, I told you,” Caboose interrupts, shoving his phone back without even bothering to tell the app to turn off. Wash can’t help but stare at the way it glows through the man’s khaki pants in the worst way imaginable. “I cannot stay for the doctor. I have to leave. I have a train.”

“Oh, okay,” Wash says. “I’ll…uh… tell Emily you came by then. I’m sure she’ll be sorry that she missed you.”

Caboose’s smile is brilliant, but sort of in a way that Wash isn’t sure what he’s smiling about. “Oh, she’ll know.” He then turns to face his dog and gets down on one knee to be level with him. The dog, almost knowingly, begins whining like a puppy. “Be a good boy! Be a good boy! I’ll be home soon, yes be a good boy!”

Processing the moment takes Washington a second longer than he should and, as suddenly as his morning was interrupted by Caboose, it is being uninterrupted by the man stepping out the door.

“Wait what,” Washington finally manages to utter just before Caboose grabs the handle of the back door.

The large man waves emphatically. “Thank you, General! I will see you and the good doctor lady soon! But I have to get to my train!”

“Private Michael J. Caboose’s train is departing in forty-two minutes—“

“Wait! I don’t know—“ Washington tries to shout but the door is slammed shut with tremendous force, enough to make one of Emily’s piles of books nearby tip over and go scattering across the floor.

Washington and Freckles both stare at the books for a few disquieting seconds.

Then Washington gives the dog a wary look. “I can’t escape the nonsense can I?”

The dog snarls in return before huffing. It then walks — with confidence and ownership of the house that Washington dreams of building up to at some point before his fifties — through the short hall from the  kitchen and into the living room where it promptly takes the seat that Washington has been using for the last week.

“God damn it Emily,” Wash curses at the air, nose curling.

When Grey returns home it is with the flourish that Washington has com to expect.

It’s almost like nothing in the world and changed and everything is good and there’s nothing but perfect innocence exuding from Emily’s every pour. And that doesn’t change even slightly as she trounces on through the door and looks down to meet Wash’s gaze.

For his part, Washington’s sitting on the floor with his back against three stacks of books. The one in his hand has been occupying the space he had been staring at prior to Emily’s entrance.

A funny expression came over Emily’s perpetually peasant face as she locks eyes with Wash and she puts her hands on her hips, flouncy skirt bobbing in a wave. “Why, Washington! What are you doing on the floor, silly?”

There’s some sort of crack in Wash’s forced smile like his teeth are too sharp to be contained. “I’ll give you three guesses,” he offers.

Then, there’s a ferocious bark from the living room that draws Emily’s eyes away from him.

“The first two guesses don’t count,” Wash declares as the dog’s head pokes out from around the corner.

“Freckles!” Emily calls out in utter delight.

With a complete change in character, Freckles loosens up the ramrod straightness of his body and begins bounding through the hall, heftily landing two paws on Wash’s lap without warning. By the time the dog is at Emily, he’s nothing but an overgrown puppy with a wagging tail and playful keening barks.

She happily catches the dog’s front paws and meets his nose.

It would be an adorable image if Washington wasn’t already sick to death of everything surrounding it.

“That all we got to say?” he demands soothingly.

Emily looks up from the dog, a curious smile, but a smile all the same, looking back on him. “What now?” she acts coyly.

“This has to stop!” Wash snaps, finally getting to his feet, slamming the book in his hands onto the top of one of piles of books as he does so.

Of course, the world never wants things to work out simply for Washington and in mere moments after his tantrum, the line of books begins to topple as a result. And soon, like dominos, the books around the house begin to fall, one into another, all around them.

Freckles is unhappy at the development and bravely gets between Wash and Emily, growling with his haunches raised.

Emily Grey is looking around in complete shock.

Washington feels like an asshole. “Goddammit! I mean. I’m sorry. Here,” he mutters, beginning to get on one knee to pick up the stray books. But he stops himself, after only grabbing two, he gets back to his feet and shakes his head. “No. No! Okay. Goddammit. I have to… I have to say something before it makes me explode!”

“Like defacing hundreds of dollars of property belonging to a roommate?” Grey offers.

“Fucking— yes,” Washington grits his teeth angrily. “This is not going to work if I don’t say anything, and you know what? I actually want this to work. I want to live here. I want to be… I don’t know. I want to be here with you. In this house. Stupid. Confectionary. Sugared-ice-tea house.”

“Sweet Home,” Emily answers, like it’s vital to the conversation. “Why do you want to be here, Mister Washington?”

Wash stares at her, beginning to wonder if she’s listened to anything he’s ever said but, suddenly, looking into her eyes, he realizes for the first time that she is being frightfully serious.

She wants to know. Which, is to say, she doesn’t understand.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Wash answers pathetically.

“Neither do I,” she agrees.

“Yes, but it’s still your house at the end of the day,” Wash says. “I can leave, even if there’s nowhere to go. Because this house isn’t mine. Because there are no parts of it — no lines in it — that are mine and only mine. I need. I need…”

“Boundaries?” she tries to guess again.

Wash scowls at her. “Respect,” he corrects her. “And I’m…. I’m just not going to receive it as long as you continue to be inconsiderate of our differences.”

It isn’t quite knocking down every book in a maze of a house, it isn’t quite a fiery explosion, but it’s every bit of Washington’s guts and brains spewed out all the same. Words he hasn’t even put together fully formed in his own mind yet are suddenly there, bared open for them both.

For the first time since they met, Emily Grey is speechless.

Until she isn’t.

“So you are a cat person?”

Washington takes off up the stairs, fuming all over again and not sure when he’s going to blow.

#writing #rvb fic #RvB: Sweet Home #Agent Washington #Emily Grey #Michael J Caboose #AI: Freckles

[bnrobertson1]

The Cleansing Comedy of “Cum Town”

To paraphrase a point Canadian All-American Hero Norm MacDonald laid on a then-alive Larry King, comedians used to aspire to be funny, now they aspire to appear smart. While political humor, ostensibly a stage to show off one’s intellect and humanity by the empathetic tackling of modern topics, has been a thing as long as humor itself, there was time in the not-so-distant past where the goal was the display of comedy chops, not compassion*. This significant shift in the mainstream started with Jon Stewart’s reign as host of The Daily Show. A far departure from the wackier Craig “Dance Dance Dance” Kilborn’s approach to the Comedy Central staple, Stewart treated TDS as a megaphone in which he could espouse his political views. Nightly challenging W’s hawkish take on foreign policy, liberals the country over championed their new clever-if-not-amusing hero- but at some point during Stewart’s ascension, reflecting a certain acceptable viewpoint became more important than reflecting a sense of humor.

*Back in the early SNL days Chevy Chase suggested that Gerald Ford sustained significant brain damage playing football to mock Ford’s bumbling persona, not excoriate him on the tenets of his agenda.   

Consider Last Week Tonight with John Oliver or the zeitgeist-shifting Nanette. The former features some of the best reporting on the planet, displaying a willingness to cover potential viewership-poison like prison reform or, on a recent episode, black hair and its connection to the systematic racism African Americans face daily. The show is relentless, passionate, and is about as funny as that sounds. John Oliver is clearly a witty person, but even he often acknowledges how “Erudite Brit Shames Americans over Racism” isn’t exactly the blueprint for a yuckle factory*. Much like his old boss Stewart, Oliver is more dedicated to espousing the correct viewpoint over a funny one. To this point, most “jokes” in the show feel jammed in like a satirical sausage, often coming across as after-thoughts that can mess with the tone**.  As a show it is unquestionably a success, opening myriad eyes to plights once unknown. As a comedy show, which is what it at least originally marketed itself as, it is a failure. 

*It is, however, pretty perfect Monday Morning hiding-in-cubicle watching 

**While he does try to infuse some zaniness into the program by talking about fucking animals or whatever, I don’t think Oliver realizes how genuinely funny it is watching a bookish Brit get upset about coconut oil hair products, although not in the way he probably hopes it would be.

An even purer example of Norm’s point is Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette. The buzzed-about stand-up special is essentially a takedown of white male-ism, albeit one that seems allergic to laughing. Gadsby is trying to woo you with her intellectualism, not her ability to make you chuckle. Some called this approach brilliant- turning a male-dominated form on its head to put its practitioners on blast for things ranging from sexism to transphobia. Widely decorated around the world for its innovative and sharp honesty, Nanette asked the big question: is the next wave of comedy not meant to be funny? Is cutting edge humor not humorous at all? Are we entering a Metal Machine Music era of comedy? And if so, is merely criticizing the perceived powers-that-be now considered comedy?

More like No-nette

This desire to display empathetic enlightenment has gone well beyond the world of stand-up and political comedy. It can be seen by the yanking of episodes of comic cornerstones such as It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and 30 Rock that feature blackface, or animated programs recasting characters so that voices are both more inclusive and representative. Even The Simpsons has all but abandoned its once trademark balance, its current form essentially the wet-blanket Lisa, a far, far cry from the Homer-centric past of the show’s glory years.   

All of these decisions have been made by the shows’ respective creators, a mea culpa for insensitive liberties taken in the recent past. Blame the internet for the long, indelible digital footprints, but people are now more worried about how the future will remember them, in some enlightened far-off utopia where comedy is really about nothing being funny, and everybody is judged by the language you used when no one really gave a rat’s ass about what you had to say.

Entertainers are far more concerned with looking good fifteen years from now than making people laugh now. Ironic detachment- the reason a lot of the questionable humor existed in the first place*, isn’t a big enough distance for comics to get away with racism, sexism, and other forms of bigotry, chuckles be damned.

*Racists have been the butt of the joke- and not the jokesters- for as long as I can remember. I find it hard to believe that anyone could watch an Always Sunny and think they’re mocking minorities. While the meme-ification of America has robbed many of these jokes of context, it’s a waste of time to criticize creators for devolving consumption habits, especially in the name of inclusion, compassion, etc.    

It’s not my place to say whether this is good or bad. As self-censorship isn’t really censorship, it’s hard to argue that an artist willfully pulling their work from the marketplace is some sort of injustice. It’s their reputation (read: livelihood) after all. There are things I would probably delete/hide if anybody gave enough of a shit to do a deep dive into my past babblings. But while I certainly applaud the idealistic efforts to make a more welcoming society for all, it does kind of suck that it comes at the expense of comic mana such as Lethal Weapon 5 (and 6).   

At the risk of kicking dusty horse bones, this does boil the whole “cancel culture” debate down to one consideration: what is acceptable to laugh at?

Insert the podcast “Cum Town.” Starring the trio of Nick Mullen (the bitter one), Stravos Hilias (the bigger one), and Adam Friedland (the butler?), “Cum Town” is the least political of the “Dirtbag Left”* wave of offerings*. If you can’t tell by the name, “Cum Town” isn’t for the crowd that regularly uses the word “problematic.” Employing a fairly new media in the podcast, the three NY-based comics shoot the shit on pretty much all matters, keeping the atmosphere loose and the unapologetic laughs flowing. 

*Which also includes the hugely popular “Chapo Trap House” and “Red Scare,” shows that are both fairly funny... and can often be accurately described as  “permanently congested neck-beards talking tough about revolution or whatever in between rhapsodizing about time-old yet currently posh talking points (distribution of wealth, liberalism vs. leftism, etc.)”.

As bad as the Olivers and the Gadsbys of the world want to change your mind, the trio at “Cum Town” are much more focused on tickling your funny bone (and/or prostate). Its setup gives the show an air of Howard-Stern-in-the-90s danger, where things that probably should never be thought are said with glee. They’re the type of guys who find the humor in places that make others uncomfortable, such as the connection of the Clintons to Jeffrey Epstein’s murder or, in one particularly great skit, how Trump would undoubtedly try to smear Robert De Niro as a non-Italian homosexual.

Devoid of the pretension other “enlightened” modern comedy wears so proudly, the show can focus on being being funny in ways that spur a gut laugh, not a guffaw.   

“Cum Town” works because its as self-aware as it is fearless. These aren’t Andrew Dice Clays winding up the Islanders stadium with bits about “the brothers.” They’re not just reliving old Stern bits, asking alcoholic little people and other societal pariahs to make fools of themselves. The show wouldn’t work if it was merely “saying racial slurs with the EdgeLord Crowd.” "Cum Town” operates like a savvy boxer- throwing shots, usually at modern idols, knowing that it leaves them open to counter punches.

The genius of this approach is that they know what the counter punches will be (being called “racist,” “sexist,” “fascist,” etc.)... and have a counter-punch for that!* It’s not like it takes Ali-esque anticipatory vision to know what the criticisms will be. While calling a (probably white, cis-gender, straight) male “racist!” or “sexist!” or “fascist!” surely feels empowering to the counter-puncher, the reality is a lot of those terms have absolutely lost their meaning or the damaging heft that used to accompany their utterance. With the mass acceptance of systematic sexism/ racism as prevalent in everyday life, all the (bad) -isms are supposedly so ingrained into the white male psyche that they’re bigots no matter what. Especially when you consider that laughing- actual laughing- is more of a neurological reaction than a considered response. Put another way: a skit depicting Tony Soprano as an Indian may not confuse anybody into thinking Stav is on a first-name basis with Noam Chomsky, but it is infinitely funnier than all the “Donald Drumpf”s shouted together combined. 

*Sorry, Mike Tyson’s Punch Out is about the extent of my boxing knowhow. 

The show operates in a world where performance compassion is a hell of a lot worse than genuine feeling. Where Donald Trump gets mocked- but less so than Hillary Clinton, who’s president campaign’s attempt to make her “cool” was, let’s say, ill-fitting. It gets mean and nasty because comedy does. So, did Adam Friedland get called out by Chelsea Clinton for calling her ugly*? Yep. And many came to Chelsea’s defense calling for Adam’s sexist, disgusting head, I’m sure in only pro-Semitic ways. Does Nick’s archaic (though quite good) impressions of various ethnicities  to a certain trope? Or does Stav talking about pornography and getting ass with a somewhat slimy tone? The three “Cum Town” hosts know that the list of the “powerless” has changed considerably in the last few decades, and that those who pay service to liberal ideals should be mocked just like the rest of us. 

The tweet in question.

Juvenile? Sure. Insensitive? Yes. But God Dammit, isn’t humor supposed to be that way? If there’s a killer joke where the punch-line is “bigotry is bad,” I’m not aware of it. “Cum Town” generates a type of laughter that feels liberating- like you’re shaking off the oppressive scowl of a world that blames you- person who has been around for about one one billionth of the world’s life- for all its ills. The more modern society weighs us with new considerations on language and decorum, conjured rules that dictate what you may have a reaction to and what you may not, the funnier the humor in its opposition flies. Breaking rules is inherently funny- thumbing your nose at society is at the core of comedy’s release. And the more it becomes taboo to say words like “tranny,” “fat,” “dumb,” “midget,” etc., the more comedic release will be given when we say the words that I’m not going to type right here. Because the further the joke is from the norm, the more space there is for laughter to form.

Some believe this humor can lead to hatred which can lead to violence. That the Capitol’s riots were a warped result of the Rogans of the world. That by hearing Dave Chappelle say the n-word, white people will start to adopt it, and chaos will surely follow. But there’s another school of thought that says being able to laugh at something is the genesis of being able to process something and eventual acceptance. 

I realize this is hardly a surprising point from a straight white guy, one who has said (regretfully and not recently) on more than one occasion that “I don’t get offended, I don’t understand why others do?” But I also think that a lot of the “hurt” these societal infractions cause are more of a smokescreen or diversion from bigger problems. It’d be easier to distract people with discussions over whether James Bond should be black or if Dr. Seuss books featuring offensive illustrations should be banned as opposed to, I don’t know, actually try to combat some of the systematic problems that propagate systems that truly stun growth?  Telling people they should feel guilty about something is a slippery slope as we have around 8 billion people on earth, there’s plenty of misery to go around. We should all probably feel bad about something.

In conclusion, “Cum Town” knows that just because something is bad doesn’t mean it can’t be funny. As mentioned before, humor is often how people cope with the hypocritical, values-starved planet we find ourselves on. Humor should delight our soul, not display our sophistication.   

[lovelysilence14]

My review of The Gifted - Episode 7

Well, this episode seemed to raise the stakes a bit more. And was certainly about the couples! Lorna and Marcos, The Struckers and my OTP Clarice and John! Let’s start now!

Strucker Storyline

Okay… this might sound stupid. But… in all honesty, I would be much happier if this show was more focused on the actual members of the Underground like ThunderBird, Clarice, Lorna or Marcos instead of the Strucker family. I know it’s stupid since this entire show plotline is about the Strucker family, but I find myself mostly annoyed by this family and would be content if they were more of a plot B or C background storyline.

I have to say the way they reacted to Wes’ criminal background was overdramatic to say the very least. For one thing, I thought Lauren’s romance with Wes was a bit fast. She literally met him in the last episode! She met him in one episode and is kissing him in the next. But, I guess since he will be leaving the show for an indefinite amount of time, it’s fine. Reed is acting like his daughter is dating some thug. He learned how the Underground does not condone mutant criminals like killers, rapists, etc. They will be removed or not even considered. But, when he finds out Wes has a criminal history of STEALING and conning people, he acts as though Wes is a miniature Dahmer or something. Really? The guy was stealing valuable items and robbed a jewelry store owner for cash to, you know, survive life on the streets and you’re going to judge him for that?

Then Lauren finds out and confronts Wes about this. When he admits to becoming a thief after his parents kicked him out to survive on the streets, she just starts crying like he said he was killing people for a living for awhile. This alone had me rolling my eyes and facepalming myself in annoyance. Then she says how he should have told her. Does she not understand that when it comes to a checkered past that isn’t exactly on the list of conversation openers? Especially for a person who develops a liking for another? As a girl who did some things she isn’t proud of in her younger and stupid years - nothing like that, but still things I’d rather keep quiet about and leave in the past -  I sure as hell would not be admitting my list of bad deeds to someone I was developing feelings for.

But what annoys me about this the most, is how these people do not comprehend that it is HARD for mutants to survive in a world full of prejudice. They are left to fend for themselves in the world on their own and sometimes had to resort to illegal deeds just to get by for even a little bit. They weren‘t doing them because they wanted to, they did it because they felt like they had to just to survive for even a few days. Why judge them for surviving? Especially Wes who simply STOLE for a little bit? Again, it was just stealing valuables. Not killing!

Marcos and Lorna

Well, not much to say about this plotline. Except how I cannot blame Lorna for being furious with her boyfriend/baby daddy. I understand that Marcos did what he had to do to save his beloved girlfriend and the mother of his unborn kid, but he really has just dug his grave and is halfway buried in it. This isn’t a one-time thing for the cartel either. Carmen’s text said so itself, “Nice to have you back”. He’s stuck back in his cartel life and there may not be a way out for him.

What’s worse is how it looks like a part of himself is even enjoying it. Carmen mentioned how in their old days, he got off on the destruction of his powers. They actually had to wait for him to destroy every little thing before he left. I really wonder how he’s going to pull himself back out of this one - again!

Blink and ThunderBird!!!

NOW… TIME FOR MY FAVORITE STORYLINE!

Oh, my poor baby… I felt so bad for Clarice in this episode. I have to admit, I was wondering how they were going to go about Clarice’s background. In the comics, there are a couple different early life versions of her.

In one I thought they were going to do was where her family moved to where the mutant population was high after it became apparent that Clarice was a mutant due to her appearance. However, their city was taken over and they tried to hide Clarice in an attempt to save her, but were killed. Henchmen then found Clarice in spite of her family’s attempt to keep her safe and she was kept in captivity and experimented on. She managed to escape and her powers were enhanced due to the experimentation that was done to her.

I was actually hoping they’d go for that plotline, it’s truly tragic but I thought it’d be really good for her background and why she is the way she is, but I guess not. But, this background of her’s was still sad and had me feeling so bad for my Clarice. :(

I like how John decided to go after Clarice. I was wondering how he found her again. Would he come across her or use his foresight to try to track her down? And I was hoping he would go after her and he did! And his excuse for searching for her - “She knows where we are and if she’s found then so are we" - I don’t think that was really it, Johnny boy! Maybe a tiny bit, but you can tell he actually wanted to find her again for himself. :)

I have to say, you can really tell John is genuinely falling for Clarice and he is falling hard. I think he is drawn to Clarice’s tough, sarcastic personality and her sharp tongue yet how she still has a heart of gold and loyalty. You could so see his smirk when Clarice relented to him helping solve her past and her little “Fine!” I love these two together. And when they discovered the Sentinels slaughtered her foster parents and siblings… the only people she loved and cared about… god, the way she was crying and saying, “No, no, no…” My poor Clarice! Why can’t you catch a break? A little happiness never killed anybody! But, I was glad to see John comforting her and hugging her TWICE and saying how sorry he is for her loss. At least he found out her foster parents died protecting her foster siblings. These two are definitely drawing closer and I love how it is happening genuinely and not because of fabricated memories. :) And Clarice, it wasn’t your fault! The bigoted government killed them. Not you! But, I am glad to see her back with the Underground safe and sound. The way John was gazing after her as she was walking away… that look was definitely one of longing. And then Nightmare-cough!-I mean, Dreamer swoops right in and steals a kiss from him. At least the look on his face when she did was a bit on the resistant side. And as he walked with her you could see his confliction of feelings. Dreamer… I don’t think he is as into you as he is into Clarice. I would love to see in the next episode be one of where maybe another guy is into Clarice and maybe flirts with her and John sees from the sidelines and has an angry look on his face. There is an over amount of mutants there! Probably won’t happen, but it’s still fun to imagine. lol

#tv: the gifted #the gifted spoilers #the gifted #thunderblink #thunderbird #clarice fong #blink #the struckers #lauren strucker #john proudstar #dreamer #andy strucker #reed strucker