#& there needs to be more room in both communities for the acknowledgment of the overlap there in

[fiapple]

the tags on this post elaborate, so i deeply encourage reading them, but there has to be more acknowledgment that mental illness can be a disability for some people. Anything from depression to personality disorders to schizophrenia can disable a person insofar as making them unable to function. It does a disservice both to those who are disabled by their mental health & those who feel their physical &/or neurological disabilities are inextricably interlinked to their mental health experientially to pretend otherwise.

[theautisticdoctor]

Have you ever been screened for adhd? I see that there is a lot of overlap in adhd and autism diagnosis. How was it for you?

Autism and ADHD do have a lot of similarities, as well as ADHD and (c)PTSD. I am officially diagnosed with autism and cPTSD, but I do also score very high on the ADHD spectrum. I got asked once if I wanted to get officially tested, but I refused because at that time my brain just couldn’t handle another label. I absolutely despise labels and getting them put on me gives me massive stress, because I feel so inadequate and as a failure (I’m still working on that). My autism also got kind of buried under all the other labels that got put on me, and I felt like it was going to happen with this again. I don’t do well in adjusting or acknowledging new things and it takes ages for me to accept these labels.

Just like autism, ADHD is also a neurodevelopment disorder, which means it would have been there in my childhood, so for me it is most useful to look how I was as a child. As a child I was not hyperactive at all, only disorganised with a lot of executive dysfunction, impulsivity when high stress levels occurred and easily distracted with bursts of hyperfocus and -fixation. My brother however has always been hyperactive, impulsive, and easily distracted (although he’s also diagnosed with cPTSD). He for example as a 2 year old managed to jump out of the high chair more often than actually sit in it or rock and bounce it back and forth so hard that he would flip over with chair and all. So he is definitely an ADHD’er. Me you could have put in a corner of the room and completely forget I even existed, which therefore also happened, because I wouldn’t make a sound, wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t crawl away from my designated space. You could give me a toy and I would be satisfied with it all day, figuring out all ins and outs, when I was done playing I would start taking it apart and would put it back together, over and over again. Where my brother would throw his toys through the frontwindow of the car (literally) because he was just bored with them and needed more stimuli. My cPTSD diagnosis makes it very complicated to distinguish what symptoms are from traumatic stress and what has been there since before the structural stress (because the structural stress also started in very early childhood) from ADHD or autism.

For me I think it is more helpful to look at it from a holistic perspective instead of adding more quite meaningless labels for a group of symptoms that one might have, I just have a neurodevelopment disorder with a spectrum of symptoms. I have made an inventory of those symptoms and the scope of these symptoms is already a huge disability for which I need to make adjustments to my life. Labels should be used as a tool to help people and their support system understand, figure out and learning to cope with their symptoms. The label is solely there to serve a purpose, but it doesn’t give you any clue about the extent, severity or suffering of the person. In my practice I always tell my patients that I’m treating a person, not just the lab results or diagnoses, and I expect others to do the same with me. I hate it when people only look at results or labels and create their entire treatment plan based on that, you should look at the human that’s sitting in front of you.

The autism spectrum has a major overlap with the ADHD spectrum. This overlap includes things like sensory issues, stimming, emotional regulation difficulties, impulse control difficulties, executive dysfunction, interest-based nervous system, interconnected thought processes and patterns, hyperfixations and -focus or special interests, social differences and difficulties, communicative difficulties, rejection-sensitivity dysphoria, and making eye contact difficulties. In both disorders the amount of stress or overwhelm is what can make the symptoms worse. Some specific symptoms to ADHD are the cravings to new things and experiences, attention and focus regulating difficulties, which could make it harder to read social cues, inhibition difficulties, hyperactivity, and impulsiveness. Whereas some of the specific symptoms to autism are the cravings to routine, order and familiarity, with craving for strict adherence, intuitive disability to read social cues, self soothing through repetitive behaviour, thoughts and routines. When my stress levels rise I tend to move towards the ADHD spectrum, but it keeps contributing to my rising stress levels, so I am thinking it is more masking / coping than actually ADHD. I think, I therefore really fit the autism spectrum better than the ADHD spectrum. But I don’t know, maybe I’ll be ready one day to get myself actually tested, because it also wouldn’t really surprise me if I was.

[robin-christine]

The Day My Life Began

On June 27, 2018, I tried to commit suicide. This is my story.

I’m thankful that I’m here to tell it.

There was no one specific reason that caused me try to kill myself, rather it was a combination of factors; I was experiencing a major depressive episode at the time, the red flags exhibited by my fiancé who was living with me suddenly surfaced from my subconscious all at once, and I had just begun taking a new anti-depressant I had never taken before. The side effects anti-depressants are ironic; they can actually INCREASE thoughts of depression and suicide, and for the first time in almost 20 years of taking various anti-depressants, I experienced this potentially fatal side effect from the new anti-depressant I had recently begun taking.

Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on your reasoning almost three years later my memories of that day are still few, fragmented and incomplete; I can only remember bits and pieces, and I’m sure those memories didn’t occur in the correct order in reality.

I remember having a screaming match with my (ex)-fiancé, I remember him using my mental illness to insult me, and I remember taking a hammer and destroying my laptop.

I remember going up to my mother’s apartment (at the time we were living in the same building) and screaming at her, likely nothing nice or loving.

I remember emptying an entire month’s worth of medication into a big pile on my bed, swallowing pills by the handful, and then casually thinking ‘what did I just do?’. I remember contemplating vomiting up the pills and then discarding the idea.

I remember going down to the lobby and waiting outside for the ambulance.

I remember yelling at my mother, who had come downstairs and was sitting silently on a bench in the lobby staring at the floor, ignoring my repeated screams of, “What the f*ck is wrong with you? You obviously don’t care I tried to kill myself since you’re sitting there, not saying a f*cking word! You won’t even look at me!”.

I remember getting into the ambulance and talking to the paramedics, but I must have lost consciousness, because the next thing I remember was being in restraints in the ER, screaming and cursing at everyone, and

struggling frantically to break free. All I accomplished was cause severe bruising on both my wrists that took months to heal properly.

I remember overhearing one of the doctors who had helped save my life in the ER say to another doctor as they walked away from my bed, “I hate treating personality disorders. They’re the fucking worst”.

That’s all I remember about June 27, 2018 before I once again lost consciousness, and even after having my stomach pumped with charcoal, I remained that way for the following three days. It didn’t take long before I needed the help of a ventilator to breathe, and at one point the doctors weren’t sure I would make it. My mother told me that she had sat by my bed for those three days, crying silently while stroking my hair, telling me how much she loved me.

On June 30, 2018 I finally regained consciousness.

Again, almost three years later my memories of that day are still few, fragmented and incomplete; I can only remember bits and pieces, and I’m sure what I do remember isn’t in the right order.

I remember seeing my mother and sister sitting next to each other, holding each other’s hands when I opened my eyes. When they realized I was waking up, they both jumped up, my sister ran out the room to get a doctor, and my mother sat down next to me on the bed to hug me as tightly as she could and whisper how much she loved me, crying.

In what could have seconds, minutes, or hours my sister returned, accompanied by a doctor introduced as Dr. Richards, who checked my vitals and conducted the first of numerous psychiatric assessments I would undergo over the next few days.

I spent a total of seven days in the hospital, including the three days that I was unconscious. Once I regained consciousness, I was assessed physically, psychiatrically and psychologically daily during the remaining four days I was hospitalized. I had blood taken so often that the nurses ran out of veins from which they could get blood; my veins are very small, difficult to find, and collapse easily, so as a result I had numerous bruises all over my hands and arms. Combined with the bruises on my wrists I gave myself trying to free myself from the restraints when I was in the ER, they served as a reminder of what I had done for months as they slowly healed.

During those four days I was forbidden by the doctors from being alone, and had caregivers watching me 24/7. When my mother and sister would visit the caregiver would leave the room so we could talk privately, but as soon as they left, the caregiver returned. Originally I wasn’t even allowed to close the door to the bathroom in my private room, but after my first psychiatric assessment by Dr. Richards, he gave the caregivers permission to allow me to close the door, but not to lock it.

The psychiatrists who assessed me ended up re-diagnosing me almost completely; for years I had been diagnosed as Bipolar and had been prescribed medications that I didn’t need and shouldn’t have been taking. I was weaned off the majority of the medication I had been taking, and left the hospital with a prescription for only one anti-depressant I had taken before without any fatal side effects, one anti-anxiety medication, and a new diagnosis of Personality Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (PDNOS). After I left the hospital, I continued working with my psychiatrist on finally properly diagnosing my mental illnesses because very often people suffer from more than one, and e many mental illnesses have overlapping symptoms, making a proper diagnosis sometimes very difficult..

After my overdose, I called off my wedding since it was one of the reasons I had tried to commit suicide. I finally acknowledged all the red flags that my fiancé had exhibited but I had subconsciously repressed; he had anger management problems, was extremely controlling and had absolutely no understanding of mental illness, even though he thought he did. He thought he knew everything. He would make comments like ‘stop exaggerating’, ‘you don’t need medication’, and my favourite, ‘it’s all in your head’. No kidding! I suffer from mental illness; where else would it be? My arm? My leg? But I’m ashamed to admit that I allowed him to treat him with ignorance and arrogance, that I allowed him to use me as a figurative mental punching bag for his anger, and that I allowed him to control my every move, much in the same way that my abusive late father had; unfortunately I’m proof that the expression “women tend to be attracted to men like their fathers” is true.

My overdose drastically changed our family dynamics. Immediately afterwards, me, my mother and my sister became closer as a family, and for the first time ever, my sister and I got along and actually had serious talks. Unfortunately, the joy that had come with my survival only lasted a few months before my depression returned, and my mother and sister

both blamed me for causing our’s mother’s anxiety to become worse, and for our mother having to move out of her apartment our building and into an “Assisted Living” apartment. My sister, my cousins both in Toronto and in Israel, and my mother’s few friends saw how depressed and anxious she had become after her had mother passed away, and how my suicide attempt had made her depression and anxiety worse.

Six months before she moved, my relatives were in town from Israel and my sister was in town from Toronto, and the three of them helped my mother visit and decide into which building to move; I was only told less than two weeks before she moved. Before my overdose, my mother was one of my best friends to whom I could talk to about absolutely anything. After my overdose, she avoided talking to me as much as she could. So although I didn’t cause my mother’s depression and anxiety, I did make them both worse for her.

I have to accept to consequences of my actions, but I didn’t expect my mother and sister to hate me as much as they do for attempting to commit suicide, for relapsing into a severe depression within a few months that from which, two years later, I’m still struggling to recover, and for causing them so much pain.

My sister eventually decided she’d had enough of my depression which manifested as anger and bitchiness, decided that she didn’t want or need me in her life, and didn’t want or need to deal with me any longer because my of anger, jealousy and resentment towards her, and blocked every possible method of communication to prevent me from contacting her.

When she had emergency gallbladder surgery a few months ago, I sent her a ‘Get Well’ card with what I thought was a nice message, but she never acknowledged receiving it. She’s made it clear that she has cut me out of her life completely, and I doubt I’ll ever see or speak to her again. I don’t know if it was easy or painful for her to cut all ties with me, but we haven’t spoken in at least 18 months.

My suicide attempt also changed my perspective about life, both positively and negatively. I finally forgave my father for what he did to me and the resulting negative psychiatric consequences he caused, 15 years after he had passed away. I believe that he, and the rest of my family and friends who have already passed helped save my life.

I started believing in G-D again; I regained my faith in a religion I felt had abandoned me years ago, but had been wrong. I should have died three times; in a car that flipped numerous times on the Trans-Canada highway into a ditch separating westbound from eastbound traffic lanes, in a grease fire in one of my apartments and by overdosing.

Obviously I’m here for a reason, and will gladly remain here until I’ve accomplished what I was put on this earth to do.

Finally at age 44, I have been properly diagnosed with numerous mental illnesses: Depression, Severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Personality Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (PDNOS) with traits of Borderline (BPD), Avoidant (AvPD) and Narcissistic (NPD) Personality Disorders, Adjustment Disorder (AjD), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Unfortunately, Personality Disorders can’t be treated with medication but they can be managed with specialized therapy. So I take medication and have done Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT) which has helped tremendously.

Now I take pleasure in the smallest of things; a good cup of coffee, a sunny day, a good book, losing half a pound, having clean socks and underwear, a good movie, sleeping late, among other things.

I know that medication and therapy will never completely obliterate my illnesses, I’ll have relapses of depressive episodes and I’ll have thoughts of suicide, but I know I won’t act on them. I’ve learned to enjoy life.

I will never again attempt to commit suicide.

[ivystjamess]

IF IT WEREN'T FOR IVY'S CONSTANT NEED to both prove herself and receive praise from her parents, she likely wouldn't have auditioned for into the woods. it wasn't grease or mamma mia with the prize of sandy dumbrowski or sophie sheridan waiting for her to grab. it was just...into the woods. and sure, while she wasn't passionate about the show itself, she was passionate about the validation and attention scoring a good role might bring. ivy st.james had her eye set on the role she wanted and as always she was fully prepared to use every tool in her arsenal to snatch it up. ivy wanted to be cinderella just for the sake of being cinderella. she liked her songs and the pretty costume and for once, didn't really mind setting her sights on a role other than the primary female lead. while she could easily blow any role in the show out of the water, ivy had carefully crafted her audition materials for the directing panel to see her as cinderella. ivy st.james and cinderella would soon be synonymous in their eyes if she could help it. 

despite having just finalized her song on monday after receiving davis' input, ivy felt more than prepared come wednesday. auditioning was routine to her at this point, pull her hair out of her face, put on a nice outfit, prepare, prepare, prepare, and she'd be set. oftentimes it felt like ivy first learned to walk, then speak, then shortly after she learned how to audition. it was years upon years of lessons for this specific thing that left her knowing that if she were to engage in conversation, keep it short and sweet, to drink plenty of water, and not let a single thing get into her head. 

those were the basics. but ivy was both blessed and cursed with berry-st.james genes that always left her going a little bit overboard. at school wednesday, ivy refused to speak and claimed she was on vocal rest through a text to speech app she'd downloaded on her phone. she had told julien he could hitch a ride with her, but they had to keep their conversation minimum to none. even when ivy only kinda wanted something, she would do everything within her power to make sure she got it. playing danny had been alright, but at the end of the day, she wanted sandy. as long as she could help it, she wouldn't miss the mark on getting what she wanted again. 

while in the reception area of the lima players building, ivy sat patiently, sipped on her water bottle, and reviewed her materials in her head. she tried not to acknowledge those around her too heavily. this was community theatre. the pool was wider. while it brought fun talent like davis or some of the boys from dalton to the table, it also brought the clarington-smythe sisters. while her and emory were mostly friendly, they were still competitors. and when it came to darcy? ivy knew she couldn't take one look at the girl without getting completely thrown off. rarely did she have to face these pre-audition obstacles at mckinley, but even in a more expanded setting, ivy had to remain in her own little, focused world or suffer the consequences of a botched audition.

eventually, her name had been called and she was relieved to stand and enter the audition room. in her typical fashion, she handed a resume to each of the directors before surrendering her book to the accompanist and talking through her music. once all the formalities were out of the way, it was down to business. from the moment ivy entered the room, she was polite and smiled like her life depended on it, but the real magic would happen in a moment once she got her slate out of the way, "good afternoon, I'm ivy st.jarnes. today i will be performing journey to the past from anastasia composed by stephen flaherty and lynn ahrens." she let that information sit with the directors before announcing, "in addition to my song, i will be performing  rather be a man by joseph arnone, then as a dance sample, i will be performing one step closer from the little mermaid with the help of davis goolsby" with her audition materials out in the open, only one thing left to communicate. with a smile, ivy sweetly stated, "i would love to be considered for the role of cinderella, but i will gladly accept any role. thank you." then cast a glance towards the accompanist. moments later, her music began, and showtime. 

`heart don't fail me now, courage don't desert me, don't turn back now that we're here.' 

ivy vocalized effortlessly, sure to keep an unwavering optimism in both her tone and her expression. in ivy's eyes, journey to the past was the perfect song to audition with for cinderella. the song held a sense of adventure that was ideal for a show like into the woods which was all about a journey. she kept her blocking to a minimal and let her voice do the talking. sure, there was an occasional pace to the left or the right, a clasped hand over her chest here or there, and near constant longing, furrowed brows. she could act and dance her heart away in later portions of her audition.

'home, love, family, there was once a time when i must have had them too.' 

while she continued to hit each note with ease, ivy tried to step into cinderella's slippers. it certainly wasn't a character she could relate very deeply too. her home life was close to ideal and rarely did she turn down male attention, but just imagining herself in a beautiful gown and golden slippers was enough for the trained performer to put a believable desire in her tone. cinderella might have longed for her mother or to go to the festival or to run away with the baker, but what did ivy st.james long for? her mind wandered to the depths of her heart and her wants. she wanted julien to stand up for her more, she wanted to be taken seriously as a performer outside of her parents, she wanted the other members of new directions to appreciate her efforts, she wanted to be liked, and she wanted to maybe even be prom queen one day. sure, those wishes looked nothing like cinderella's but as she belted the emotional peak, her hearts desires might as well have looked the same as anastasia's or cinderella's. 

'yes this is a sign, let this road be mine, let it lead me to my past, and bring me home at last!' 

ivy concluded the song with a smile and tried not to look too breathless as she seamlessly transitioned into her monologue. sure, it was a little more aggressive, bitter even, and while that was the opposite of cinderella, ivy wanted to show off that she did have a range. and beside, there was some obvious reluctance from cinderella to her prince, she wanted to show her capability in that regard. her recitation of the monologue elicited a few laughs which was always a good sign and had ivy's heart singing as if she were sally field at the 1985 oscars. 

now that her monologue had successfully wrapped, it was time for davis to enter the room. ivy worried that maybe it was poor etiquette for the end of her audition to overlap with the beginning of his, but the directors seemed to be eating up their collaboration as the instrumental portion of one step closer from the little mermaid began.

it had been davis' idea to do this waltz-y number and ivy didn't mind. she'd do pretty much anything to put herself over the top of the rest of the competition. after conversing for a little, most of their private rehearsal in her basement consisted of choreographing the number and perfecting all of the little tricks so the pair looked elegant together rather than foolish. throughout the dance, ivy kept her eyes locked with davis' as she concentrated on hitting each precise and quick motion. into the woods definitely wasn't a dance heavy show, but as far as ivy (and davis) was concerned, it was better to cover all bases than leave a director wondering. 

come the end of the dance, she was a little winded, but flashed a winning smile at the judges all the same. she thanked them again as she went to grab her book from the accompanist. each director gave a standard thank you back and reminded her she'd hear from them sunday. while sunday couldn't come soon enough, she held her chin high and binder close to her chest as she exited the room. and as a show of good sportsmanship, ivy even issued a "break a leg" to davis on her way out. 

out of sight from the directing panel, ivy finally let out a breath. she'd done all she could. now it was just a waiting game.

END.

[skvaderarts]

Hiraeth Chapter 44: Archival

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Forty-Four: Archival 

Notes: Hey everyone, sorry I had to push back the last chapter on such short notice! I just honestly forgot how many days it was until my mom’s birthday and I wanted to give her all of my attention! Thanks for all the birthday wishes! She loved them!

(-~-)

The next day…  

Honestly, the youngest living descendant of the Dark Knight Sparda couldn’t remember the last time that he’d seen snow outside of the Lamina mountain range. It had truly been a sight to see when they had arrived just a few hours ago at the crack of dawn, long before the majority of the townspeople had crawled out of their beds and made their way into the streets. They would be in for a rude awakening, much as poor Kyrie had been when he’d accidentally woken her up so early.

When the van had pulled up in front of the house, he had been surprised to see Kyrie standing in the doorway less than a minute later, clearly barely awake and not fully registering just how cold it was outside. The poor young woman had her robe halfway on, the cool night air kissing her exposed skin. To say that she was not thermally prepared for a light blizzard would be a bit of an understatement.

She’d nearly tripped down the stairs as she met Nero halfway, nearly leaping on him in excitement as she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. No one needed to ask if she had missed him during his time away or if the young songstress had been worried about him. It was clear for anyone to see that she had nothing but love in her heart for Nero.

Kyrie had greeted V warmly as well, noting that it had been some time since she’d seen him, and that she hoped that things had been well for him in the interim. The young summoner had decided against mentioning his new ailment to her, preferring to not give her something else to worry about. Literally everything and everyone else was enough already. Instead, he simply reassured her that he was more or less content, something that wasn’t a lie. Curse or otherwise, he was at peace for perhaps the first time in his entire life. He would relish that. 

After wishing her well, he, Nico, and Flora boarded the van again and headed back to the mainland, stating that they needed to do something with the scroll that Magnolia’s sister had gifted V after they dropped Dante off at his office. He had been asleep the entire time in the back of the van, and considering the circumstances, they had collectively chosen not to awaken him. Nero and Kryie wished them a safe trip and told them that they would contact the rest of the group if they happened to hear from Vergil, and then they went inside, eager to spend some quality time with one another for at least a few hours. That was the most that they were going to get with three kids in the house.

But now hours later, he was headed towards the last place that he wanted to set foot in again in order to complete an errand that V had requested of him. And he would have company. Apparently, there was still some work to be done at Fortuna castle, this time on behalf of the Ludwig family. It seemed that both they and V were keen to preserve as many of the books in the private library as possible. Admirable enough on paper, but still a miserable trek through the snow either way.

Just as he approached the ruined front gate to the castle’s bridge, a familiar face emerged from the frosty fog a few yards ahead of him, seemingly unperturbed by the extreme circumstances. It was Sirrus, here at the behest of both parties involved to help him do… something. Nero wasn’t sure he really truly understood, but he was certain that the adjudicator probably did and that he could fill him in while they headed towards the library. He wasn’t even going to ask how he beat him there. He’d been at the Ludwig estate long enough to know the answer to that question.

“Well, aren’t we a sight for sore eyes? It’s good to see you again so soon, Nero.” “I hope you’ll pardon my temporary departure. I had to go speak with my superiors. They summoned me, so there was no avoiding it, I’m afraid.”

“Hey, Sirrus. So that’s where you went right before we left, hu? Makes sense, I guess. How did it go, then?” Nero had had the feeling when they’d told him he’d be working with one of them again soon that it would be the powerful redhead with the dry humor, and it turned out he had been correct. Score one for Nero.

“Oh, I’d say it did. They don’t trust me as far as they can throw me, but that just comes with the territory, I’m afraid. But we can talk about it in more detail once we’re inside. This frigid wind isn’t exactly unfamiliar, but it’s still a bit much. I’m not keen on staying exposed to the elements for any longer than I have to be.”

Nero nodded. Now that was something that they could agree on. He just hoped that the swarm of cutlass that had been here last time had taken up residence somewhere else, or at least retreated back into the depths of Agnus’s laboratory. He didn’t feel like shooting every demon in this damn castle again. He had things to do today.

(-~-) 

In truth, the marking made no sense to him. 

Whatever Sirrus was doing seemed completely foreign and mystical to him, probably because it involved the use of some more arcane knowledge that he hadn’t the slightest idea about. He’d never even known that something like this existed until just recently, so seeing someone actually perform it was entirely new. In truth, he’d seen evidence of its presence in action before in this very castle when one took into account the many elaborate puzzles and traps that seemed to utilize an unknown source of power, but he hadn’t really put much thought into it at the time. 

But now? Well, he couldn’t help but wonder who had put them in place. Surely someone from the Order, but that didn’t mean much in regards to figuring out who actually did it. He didn’t know most of the people in the higher echelons of the ill-fated Order of the Sword. That was by design. And as for what they were capable of and where some of them had disappeared to after things had gone down the way that they had? He was none the wiser. But he wished that he knew. He had some choice words for them. And probably a few bullets.

“So… how does this work? I mean, if you can do that, then why not just go back and forth to wherever you want to go like this?” Nero watched curiously as Sirrus fiddled with some sort of book, marking out a circle with several symbols upon it on the floor. A triangle overlapped it, forming a curious visual that he couldn’t say he’d seen before. The Adjudicator glanced up at him for a moment, seemingly acknowledging that he was benign spoken to but unable to maintain eye contact.

“As much as I’d love to, that’s not how this works. Only inanimate objects can pass through a portal such as this, and it requires two people in two different locations to just to be opened in the first place and to remain stable” Sirrus shrugged nonchalantly, working on some sort of symbol that he was marking out on the floor with white chalk. Nero had no idea what it meant, but he knew that it had to be magic in some way, shape, or form. “Your father’s blade is undeniably unique. It honestly fascinates me. I’d ask him to take a look, but I worry based on his rather unique answering conventions that he might literally give me exactly what I’m asking for.”

He went quiet for a short while at the mention of Vergil. It hadn’t really occurred to him until then that he actually missed his somewhat short-tempered and unpredictable father. None of them had yet to hear anything back from Vergil, and that fact alone was cause for concern. It wasn’t so much that he was the sort to check-in and ask for permission to complete a task. Far from it. But at least they normally knew where he was headed.

“You're probably in the clear. He only stabs people he’s related to these days. Well mostly. I even saw him spare someone once who helped kidnap V. Couldn’t tell you what was going through his head at the time, but he’s okay some of the time.” Nero allowed his mind to wander for a moment, pondering his wayward father’s current location. He couldn’t imagine that he was in danger. After all, he had been through worse before, and this time he at least had Yamato. Surely he would return soon. 

And yet… 

“Do you think I should be worried that he’s not back yet?”

“Sighing softly, Sirrus took a moment to consider his question before shaking his head. “If he indeed went to where you think he might have, then I suspect not. Time works differently across the Trinity of Realities, and I suspect that very little time has passed wherever he is, if any at all. There are rare places where time simply doesn’t seem to pass at all.”

“No shit, really? I heard something like that but… ” He stopped. Not really sure what else to say. They nodded to one another and then returned to sorting out the book in the room. It was best that they keep their minds busy.

Adding additional food for thought, Sirrus spoke again. “And unlike my father, yours seems to possess the capacity to actually care about another living being. He seems to find it trying a considerable majority of the time, but he possesses the desire to love and be loved nonetheless. There is hope yet for him. I think you’re in a good place. I like to hope that whatever tension there is between you can be worked out in the end.”

“I hope you're right. Any chance of working it out with yours?”

A humorless look crossed his face. As he looked through the younger devil hunter instead of at him, seeing him but at the same time, not seeing him at all. It was as if his eyes and his brain were not fully communicating. He fell quiet for a moment, fidgeting slightly. “... I’m afraid not. Any hope of that outcome dissolved after what happened between him and Aluta.”

Nero knew enough to not press the issue any further, even if he was somewhat quiet. After close to a minute of silence, Sirrus glanced at him momentarily before speaking again, not keen on keeping whatever was on his mind buried there any longer.

“Generally speaking, it’s in poor taste to date someone younger than your own children. If nothing else, it causes a fair bit of tension.”

Taking a moment to register that statement, Nero continued to try and organize the books, eager to not spend the entire day in this library. As much as he knew that V would disagree with his sentiments, he had to admit that he was glad that most of the books were old and damaged in this part of the library. There were at least a dozen extra-large moving boxes filled with books, each one weighing about a hundred pounds.

Oh, how Nero hoped that his brother wouldn’t find a way to hurt himself by moving them around his house. But deep down, he knew that he would. It wasn’t so much that V was clumsy as it was that he was simply unfortunate, and if his little move had gone the way that it had, he was sure that this would go much the same. Or perhaps he would learn from his previous mistakes and opt into a much more cautious approach this time around? Who was to say? He was smart, after all, and Flora was there to assist him. He could only imagine that, given the size of V’s house, that they would be taking the majority of the books. That was probably for the best, all things considered. V would get nothing done with that many books in his house.

Nero then paused for a moment, his brow furrowing as something occurred to him that hadn’t until just then. He turned and looked over at Sirrus, registering the fact that he was quickly sorting through an entire bookshelf and stacking the books into two different boxes. Nero had been doing the same, but at a much slower rate. It turned out that it was difficult to categorize and sort books that you couldn’t fucking read. Big surprise there.

“Hold on a second… Did you just say…”

“That I am older than Aluta? Yes. Yes, I did. Because I am.” Sirrus chuckled slightly, continuing to pick up books, gently flip through them, and then place them into their requisite boxes. He seemed to find something enormously entertaining about Nero’s flabbergasted demeanor, carefully concealing his amusement so as to not come off as a smug jerk. Well, at least not more than he was sure he already did most of the time. He silently hoped that he wasn’t actually as insufferable as he assumed that he was. He just lacked social skills.

Leaning over to take a closer look at the smarmy redhead, the youngest Descendant of Sparda made no effort to conceal his deep-seated confusion at this revelation. How could that be possible? Sirrus looked the same age that he and V looked, and while Aluta didn’t look particularly old herself, he knew that she had to be at least old enough to be his mother due to the singular fact Vergil had known her as a teen when he himself had been one at the same time, albeit slightly older than her. For him to be even a year older than her implied that he aged even better than Vergil, and that didn’t seem physically possible for a normal human being.

Oh, that was right. Sirrus had stated before that he wasn’t human, hadn’t he? Back on Vie De Marli What had his words been back then? “I am not what you are” or something like that? He’d implied early into their working relationship that he wasn’t even remotely human, so that made the possibility of him being something capable of living longer and aging slower logical. But then that once again raised the question as to what he actually was. Nero couldn’t think of any other beings in their world that looked so… human. If he wasn’t technically a demon and he wasn’t at all human, then what the hell was he? What else was there?

Clearly noticing that Nero was staring him up and down like he’d grown a second head, Sirrus laughed in earnest. It wasn’t every day that he got to see someone look at him like that. Most of the people that he spent time around didn’t know enough about him to even inquire into things like his age. At most, he was occasionally asked about his accent if he allowed it to slip, but aside from that, people didn’t really give a damn about his personal life. Or him, for that matter. Adjudicators worked solo on most endeavors. They had no reason to get to know one another.

“You seem shocked to have learned this, Nero. Do I look a bit young for my age?”

Giving him a sideways look, Nero looked down at the floor for a moment before shaking his head and sighing, returning to stacking books. This had been a weird few weeks. No doubt about it. Ever since the Redgrave Incident, he’d had a very hard time understanding what was going on. So much had been thrown at him all at once, and he was still grappling with a good deal of it.

“Poor V,” He thought to himself. “I’ve got it pretty rough, but he was just minding his own business walking around, and then he just woke up in the middle of this nightmare. He had to do whatever he could just to stay alive, and then to find out that he wasn’t even totally human and then die and come back just for this stupid demon prince bastard to come after him? He doesn’t deserve any of this. Neither of us does.”

But they were going to work it out. Of that, he was sure. And this somehow would assist in that endeavor. When V had told the Ludwigs about these books, they had seemed very interested, and he genuinely hoped that they did find something interesting or useful about their opponent in these volumes. At the very least, relocating them somewhere more secure so that they were out of the hands of undesirables forever was a good place to start. All they would do is sit here and rot if anyone worth their salt in Fortuna had anything to say about it.

“Smartass,” Nero said with a genuine laugh, admittedly somewhat amused by Sirrus’s extremely sarcastic and rhetorical question. Slowly but surely he was starting to understand his dry sense of humor. Or, at least, he was starting to understand why V understood it so well. The two of them seemed to get along pretty well. Nero was glad that his slightly older sibling seemed to have made something close to a friend. He could be so unintentionally antisocial at times despite the fact that he knew deep down that V didn’t want to be and probably just wanted companionship. Poor guy.

“What can I say, you're not wrong,” Sirrus said with a soft laugh, smiling gently but with a slight tinge of something else. Was that sadness? It was difficult to say. Despite his normally straightforward demeanor, he was hard to read. “Let’s finish up here and head back to the mainland. I have something that I think might help lift you and your brother’s spirits a bit. We could all use a distraction from time to time. What do you say?”

Nero shrugged, more or less fine with that option. He could always double back with Nico once they were finished. They couldn’t really do much more until they found out where his father had disappeared to, anyway. Right now, everything hinged on his return. None of them were going to formulate a plan that he wasn’t included in. He and V knew the most about their opponent. For now, they would bide their time and try to remain reasonably calm.

“You know what? Fine by me. Let’s go. V needs to get out of the house and go do something. I think he’s starting to develop a phobia of stores or something.”

(-~-)

Wow, this one was on time for some reason. I don’t understand what happened. By the way, for those of you who read Saudade, this is the night where they go to the furniture store and Sirrus covertly buys V all that furniture. I figured that some of you might be wondering that. What’s that? None of you were? Oh. Well, anyway-

Happy Wednesday or whatever! Hope you’ve had a good week so far. I’ve been trying to branch out into freelance writing because I live in a conservative anti-vax hellhole where people protest the administration of a vaccine at all, refused to wear masks despite being one of the highest case areas in the entire country, and I refuse to work another low paying retail or fast food job and put my fragile lungs in harm's way only to still not be able to afford my rent. 

I’ll keep you all posted on that in case it means I have to shift the upload schedule. It probably won’t, but I just thought I’d let you know.  Let me know if any of you have any pointers or advice in regards to working in that field. Oh, and don’t worry, the books are still happening. I’m just building the ordering system. See you in the comments!

[homeandfamily97]

10 Tips to keep your family healthy while at home

Parents and kids alike are finding themselves navigating new routines at home while businesses and schools are closed because of the COVID-19 pandemic. For many, it can be tough to balance work and family life when they overlap at home.

That’s why it’s more important than ever to prioritize your family’s physical, mental, and emotional health. All of the change can feel overwhelming, but keeping your family healthy doesn’t have to be.

How to keep your family healthy while social distancing. Try these ten tips to keep your family healthy while you’re at home.

1.   Stay active together and get outside.

It’s important for both adults and kids to get moving throughout the day, especially as we’re spending more sedentary time working from home or participating in distance learning. Staying active is great for our physical health, and it can also help fight stress and anxiety that may arise as your family deals with a loss of daily normalcy.

Kids should move for at least one hour each day in an activity that increases their heart rate. While your family is limited in the places you can go to exercise, there are a variety of activities your family can do together at home, like a virtual fitness class or an impromptu family dance competition. As long as you maintain six feet from others, it’s safe to take your family outdoors for exercise, such as going for a walk or a bike ride.

2.   Drink enough water.

Staying hydrated is important for your body to function properly. Water also has a significant impact on your energy levels, brain function, and general health. With everything that’s going on, it can be hard to remember to drink enough water, but try these creative ways to get your kids to increase their water intake:

Use a silly straw Freeze water into fun shapes and add it to their drinks Incorporate more fruits and vegetables into your diet Flavor water with pieces of fruit or a splash of juice You can also teach your kids to monitor their water intake by checking the color of their urine. If it’s a pale yellow or clear, they’re doing great. If it’s dark, they should drink more water.

3.   Avoid too much caffeine.

Too much of anything can be a bad thing, and that includes drinking too much coffee, tea, or soda. Caffeine can increase your heart rate and blood pressure, which may negatively affect your health. Since we don’t know how long we’ll be quarantined, try to avoid drinking an extra cup of coffee, as it will be harder to eliminate as things return to normal.

4.   Encourage everyone to eat a well-balanced diet.

You may not be taking as many trips to the grocery store while social distancing, so it can be harder to make healthy food choices. Do the best you can. If you have room in your freezer, take advantage of frozen fruits and veggies, which are picked at the same time as fresh produce and then “flash frozen” to store nutrients. They offer the same nutritional value, but will last longer.

It can be tempting to snack more while you’re working at home, but try to maintain a normal eating schedule of three balanced meals each day. You can certainly give in to a craving here and there, but again, you want to make choices that will be sustainable since we don’t know when we can resume our regular routines. On the other hand, it’s not uncommon for kids to eat much less at mealtimes, so don’t be afraid to offer them healthy snacks throughout the day.

5.   Take time to build community.

In today’s digital era, it’s harder than ever to focus on your family because of constant distractions from social media and technology. On top of that, many extended families are geographically dispersed, making it challenging to have “a village” around to help. Leverage technology and host virtual family gatherings with extended family.

Social isolation is stressful. That’s why now is a great time to strengthen your family unit by being intentional with your time together. One of the best ways to do this is to share meals together.

Aside from your immediate family staying connected, you can also join in on virtual gatherings hosted by local or national organizations. Many zoos, parks, museums, and churches are using video feeds to provide entertainment, connect over shared interests, and maintain cultural and religious traditions.

6.   Follow a bedtime routine and get enough sleep.

Checking how you feel in the morning is one of the best ways to determine if you’re sleeping enough. Do you feel tired or refreshed? Getting enough sleep is important to having enough energy and being able to concentrate throughout the day. If you or your kids are struggling, try to go to bed earlier. A regular bedtime routine can help you fall asleep more easily because your body knows what’s coming.

Bedtime can also be a great time to connect with your kids emotionally, as they may be processing the day. That’s why now is a great time to…

7.   Talk about your feelings.

Many people are feeling more anxiety than usual with all of the uncertainty and change. It’s okay to experience worry, grief, anger, or any variety of emotions. Encourage your kids to talk about how they’re feeling, and acknowledge that anything they’re feeling is normal and valid.

8.   Limit screen time as much as possible.

It’s important to know what’s going on in the world, but too much time on social media or watching tv can increase stress and anxiety. While your kids may need to use technology more than usual for distance learning, incorporating other activities in small blocks of time in between screen time can help to break it up.

9.   Practice preventative medicine, like regular handwashing.

Hand hygiene is always one of the best ways to minimize the spread of germs and prevent illness. You can reduce the risk of illness by practicing other preventive medicine guidelines, such as:

Coughing or sneezing into your sleeve Disinfecting frequently touched surfaces in your home Staying up-to-date on regular screenings and immunizations

10.  Partner with your primary care provider using video visits or other forms of virtual communication.

Information changes rapidly and it can be hard to sort through fact and fiction. Your primary care provider (PCP) is your best source of accurate information and they’re here to answer any questions or alleviate any concerns you may have.

Use technology to connect with your doctor about the best place or time to seek care. Many physician offices are communicating virtually through different services, such as MedStar Health’s Video Visits, which connect patients to medical professionals via smartphone, tablet, or computer. Find a primary care provider near you or call your current PCP to find out the best way to stay in touch.

If you or someone in your family has shortness of breath, persistent cough, or worsening fever, contact your doctor immediately.

[correspondencearchive]

3. Interview with Asianish

An interview with Sara Jimenez, Maia Cruz Palileo, Gabriel de Guzman and Cecile Chong, co-founders of Asianish. Part of our series of interviews with affinity spaces and groups.

Correspondence Archive (CA): Can you please tell us a bit about your group?

Asianish: A few of us, including artists Sara Jimenez, Maia Cruz Palileo, Cecile Chong and curator Gabriel de Guzman, were interested in informally sharing and discussing the nuanced complex iterations of Asian/South/Southeast/East Asian/etc identifying individuals in NYC. We are interested in holding space for these “Asian-ish” hybridized identities that sometimes overlap and are also incredibly unique and specific to each individual.

The idea for these gatherings came out of our experience after participating in the NYC Creative Salon in March 2018, around the theme “identity.” That particular discussion was so rich that when it ended, we knew that we needed to do it again because there was a deep desire and an urgency to share intimate, non-white space together, what has come to be called Asian-ish.  

We are grateful that this community exists. It seems at the root all of our discussions has been the need and desire to come together to identify the various ways in which we are affected by and wish to fight against the white supremacist structures of power. We hope that this community that we’ve built can continue to grow and recognize each other as resources for growth, strength and wisdom.

CA: From what I understand your group meets regularly for discussions and presentations. Do you do any other projects like pop-up exhibitions or public facing programming or have plans to do so in the future?

Asianish: Since March 2018 we met every few months in person and every time we had a different topic of discussion - identity, home, embodiment, community, food, nature. We also had a one day community celebration at the Dedalus Foundation with the Sunset Park community with performances, hands on activities and slide presentations. At the beginning of Covid we started to meet via Zoom, then our meetings became weekly when we felt the urgency to center our discussion around Asian solidarity with Black Lives Matter. In the future we may think about having public facing programming hopefully when we can meet in person.

CA: Why was it important to you to intentionally form your organization as an affinity group? What specifically did you feel was missing that needed to be addressed by your group?

Asianish: There were no spaces in the NYC art scene that had a contemporary lens for artists who identify as being in some kind of multiplicity in an Asian identity. We wanted to create a space that was not just for scattered pocket conversations but having it be a community. We felt that it was missing and that was what brought us together.

CA: What can an affinity group do that a mixed/blended group cannot? What is the unique work that your organization can do?

Asianish: Our conversations are centered around being POC. We felt the need to create a space for BIPOC to get together in the room and to be able to talk about things in a completely different way. The conversations are able to go in directions that typically in a mixed blended group the discussion can become limited. We recognize the inherent power structures that tend to exist in a room, whether it is intentional, conscious or subconscious. There are power structures and privileges that tend to take up space. Our discussions in a way function to upset this power imbalance. We want to let these conversations exist without the presence of these judgments or opinions which make it harder for BIPOC to express how we feel.

CA: What are the limitations of an affinity group? Is there something a mixed/blended group can do that an affinity group cannot?

Asianish: The fact is that mixed/blended groups tend to have more economic power and can raise more money. Because of this system of privilege that exists maybe an affinity group can tap into that privilege. As an affinity group we may not have that much access to privilege versus wealthier mixed/ blended members.

CA: What has surprised you about being involved in your group? What are some of the unforeseen impacts it has had on you personally and on the community/ies you are serving?

Asianish: There are many of us (96 participants and we keep growing.) We are surprised that so many are creating this space and how large our community actually is. On one hand we’re tied in together as Asianish, on another hand we’re very mixed and blended. The framework of the questions here could challenge that we do and we do not center around whiteness. Our discussions are about complicating that kind of binary, even though many of us are of partial white descent.

We’re also surprised that at one point we wondered who would be willing to meet and do all the work and planning? But there has been much to talk about and enough people to meet every week. It has been wonderful and surprising of the kind of support that is there.

CA: How do you view your and your group’s role in relationship to the larger, WSCP art world? For me, assimilation seems both impossible and problematic, while trying to force it to change is exhausting and depressing.

Asianish: Theaster Gates comes to mind who used the financial capital system and bought a building in Chicago to create opportunities for his community. It is about learning how to work with the existing structures in order to create change.

Recently we’ve had discussions of perhaps not moving towards utopia, but instead being in this inherent contradiction of a system and realizing that big money means blood money. We question how we can navigate within that conflict in an ethical, accountable way. Even if that means naming it and continually participating in a very mindful, collective and active way. Perhaps we can shift our perspectives and attitudes and think that there’s no utopic way or a simple answer. Instead we can see it as a daily struggle to grapple with and continue to have conversations to try to understand and unpack.

In our conversations we also find ourselves sharing with each other about after the trauma of our education system and many of us being in and part of the education system now, and how we’re still surrounded with white supremacy capitalism patriarchy. We’re having a place to come together to share those experiences. A big part of what we want is to create a visual culture that we want to see, one that makes more sense of our experience to our world.

CA: Shout outs! Who are the groups (contemporary or historical) that you look to for inspiration and that you are excited about?

Asianish: We admire organizations that support black artists like MOCADA and the Studio Museum, and also organizations that support Latinx and Caribbean artists. In the past there was Godzilla Collective but now besides A4 we don’t see organizations that support Asian or Asianish artists. We admire Asian American Writers’ Workshop, and we love Kundiman!

CA: How can people support Asianish? Does Asianish have any social media accounts that we can follow?

By being a guest speaker in our meetings. You can follow #asianishsolidarity on IG.

Asianish is a common space for people of Asian descent working in the field of visual art. We acknowledge the multi-racial, multi-ethnic identities shared and honor and respect our intersections. We are interested in holding space for these hybridized identities that sometimes overlap and are also incredibly unique and specific to each individual. By sharing our practices, we intend to deepen our connections individually and collectively so that we may strengthen and support our community within and beyond Asianish.

[littleredroseonthevalley]

The Grave of the Butterflies

Summary: She is reborn in California. She is Morgan Garrity, she is her own person, responsible for her own choices and this is her pride and joy. Here, she is only but an ex.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 2900

Notes: Here we have. The sequel. I hope you enjoy it.

She thought about wearing black, and though few would believe it, her closet does contain one dress that would have been appropriate. It is colourless, characterless. It is just a black dress, so she is wearing something else, a statement about herself.

While the idea seemed natural when she was at the small room at the hotel, now she is not so sure. Her outfit is all conspicuous clutter, satsuma orange overlapping stark tribal reds where the purple does not blotch, and she usually likes when people stare. She is used to it, but not like this. These people stare and see tainted flesh, not a dress.

She is reborn in California. She is Morgan Garrity, she is her own person, responsible for her own choices and this is her pride and joy.

Here, she is only but an ex. An ex-neighbour. An ex-wife. An ex-mother. An ex-person, almost. Someone to be forgotten or scorned.

Her own mother is in her head, reminding her to walk tall, to never let small people upset her over small things, but her shoulders keep slouching. This community has power, and they know it. They always knew how to make her feel pathetic and not good enough.

She always knew how to fake it, though, so she forces the smile and flutters from group to group, leaving indignant anger and dredged-up memories in her wake.

"Jacob Calhoun!” She greets with pep. “It's been so long. How's Juliette?"

She died. Cancer.

He does not want Morgan to say she is sorry. He wants her to be the monster who abandoned not just her family but also left her friend behind when she needed her most, and she can do that. She can be dumb and selfish for him, anything to make Juliette’s husband feel better. Juliette was one of the few who urged Morgan to go, who never judged her.

Her tilted head and wide, blinking eyes imitate innocence, and she can feel him laughing, trying not to let on that he knows she is acting. The timbre vibrates on her skin, almost under it.

It is not hard to remember how that laugh used to be enough to warm her. That was before she demanded the western sun.

He is moving toward her, and she feels the gravity, the steady. It was always constant with him, and ignoring it was futile. She had been drawn in, and as the moth with the flame, she had found that her own desires could engulf her. She could lose herself.

She still thinks she was lucky to escape with her life.

"Sawyer." She smiles.

He is the same, always the same. Even at their daughter’s wedding, not two years ago, he had been exactly how he was when she had met him, when she had left. She was surprised and could not help but comment on how good he looked.

It is easier to remember him as small-town nothing in her memories, but he has never been that.

At first, he had been enough. Finally, a good enough of a man, of a living person, for her. Despite the rushing, the fact neither of them had even met Sawyer before, her parents were pleased. Her father nodded his approval, and her mother shook her head, this might be the one to keep her.

Morgan did not know why that was exciting, but it was. It said something to his power that a brush of his fingertips along her wrist or the gentlest incline of his head was enough to balm the crackling energy that exhausted her day in, day out.

“What do you do with it all?” He had asked once as they lazed on a sunny afternoon, Sawyer fishing and Morgan just being. “With all this energy? With all this life?”

“You wake up in the morning, and it's like you're buzzing with the desperate need to move.” She explains it then. “Then I see you like this and have to wonder where all that energy went.”

She had stretched her feet a little further into his side of the small boat, her dimples showing when he made no comment about her encroaching on his space, and made a show of luxuriating just a bit more in the Sweetridge’s extensive sunshine, of letting him know what she hid beneath the tied flannel shirt she wore.

Morgan had shrugged then, dismissed the concern, deeming those thoughts required to answer the question not worth spoiling the lazy peace that hung between them.

Now she knows it is all very simple. It all went to him, always him. It gave him the will to smile wide, laugh deep, and dare to be more than happy, to be blessed. To leave for the rodeo circuit.

Emotions and adventure wore Sawyer out, probably still do, but she had had enough for the both of them. She was strong and could manage the loneliness and the doubt. She was sure.

So Goddamn young and sure.

Morgan is no longer so positive about anything. She was lucky to receive an email once a month from her daughter once she let her go, once that she let her get to know the father she barely ever met, and then she is a stranger to her whole life.

She cannot match faces to names of schoolmates. She does not know who went out of their way to be here today. She definitely does not understand what her baby girl was doing driving down that winding, snowy road without guardrails at night.

And she definitely does not have a clue who picked out Sawyer's tie.

Someone did. It is silk, classic and purple. Purple, for Christ's sake! A woman was involved.

Does she love him right?

“Will you love me right?” Her voice had trembled.

It probably should have been romantic when he fell to one knee, but Morgan had honed in on the crunch of bone meeting gravel and was having a hard time finding the ambiance.

“There is no doubt.” He assured her.

She still was not convinced. “For always?”

It was cruel to draw it out, she had known, but she needed his love for her, not for her energy, her beauty or the fact she helped him with the ranch. The proposal had needed to be for Morgan.

If it was not, she had been sure she would not hesitate. She would take the drive back to Boston, her mother would begrudgingly take her back and help smooth things over with her father. Morgan and Sawyer would have waited until it could be about them.

She knew then and now: it was so, so wrong of her.

“I don't understand the question.” He had said, and his lips twitched at the corners. They'd played out the same conversation so many times. “Is there another answer than for always?”

No, there was no other answer.

Sawyer tugs at his tie in sharp, awkward jerks, and Morgan is distressed to realize she still has the suffocating urge to fix it for him or to smooth back the fly-away strands of his hair. She still loves him.

She thought she stopped. She thought she made herself stop.

"Morgan." He greets, a resting scowl gracing his face. "I am glad you could make it."

It is not a jibe, but more like praise. They have never been the type of people to dance around her nature. Everything else, but never that.

Morgan does not want to think of her daughter as dead, just gone. She is just off with her rich pretty boy, gallivanting around Europe and living it up as the young should. Not dead. Not in the ground.

He was the son of a senator from Helena. They met in college, fell head over heels for each other, married as soon as they graduated. She was happy, hosting stately campaign dinners and flouting wealth through the city streets. Now, like a spell, she is just gone. Now, her son-in-law is there, looking straight ahead, black suit and sunglasses, speaking to no-one, acknowledging no-one.

Sue her for not wanting to face this. They can just go ahead and call her immature.

She is still brusque with Sawyer, still on the defence. "Of course, I'm here. Five years of her living up here didn't make me forget about her."

He just nods, holds a hand out. She wants him to argue with her. She has to be above everybody else, tell herself that their opinions do not matter, but his does. She can be offended. She can cry.

However, as if to spite her, he is just standing there, palm up, waiting. He always knows.

"That suit looks good on you." She tells him, and he half-shrugs, and then grins wryly.

"Always the surprise." He responds, as if incredulous with what she said. He is not.

"Can you blame me? My memories are of flannel and fishing gear. The silk's an interesting touch." Her focus narrows in on the scrap of violet again, and he's blushing. He looks like their daughter.

It is interesting. A week ago, Morgan would have said that she took her traits from Sawyer, not the other way around, but God, all she can see is her daughter.

They were so alike, both a blessing on her life, something she was never quite sure she deserved. Morgan had a lot of energy, she had a lot to give, but sadly not enough for both of them.

You need to stop crying. The baby had begun to shriek more, louder, higher. When had she started referring to her daughter as "the baby" and not by her name? She did not remember.

Probably when she first began crying. Morgan did not remember how long ago that was either.

Please, please, please. Shhh. She was supposed to be the girl that liked havoc, why should the chaos of children bug her? Yet, babies were proving to be different. They got to be a mess, and she needed to be constant; the young expected schedules and order from their caregivers. She had tried and tried, but she was always falling short, falling out of step.

Baby, you have to cut it out now. Your mommy needs her sleep. Morgan had been working hard in California, to make enough to keep a roof over their heads and food on their table. Her parents and Sawyer sent her money, of course, but it was not enough to cover everything, especially in such an expensive place like Berkeley.

Her parents lived in Boston, and her ex-husband was back in Montana. If she went to either of those places, she could have a respite. She could breathe easy, with the knowledge that, if she stumbles, there will be someone, anyone, to pick her up again. She does neither of those things. She grits her teeth and carries on.

She wanted to be independent. To be the ruler of her own life. To show her daughter she needed nothing and no one, just her own intrepid spirit. It had not worked out.

To be completely fair, Sawyer was not a bad husband, he did not actively oppress or mistreat her. He tried, he really tried, but he was still demanding. He would take care of the cattle, sure, but had Morgan washed his clothes? No? Didn't she usually do that? The flowerbeds looked neglected, and the apples needed to be boxed. Had she handled the phone bill? He could take care of it if she wanted, but she'd always said it was no trouble before.

So, she left. When she found out she was pregnant, she packed her bags and left without looking back. She wanted her freedom, she wanted to give a life full of opportunities, and not the dullness of country life, the weight of the responsibilities she herself did not want to take and certainly did not care for her baby to be thrust upon.

Then, she came back.

Honey! Shut. Up. Now.

Before, before, before. Before it was just him, and she had gestures of adoration to spare.

She eventually had started to hate "the baby".

Morgan still shudders. Maybe she does not have all the maternal instincts she should, but she is still human. She had hated herself for hating her daughter.

That only made things worse.

I'm sorry! I just don't know. I don't know what to do! She had done as all the books had instructed her. She had cleaned the scrape on her daughter's knee with hydrogen peroxide, and she had followed that with ointment and a colourful band-aid, but her baby had still cried.

Morgan had not made it better.

Sawyer had received a call with them both in tears, his wife near-hysterical. “Calm down, Morgan. She is only upset because you are.”

He had not been there. He had not seen how utterly useless she had been. He just walked in and summarized, he just swooped in and saved the day. He was, after all, the town hero.

She had been the villain. She was a tragedy of a mother, and everyone knew it. She could not cook a proper meal to save her life, all the other children could talk before her daughter, most of the women were able to contribute to craft fairs and bake sales. Morgan just cried.

Depression, her nanny had said.

Stress, added the doctor.

Reality, her mother summarized.

There had been nothing physically wrong with Morgan. She had just given everything she had to Sawyer without a thought, and she did not know how to ask for it back now, and the many miles between them did not restore it to her. Then she had to draw on her own stores to nurture her. She needed those reserves. She was selfish, she is selfish.

That is why her following relationships worked. They did not need her love, and she did not care to give it to them.

She had the love to madness with Sawyer, and it had become vital that he know the extremes of her devotion, an addiction. The early days of their relationship found her peeling back layers of herself, rejoicing at each new discovery of how much she had to give. They had plateaued eventually, found a comfortable amount of love for her to shed.

Then, she became pregnant, and the baby would need more. She had a lot of love, but just not enough for both of them.

The casket is closed, and Sawyer assured her over the phone last week that it was with good reason. He had been to the coroner's office. You don't want to see her like that, Morgan. She is not sure about that. It might haunt her, but it would make it real.

"You're sure?" she asks him again. "It's her? Without a doubt?"

"No doubt." He's abrupt, gruff, and anyone else would pass it off as just his character. Sawyer Oakley does not show emotion anymore.

Except he does. Morgan knows that, knows him. He cried right along with her at the wedding, even if he hid it well.

"But how can you know?" She presses. "If the remains are truly that bad, she…"

"Morgan." He's looking at her with pity. "Don't delude yourself."

Delude?

This from the man who helped her construct an elaborate life for their daughter’s pet dog because it was just too sad to think that she figured out that it died? From the man who kept quiet about his father's death, has yet to this day to acknowledge it, since it was easier to pretend that he had never had one than to deal with it?

Sawyer was never told her to put away her rose-coloured glasses before. It is her defence mechanism. He did not want her hurt, and he let her have it.

"Sawyer, you're telling me everything?"

"Of course. All there is to tell."

Final. Curt.

Lies.

"What are you lying about?"

"What?"

"Lying, you're lying. There's something you're not telling me."

"I think you're just a bit distressed right now."

"Of course, I am. You're hiding something."

"Morgan…"

"You have to tell me. She was all I had, Sawyer. I couldn't have you both, and I chose her. So, I need to know. You have to tell me."

"Is everything all right here?" The hand that the woman places on Sawyer's shoulder is thin, bony and possessive.

Morgan knows those hands knotted a purple tie earlier that day.

She is crying, near-hysteria, and useless all over again. She does not know anything about her life, but she chose her daughter. She is supposed to know. Morgan was supposed to pour everything into her after it was just them and she could be the sole focus of her affections. That was what would happen when she left Sawyer, she had been sure.

So Goddamn young and sure.

She spent two years of her life frantic over the idea that there just was not enough of her to go around, and she knows she will spend the next fifty wishing she had just let them take it all.

The citizens of Sweetridge watch the flighty woman come home and sob over the casket of her only child, just to remind themselves they are not sympathetic. She is an ex-neighbour. An ex-wife. An ex-mother. Just an ex.

*_*_*_*_*

BSC Materlist

Series Masterlist

[reading-writing-revolution]

Heather Cox Richardson:

24 Aug 2020

Trump is running far behind Democratic nominee Joe Biden in the polls. In early February 2020, at its best, his overall popularity rating hovered close to 50%. In the same month, according to a Gallup poll, 63% of Americans approved of the way he was handling the economy. To keep this economic success story going, Trump downplayed the coronavirus, leaving us wide open to its devastation. It hit the U.S. in earnest shortly after this poll was taken. The economy shut down, and we plummeted into the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression.

But Trump is determined to be reelected, so determined that he has begun to suggest he will not accept a Biden victory as valid. There is room to speculate about why he is so obsessed with reelection that he took the unprecedented step of filing for reelection way back in January 2017, on the day of his inauguration. One possible answer is that campaign money can be used to pay for lawyers under certain circumstances. As of May, the campaign had spent more than $16 million on legal services—in comparison, George W. Bush spent $8.8 million; Barack Obama spent $5.5 million; and, in May, Biden had spent just $1.3 million. Another possible answer is that the Department of Justice maintains that a sitting president cannot be indicted.

To pull off a win Trump is trying to guarantee loyal Republican voters will show up to vote. To that end, he is favoring evangelical voters, his most loyal bloc. Last week’s posthumous pardon for Susan B. Anthony was a gift to anti-abortion activists; yesterday Trump explicitly called the attention of evangelical Christians to his lie that “The Democrats took the word GOD out of the Pledge of Allegiance at the Democrat National Convention.” (They didn’t. The Muslim caucus and the LGBTQ caucus, both of which met privately, left the words “under God” out. All the public, televised events used the words.)

This morning he was more abrupt. He tweeted: “Happy Sunday! We want GOD!” And then he went golfing.

He is also trying to consolidate power over Republican lawmakers, making the party his own. The Republican National Convention starts tomorrow night, and it seems it will be the Trump Show. The convention was initially supposed to be in Charlotte, North Carolina, and then Trump moved it to Jacksonville, Florida, when North Carolina Governor Roy Cooper, a Democrat, would not guarantee he could have full capacity despite the coronavirus. Finally, in the wake of the under-attended Tulsa rally, Trump recognized that the convention would have to be virtual. But this has left planners scrambling to plan a convention in four weeks, when planning one usually takes a full year. No one seems quite sure what is going to happen.

It is traditional for a candidate to put in a short appearance to acknowledge the nomination and then give a keynote acceptance speech on the last day. But the RNC’s announced line-up features Trump speaking every night in the prime-time slot. The speakers include the First Lady and all of the adult Trump children, including Tiffany, but do not include any of the previous Republican presidents or presidential nominees, which is unusual.

Trump will speak live from the White House. This raises legal questions because while the president and vice-president are not covered by the Hatch Act, which prohibits federal employees from engaging in political activities, the rest of the White House staff is. Further, it is against the law to coerce federal employees to conduct political activity.

Vice President Mike Pence will also speak from federal property—possibly Fort McHenry— the First Lady will speak from the newly renovated Rose Garden, and Secretary of State Mike Pompeo will apparently speak from Jerusalem while on an official trip to the Middle East, although secretaries of state generally do not speak at either political convention. Democrats have raised concerns about the overlap between official property and business and the Trump campaign.

The Republicans have written no platform to outline policies and goals for the future. Instead they passed a resolution saying that “the Republican Party has and will continue to enthusiastically support the President’s America-first agenda.” The party appears now to be Trump’s.

But….

The Republicans’ next resolution calls on the media “to engage in accurate and unbiased reporting, especially as it relates to the strong support of the RNC for President Trump and his Administration.” And a final resolution prohibited the Republicans from making any motions to write a new platform.

If you read that carefully, you see people trying to convince everyone that they are united, when they are, in fact, badly split.

Trump’s extremism is alienating the voters that other Republican lawmakers need to stay in power, and those lawmakers are trying to keep their distance from him without antagonizing his base. Yesterday, in Portland, Oregon, the police refused to respond as neo-fascist Proud Boys and armed militia members staging a “Back the Blue” rally attacked Black Lives Matter protesters, who fought back. It is a truism in American history that violence costs a group political support, and militia groups are angry because Facebook has banned them, hurting their ability to recruit.

Today, in Kenosha, Wisconsin, police officers shot Jacob Blake, a Black man, in the back multiple times in front of his children; the shooting was caught on video and has sparked outrage.

Tell-all books are also undermining the president. Yesterday, it came out that when researching her book, Mary Trump, the president’s niece, recorded her aunt, Maryanne Trump Barry, Trump’s sister, discussing Trump. “All he wants to do is appeal to his base,” Barry said. “He has no principles. None. None.” “Donald is cruel,” she said, “he was a brat.” A new book by CNN reporter Brian Stelter shows how Trump simply echoes the personalities at the Fox News Channel. And former Trump fixer Michael Cohen is about to release his own book about his years working for Trump.

Trump also took a personal hit tonight, when advisor Kellyanne Conway announced she was leaving the White House. Both she and her husband, George Conway, a co-founder of the anti-Trump Lincoln Project, are stepping away from the public eye to deal with family issues exacerbated by the political drama of the past several years.

And the Russia story, revived by the fifth volume of the Senate Intelligence Committee’s report on Russian connections to the 2016 Trump campaign, is not going away. Tonight, the Daily Beast reported that Jared Kushner—who after, all, could not get a security clearance until Trump overruled authorities-- has been using a secret back channel to communicate with a Putin representative. According to the story, Steve Bannon, who was arrested on Friday by the acting U.S. Attorney at the Southern District of New York and so now has an excellent reason to flip, knew all about it.

This afternoon, Trump tried to change the news trend when he called a press conference to announce what he called a “safe and effective treatment” for Covid-19. The FDA has approved an Emergency Use Authorization for convalescent plasma, a treatment involving giving anti-body rich plasma from those who have had the virus to those ill with it. Studies show that the treatment has some potential, but there has been little scientific study of it, and it is certainly not established as an effective treatment. Federal health officials, including Dr. Anthony Fauci, have objected to the EUA until there is more information; Trump has accused the doctors of delaying approval for political reasons. He walked out of the press conference after a reporter asked about the discrepancy between his triumphant announcement of a treatment and a doctor's explanation that plasma has potential.

So the best option for the president to win in 2020 might be to keep Biden supporters from voting. Yesterday, the House passed a bill committing $25 billion to the United States Postal Service and to stop Postmaster General Louis DeJoy from making more changes that are delaying the delivery of the mail. Today, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY) refused to take up the bill.

But Americans have figured out that they can avoid using the slowed USPS by turning to Ballot Drop Boxes. So today, Trump tweeted that “Mail Drop Boxes… are a voter security disaster,” that are “not Covid sanitized.”

Twitter slapped a warning on it: “This tweet violated the Twitter rules about civic and election integrity.”

[harmonie-writes]

Spells and Quirks pt. 1

BNHA x Harry Potter crossover - Midoriya x witch reader

Key: (y/h) = your house, (y/p) = your patronus, (y/h/c) = your house color, (y/h/e) = your house emblem

AN: You are a fifth year at Hogwarts, I believe that you start attending school at the age of 11? You would be around the same age as 1-A so roughly 15-16. Things in italics will be recaps and internal thoughts. This is will be a long series, and I’m not sure how many parts yet but there will be more action in later parts! I just have to get everything set up! (:

Warnings: wizard type cursing, cursing (cough Bakugou looking at you)

Spells and Quirks Introduction I Spells and Quirks pt. 2

----------

Recap:

“I believe you asked for these?” You hand Midoriya the glasses and put your wand back into your boot. This boy is shocked and flustered, shaking hand moving to take the glasses from yours. “I think that I was wrong about the fire bases quirk earlier…” Midoriya answers. Both you and Uraraka are sharing the same splitting smile as you can see the gears in both boys heads start turning.

“You’re a witch aren’t you?”

----------

Iida looked like he was about to faint, but Midoriya continued to stare at you with wide eyes and an open mouth. Leaning forward slightly you pressed your index finger onto the bottom of his chin closing it. “You don’t want to catch flies do you?” you smiled while he tried to hide his now hot face. “This is a, um.. surprising?” Midoriya was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that actual witches and wizards do exist. 

Getting it together, he quickly pulled out his hero notebook and was erasing some of his previous assumptions he made about your “quirk”. Midoriya started spouting questions that you weren’t given time to answer because he quickly thought of another one; this turned into his usual muttering. “Is.. is this normal?” you whispered while leaning away from Midoriya and back to Uraraka who was trying to stifle her laughter. Choking down the laugh, “Ah, yeah yeah this is just normal Midoriya for you,” Uraraka managed to reply.

-Iida.exe back online- Snapping out of his own thoughts on this unveiling Iida managed to get a question out. “You’re a witch.” “Yes.” “So, much like we have hero schools, you have um, magic schools?” “Yes.” “These one worded answers are barely answering my questions!” Iida gestured with his hands to get you to further elaborate. “I know, but Uraraka mentioned something before about how you do wild things with your hands and I wanted to see if that was true to any situation. So far I would say yes.” You grinned at the fact that you threw your friend under the bus for the idea. “I do not move my hands wildly.” Iida stated all while doing frantic hand gestures, and you just stared at his hands. 

“Anyway... well yeah, we have schools that teach young witches and wizards. The school I attend is well known in the wizarding community, it’s known as Hogwarts. As a first year you get sorted into a house based on the Sorting Hats choosing.” “Wait, wait, wait... you get placed..by a hat?..” Iida asked incredulously. Both boys gave you a look like you grew a second head. “Well it’s complicated but this hat openly speaks on your character traits and also takes into consideration your own opinion on a house you might be placed into,” listing on your fingers, “There are four houses Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. Gryffindors are known for their bravery, Slytherin are cunning, Ravenclaw are intelligent and Hufflepuff are loyal but that doesn’t mean that their traits don’t overlap with each other.” 

Midoriya and Iida both looked at your uniform emblem. “So what house are you apart of then?” Midoriya asked while continuing to scribble the information you described into his notebook. “Oh, I’m a part of (y/h), and it’s my fifth year at Hogwarts!” “Your fifth year?!” “Well we start attending Hogwarts when we are 11, and then graduate when we are 18,” you stated as if this was obvious. 

Midoriya stopped writing for a minute and looked up at you, his flushed face gone and trying to figure out this puzzle. “If there is this large community why haven’t we ever seen anything wizard like?” Midoriya gave you this look that had a vibe of “I want to know more about your world!” 

Letting a breath out through your nose you answered, “The Ministry of Magic keeps the wizarding world a secret from muggles because they don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean every muggle doesn’t. Muggles typically think they see things and are going crazy which is why things are the way they are.” 

Uraraka glances at the clock and sees the late time. “It’s almost curfew guys,” she states looking towards the guys, “we can continue discussing this more tomorrow, and (Y/N) you can meet the rest of the class tomorrow. Just remember we can’t tell them she is a witch.” Nodding the guys say good night and leave the dorm. “Aizawa knows you are staying here for a couple days and I have already filled out your visitors forum,” Uraraka gives a you tired smile.

----------

Sunshine started pouring in through the crack in the window into your eyes. Scrunching up your nose at the sudden light you try blinking away the sleep. You look up from your cot on the floor at Uraraka who is still out like a light. Just for good measure you get up and poke her cheek, “Bloody hell... I was going to ask where the washroom is.” Going toward your trunk by the dresser you pull out a pair of jeans, sweater, towel, wand (you never go anywhere without it) and other necessities you’ll need. “I guess I will have to find it by myself,” you chuckle to yourself taking a look over your shoulder at your best friend. Shaking your head you head to the door and open it quietly. It’s still early and you hope no one is awake yet. Seeing that all the doors are closed and it’s quiet you slip into the hall. Shivering slightly at the cold floor you close the door softly to not wake your friend. Walking past some doors you find the washroom towards the end of the hall and walk in to get ready for the day. Unbeknownst to you, a door that was already creaked open now knows of your presence and how you are not one of the students. Tip-toeing towards the women’s washroom he is stopped by the sound of crackling. “It’s too early for your shit sticky hair,” grumbles a frustrated blonde who was heading towards the men’s. 

“Ah, come on Bakugou. There’s a girl here!” Mineta practically drooled while holding a shaking hand towards the women’s. “No shit there’s a girl. We have a co-ed dorm you dumbass,” the blonde huffs and lets out another small pop from his hands. Successfully spooking the perv back into his dorm. Making sure that his door closed Bakugou continued on with his morning routine.

----------

Uraraka woke up to the sound of her dorm room closing and see her friend re-enter. “Ah.. I forgot how much of an early bird you were,” Uraraka stretched hearing the satisfying pop come from her shoulders and back. “No, you just sleep like the dead,” you laugh at her bed head. “Alright, alright fine maybe you’re right,” she gives, “let me get ready and we can go downstairs and make breakfast.” Giving a nod you slip you wand into your boot.

----------

Walking into the kitchen you see that Midoriya and Todoroki are sitting at the island with tea. “Good morning,” both you and Uraraka greeted the two. “Good morning,” Midoriya smiled back, although it was more towards you. Todoroki hummed a response and gave Midoriya a slight eyebrow raise asking the question of “who’s the girl?” Walking up to Todoroki you stuck your hand out with a small smile, “Hi, I’m (Y/N), I’m Uraraka’s friend.” “Todoroki, it’s nice to meet you,” he gave a polite smile and released your hand. Todoroki was pleased that you didn’t make too big of a deal about his hair or eyes.

“Would either of you like some tea?” Nodding you sat down in the seat next to Midoriya while Uraraka went to find food for both of you. “So Midoriya, Todoroki how many of you live in the dorms?” you asked so you could prep yourself for all the new names and faces you’d have to remember. “Twenty of us, and you already know four,” Midoriya stated. “There is one person who is invisible, floating clothes are normal here,” Todoroki looked at you, “If you don’t mind me asking, what is your quirk?” Stiffening ever so slightly the only person who noticed was Midoriya, but you still responded, “Oh, this is embarrassing,” you covered your face trying to buy time to think of an excuse, “well... I’m actually quirkless. I’m just here on holiday to visit.” Todoroki’s stare was intense (when is it not?), but he seemed to buy it. I guess it wasn’t a complete lie. I don’t have a quirk, but I’m not a muggle either. 

“Todoroki what is your quirk?” trying to get the spotlight off you since you knew you would be stuck in it again later. “Half ice - Half fire quirk,” was his response. “That’s a cool quirk being able to have two,” you smile, you have no idea who is father is or his story. “I prefer to only use my right side,” Todoroki isn’t upset but there is a slight frown on his face. “Did I say something wrong?” leaning into whisper in Midoriya’s ear although Todoroki still heard. “No it’s fine its not important though,” the two toned male shook his head softly. “Ah, I’m still sorry if I said something that might have offended you,” you apologize giving him a small smile, Todoroki nods acknowledging it though.

----------

The five of you are sitting in the common room sharing stories (Iida is with you at this point), when you hear more voices making their way to the common room. Slightly panicked at being in a new setting your hand makes a fist in your lap, you trying steeling your nerves and Midoriya notices setting a hand on your shoulder giving it a small squeeze. You give him a shy smile appreciating the gesture. You know you have at least four people to help make you feel comfortable. 

A group of five entered the common room, almost immediately all eyes fell on your figure on the couch. Everything fell silent for about two-seconds, giving a sheepish grin at the new people you waved. “Uh, hi?” you offered. The pink skinned girl ran up to you engulfing you in a large hug, “Ohmygod you are cute! I’m Mina!” A red-headed boy came to pry her death grip off you while giving you a sharp smile, “I’m Kirishima.” Once released you sucked in a breathe of much need air before responding, “I’m (Y/N).” Kirishima pointed over his shoulder at the other three, “The guy with black hair is Sero, the dude with the lightning bolt in his hair is Kaminari, and the angry blonde is Bakugou.” The guys known as Sero and Kaminari waved at you, which you reciprocated, but Bakugou just huffed and crossed his arms. 

“So your round face’s friend that she has been talking about the last couple of days?” “Round face?” you questioned looking at your friend. “He gives everyone a nickname, and doesn’t call us by our actual name,” Uraraka whispered to you. “Oh,” looking at Bakugou, “yeah I’m her friend and I’m visiting for a few days.”

“I bet I have a stronger quirk than you,” Bakugou stated confidently. “Kacchan... she-” “Shut up shitty Deku! I wasn’t talking to you,” Bakugou glared at the greenette. “But I think it’s important that you know-” Midoriya tried again to cover for you. “Shut it Deku this doesn’t invol-.” Bakugou’s glared focused from Midoriya to you as you cut him off. “You obsolete dingbat! That’s no way to talk to a friend!” you stood up angered at the fact that your friend was being treated poorly. The room went quiet and all eyes looked at you and a fuming Bakugou whose palms were crackling.

----------

Cliffhanger until next time!

[onewaywardwitch]

Just A Typo (2/?)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Hacker!Reader

Summary: It was a simple challenge between a very competitive group of friends. A challenge that ended very differently than anticipated.

Warnings: Just a bit of language

Word Count: 2140

A/N: Ahhh the feedback on part 1 was amazing! Thank you all so much! Here’s part 2!

There are moments in your life when you know you’ve screwed up. Like when you decide to try the new Starbucks coffee, only to realise it’s as horrible as you predicted, and you’ve wasted €5. Or when you spend all night binge-watching some show on Netflix when you know you’ve got to get up early for work the next morning. Or when you agree to hack into one of the world’s best security systems to fuel your own ego and diminish your friend’s one. And while I've found myself in the first two situations many times, the third was a new one for me.

“I promise to visit you at least once a month when you get sent to Alcatraz,” Becca sang as she all but skipped into Angie’s apartment to join the rest of us. I laughed sarcastically.

“Sent to Alcatraz for hacking? Crime expectations must be low lately if they’re sending hackers there.”

“I’m sure Tony Stark has some pull in the government to get you put away there. You know, when you get caught,” she gloated. It was obvious she thought I was heading down the same route as Sophie. Her confidence only made me want to prove her wrong even more.

Angie ignored our seemingly never-ending banter and carried on setting up my laptop and other work necessities.

“I still don’t understand why you have to have a pack of Haribo with you every time you do something illegal,” she sighed, glaring at me as I stood with Becca.

“Well it’s just common sense, Angie. I can’t have chocolate, it’ll get all over my hands. Biscuits leave crumbs everywhere and hot chocolate is a recipe for disaster,” I replied, keeping my face as straight as I could.

“No, I don’t get why you need sweets at all!”

“That’s a stupid question. You always need sweets. We can’t all live off boiled vegetables and whole-grain everything.”

Angie just looked at Becca in defeat, who shrugged her shoulders.

“Hey, if I get the job done, who cares what I eat?” I strutted over to the table that had my laptop on it. Unfortunately, my confident walk did nothing to ease my nerves as my friends watched on eagerly.

 ~~~~~

“Becca, I swear to Thor if you breathe on my neck again, I’ll break yours,” I snapped. Becca and Angie shared a nervous glance while I typed furiously, the lines and lines of code beginning to make me dizzy.

“Y/N, you’ve proven your point. Your brilliant. A mastermind. A true gift to the hacking community. You can quit now, it’s alright.” Becca was beginning to regret ever provoking me when she saw how much more advanced Stark’s system was compared to the systems we would normally attack for a laugh.

I could sense Angie about to open her mouth when the screen suddenly went blank and the three of us froze where we were; Becca leaning over my shoulder, Angie holding her third cup of herbal tea, and me with jelly rings on each of my extremely tired fingers.

The screen flashed once, before several different boxes popped up. It took each of us about seven seconds to realise we were looking at the feed from the security cameras placed around Avengers Tower.

“Holy shit,” whispered Angie.

“I am the greatest and I’m completely unappreciated in my time,” I grinned, my eyes flickering from each small screen.

“IS THAT BLACK WIDOW?”

“Agh! Becs, inside voice please.” Becca refused to acknowledge my complaint. Her gaze was fixated on the image of the Natasha Romanoff eating what I guessed was-

“A poptart! I have those all the time, we’re practically soulmates!” Becca exclaimed.

As Angie tried to explain to Becca that her comment was only a bit unrealistic, I gazed at each of screens on my laptop. Who would have thought that the Falcon would be spending his day holding something shiny while running away from a very angry, one-armed Winter Soldier? Or that Hawkeye drinks milk straight from the carton and puts it back in the fridge when no one’s looking?

Just as Becca started to talk about the Black Widow’s hair (“I could never pull off the red like she does!”), the laptop flashed black, before more lines of code began popping up again.

“Oh shit, we’re busted. Angie, gummy bear, now,“ I demanded, quickly returning to my state of concentration (which was difficult after seeing Captain America lifting weights). Angie grabbed the bag and put one of the bears in my mouth, only for me to spit it out in disgust.

“Not a yellow one, a red! I'm not a monster,” I yelped before turning back to the task at hand. Nervously chewing on the nicest flavoured gummy bear, I attempted to keep up with Stark’s excellent security.

“Make sure you can’t be traced. Keep the IP address hidden and get out,” I heard Angie mutter behind me. After a couple of minutes, I felt myself relax, watching the screen change to my regular background of the Supernatural cast.

“We are out and I’m going to go down in history as the greatest hacker that ever existed.” I spun in my chair, grinning at the girls as my confidence rose again. “I just hacked into Avengers Tower, admired Captain America’s incredibly toned body for a bit, before successfully leaving without giving away my location or any way for them to trace me. How was that for you Becca?”

She looked at me, a small smile growing on her face. “I'm impressed, Y/N. Shame Sophie’s not here so you could gloat to her too, but that was pretty awesome.”

“I can’t believe you pulled that off,” Angie said admirably, her herbal tea long forgotten on the nearby countertop. I winked at her and held out the nearly empty bag of Haribos.

“Yellow gummy bear anyone?”

 ~~~~~

Tony Stark was busy doing nothing in his lab with Dr Banner when F.R.I.D.A.Y. announced that someone was hacking into their system.

“Well what are you waiting for F.R.I.D.A.Y.? Flush ‘em out. And get their location.”

“Sir, they’ve already broke down our firewalls and accessed our cameras.”

That caught Tony’s attention. He looked at Bruce confusedly before again telling F.R.I.D.A.Y. to get whoever it was out of their system using whatever means necessary. As the A.I. was occupied with that, he called all the Avengers to the briefing room.

 ~~~~~

“Barnes, if you could stop murdering Wilson with your eyes for just five minutes so we can start?”

Bucky turned and aimed his glare at Tony instead, still scowling that Sam had somehow managed to steal his arm for nearly half an hour. That man knew all the best hiding places in this tower.

Tony rolled his eyes and clapped his hands together, deciding to get straight to the point. “Nothing to worry about, but someone hacked into the tower and accessed all of the cameras. We don’t know who or why, but F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s nearly got a location, I think.”

The uproar was immediate.

“I thought your security was the best there is!”

“How long have they been watching us?”

“What else have they hacked into?”

Tony grimaced as all the voices overlapped and became louder. His embarrassment that some computer nerd cracked his online defences was obvious from the lack of his usual playful tone and he wasn’t in the mood for messing about now. He opened his mouth but before he could speak, F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice rang through the room, effectively shutting everyone up.

“Sir, I believe I have the location of the hacker. It appears they made a slight typing error when concealing their IP address.”

“A typo? Rookie mistake,” Sam mumbled.

“That ‘rookie’ managed to hack into all our cameras pretty quickly,” Bruce stated, looking at Sam pointedly.

“Okay, Cap, take your brooding boyfriend in the corner and bring in whoever it is. It's nowhere near any known HYDRA bases, so my guess? A group of boys hiding out in one of their mom’s basements. Shouldn’t be too difficult.” Steve nodded at Tony and made his way over to Bucky while everyone else left the room, still discussing the infiltrator who was able to beat the great Tony Stark.

 ~~~~~

Steve looked around the apartment in surprise. This was definitely not what they were expecting. The place was clean and lacked any personal touches. That is, if he weren’t including the many Funko Pop figures that were scattered seemingly at random throughout the apartment. He moved towards the laptop that was laying carelessly on the kitchen table.

“Just talked to the landlady,” Bucky said, gesturing towards the front door where a woman in her mid-fifties stood excitedly, trying to catch a glimpse of the great Captain America. Bucky waved his flesh hand at her, hoping she’d get the message to leave them alone. Fortunately for him, one of the neighbours came out and started complaining to her about the thin walls. That made her run off quickly.

“Apartment is owned by a woman in her late twenties, early thirties. She asked to be kept off the books, and your admirer back there had no problem with that because she always paid her rent on time and by cash.”

“Does she have any idea where she could be now?” Steve asked, closing over the front door again so they wouldn’t raise any suspicions.

“She said she left around three hours ago, hopefully to get some food. Her fridge is empty. Except for a tub of ice-cream,” Bucky snorted.

They both stopped talking when they heard the rustling of keys just outside the door. Bucky went to stand beside Steve, who was back beside the laptop. He placed a hand over the gun he always carried in his trousers as the door opened. But he felt himself relax a bit when he heard a familiar tune.

“Is that… Queen?” Steve whispered as the woman began humming to herself. Natasha had taken it upon herself to educate the two veterans on all the music they had missed out on in the past seventy years, including Queen, Michael Jackson, and Adele. This was one of the few songs they actually recognised.

The woman stumbled into the kitchen, struggling to carry all the shopping bags she had tried to carry up in one trip. Her headphones were blaring Bohemian Rhapsody loud enough for the two men to hear clearly. They shared a look of surprise as she still hadn’t noticed them standing a few feet behind her.

 ~~~~~

“But now I’ve gone and thrown it all away,” I sang quietly to myself as I restocked my fridge. I was still on a high from my incredible success with Becca and Angie only a few hours ago. We were going to celebrate with Angie’s cheap champagne, before Becca realised she was about two hours late for work. I left shortly after her to buy more ice-cream, which quickly turned into buying half the grocery store.

“Mama, oooo- OH WHAT THE FUCK!” My dramatic spin while singing didn’t end as well as I had planned. I wasn’t exactly prepared for the two super soldiers who stood by my table, watching me with humour. I tugged my headphones out of my ears and stared at them dumbstruck.

“Captain America… wow such an honour… you’re very… wow. And the Winter Barnes! Oh god, there’s a ‘soldier’ in there somewhere, isn’t there? Very, very… broad.” My voice died off towards the end as the word came out of my mouth too quickly for me to recognise them. The Captain’s eyes sparkled in amusement, while the Winter Soldier was looking at me with interest. He failed to see how this woman caused Stark so much concern.

Captain America opened his mouth to speak, but at that exact moment I coped why two Avengers were standing in my apartment.

“Oh, this is about the whole Avengers Tower thing, isn’t it? The camera, the hacking… I'm not evil! I wasn’t planning on accessing any confidential information and selling it! I don’t do that, I was just messing with friends, I swear!” Apparently, I had lost all control over my own mouth and I confessed to everything without either of the men saying a word. They glanced at each other before Captain Rogers turned back to me.

“You understand we need to bring you in anyway. We have questions you need answer back at the tower.”

I nodded nervously at the pair as they escorted me downstairs to where a car was waiting outside, the Soldier bringing my laptop with him.

“This explains why Nora was in such a good mood when I passed her on the stairs earlier,” I thought to myself. “She never smiles when I pay her my rent, but one visit from America’s golden boy has her skipping to her door!”

[ultraenglishnerd]

Part One: ^^^

Part Two:

Shipka’s arguments made me consider greatly what it was I wanted to represent. I do use my sewing machine or my PS4 quite frequently, but I felt after reading what Shipka’s students did and understanding that I need to think beyond text and invest myself more in the process than in the final product, I changed my mind and decided to bring my dress form into play. This was based heavily off of her discussion of the environment and the technical tools around me that influence my work and life on a daily basis. I see my dress form every day in the corner of my room and it constantly makes me think about what to do next, what projects I have waiting in my closet for me to work on, and about the time and setting that those compositions require me to have. For example, even creating this minor multimodal composition, my environment was a nightmare, as my adorable demon cat kept attacking the dress form and the measuring tape I draped around its neck. I was also highly concerned about dropping the sewing pins all over the floor and not being able to find them, so I had to work extra carefully. While I do not have the time at the moment to do a 20 page statement of goals and choices (nor do I think such a small creation could fill 20 pages), Shipka did make me think deeply about why I was doing what I was doing. I did not want to create just another voice over video or sticky note collage to represent how nearly every piece of technology I engage with enhances and challenges my creativity, so I instead focused on how my sewing tools allow me to explore and complicate my creation process. This also led me to placing it in a video and adding music (which is a mashup of Persona 5’s “Life Will Change” and JoJo’s Bizarre Adventures Part 3 Theme; I have made and worn costumes for both, so it felt fitting). My mini project overlaps quite well with some of Shipka’s examples, in that it is physical, it engages with more than just text, and while the final product is quite simple, the process of coming up with the idea, executing it, and turning it into a video resulted in changing my goals, original design, and final presentation and explanation.

Part Three:

Chapter One

Composition and writing, while interchangeable in the discipline at times, do not necessarily denote the same things. Composing is the more fitting term because it includes the act of multimodality, even without direct reference to the technology around us, such as lights and floor tiles. The method of instructing composition in the classroom should be different than the traditional English classroom because it ought to involve cooperation with communication studies, like psychology and philosophy among others. Finally, limiting writers to the term of “students” and their writing to just what comes out of their heads eliminates consideration of the place and space within which they write and instead places them inside a written text based box.

Chapter Two

This chapter focused on discussing Wertsch’s concept of individual(s)-acting-with-mediational-means. There were four primary points of discussion, those being 1) using the meditational means framework, a text-based work cannot truly be judged as monomodal because the process of the text might have included outside sources and influences upon its creation. 2) this viewpoint challenges our concepts of technology as only being whatever recently modern creation we use. 3) the framework forces us to acknowledge the psychological and technical tools that go into composition and how the tools we choose to use affect our physical bodies. 4) The framework denies us the ability to see each reader or writer as an individual in composition because of the changes that certain mediational means require. The final point of note in this chapter is about how technology will fade into the background and become transparent when it is working properly as a part of our daily lives. This also has an effect on how we view text based compositions because it forces us to consider the mode in which we compose and how what we choose to write or create with is a technology with its own specific demands.

Chapter Three

The explanation surrounding Muffie and her body/dance based text was fascinating to someone like me who drastically prefers written word to body language. It felt significant that much of the chapter was dedicated not the writing process so much as the location in which it occurs, such as in the beginning of the chapter when a student ran into complications of distractions while making their t-shirt composition. When it came down to the various places and stages Muffie had to go through to get to her final product, it made me think about my own environment when I write, which is normally either complete silence in my room, listening to the Carole and Tuesday soundtrack, or forcing myself into Starbucks to not be distracted by my kitten Darcy. Finally, it was increasingly significant in this chapter, seeing how the author built it up to this point, that the final product is not necessarily the most important part of composition because much of what is multimodal about certain texts is the path and tools used to get there.

Chapter Four

This segment of the book was incredibly interesting and informative because of how the author explained the goals and processes of the two students’ projects. Particularly, the intent of each project informed not only the topic, but the form that the end product took (in this case the goal was to get their audiences to explore the frustration and pain they had gone through in producing a multimodal composition). I found it helpful that the author showed how multimodal assignments do not make things easy or unacademic, as some believe, but rather require different thought and consideration than an essay about a word from the OED might. Asking students and teachers to reevaluate their text based academic worlds is beyond imperative to the ever expanding field of composition and its relationship to technology. This chapter was significantly informative to me because of what I am considering for my final project in this course. (I shall not reveal it yet, but it will be physical multimodal composition).

Chapter Five

As we discussed in class last week, grading and finding criteria for analyzing multimodal compositions is a challenge. The author appears to propose as a solution to this problem that student’s write a statement of goals and choices that is highly detailed and extensive, such as the 20 page example she mentioned the student of the Lost and Found journal wrote. It is this extensive self reflection that opens up a way for instructors and audiences to understand decisions and aims of the project and be able to compare it to the final product. This connects back well to the rest of the book, in which the focus is once again placed upon the steps taken to get to the end rather than looking at the product on its own.

Conclusion

Composition must go beyond writing to include other forms of meaning making, or risk educating students to hold a narrow viewpoint of what writing is. We must also learn to value texts that are not merely linear and traditional and work towards an accepting writing community that will not dismiss a text based solely on appearance. Finally, acknowledging and creative spaces for academic composition to mix with creative and multimodal positions is imperative to spreading and teaching proper, modern composition skills.

[elastigirl72]

And so it was, a Greek Oddity

May 13: on the plane to Istanbul

And so it is. Clearwell>Athens. Done!

Not to dwell too much on Athens, but I loved it. What a city. I’ll be spending more time there in future. In fact, maybe the way forward is to fly there, buy a scooter and ride home along the route I’ve just done, taking in more of each place I visited...there’s a thought ☺️

Today, the buckle I’m doing up is my seatbelt and not my rucksack on a plane to Istanbul. I’ll be reflecting on this adventure for some time. It’s the longest by double, and my third unsupported. But sitting here waiting for the plane to lift off, and looking at the flight map, the plane is pointing directly at the route I’ve just travelled. To fly home, I’d cross two time zones, 3 seas, 11 countries and by air, would take 4-5 hours plus time to and from airports, let’s say in all, 9 hours each way. Flying would definitely be easier and quicker. A colleague of mine who has other interests doesn’t get it. Isn’t it obsessive? Boring even? What are you trying to prove? Let’s say you flew to Athens, you wouldn’t see, feel, hear, smell, sense in minuscule detail every metre that passed. You wouldn’t feel the elation of an unexpected mountain vista or the terror of a chasing pack of wild dogs. How could you see the vibrancy in millions of poppies coming into bloom alongside parched, arid fields? What chance would you have of seeing a snake poised to strike and 500 metres later, bright green Geckos just hanging out getting warm?

You wouldn’t have the opportunity of just getting through each day, eating for the miles you’ve either flown through or battled against, or met the people who will either leave a positive impact on your memory or something you’d rather forget. You wouldn’t wake up each morning trying to figure out where you are and what is happening that day, and whether in fact, you can actually stand, let alone move forward. Neither would you find out what you’re made of, both physically and mentally; what happens to the body when you put it under stress day after day? How does the mind deal with pain, stress, the unknown? How does your heart respond to something it’s never done before?

How do I feel today now I’m flying to work in Istanbul? With a day of rest, I could keep going. If I ever found myself in a situation where I’d lost my job or did not need to work anymore, right now, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d be off as soon as I’d packed my gear, and work my way around the globe, probably in a westerly direction, simply because I’ve now done one continent.

Have I learned anything on this trip? I guess that will take me a while to realise. But I’ll start with a few things.

Flexibility really works. It takes the pressure off if that’s what is needed but in order to have flexibility, there needs to be flex room built in. When I originally planned this trip, I’d booked all accommodation from Calais to the Alps. If I’d stuck with that, flexibility would be gone and I would have an unbending, rigid timeline for mileage each day. Going into the trip, I was undertrained, which I was prepared for. What I hadn’t prepared for was how strong the headwinds I would face for the first 10 days. And then the rain and headwinds for an overlapping period which made for 17 days of tough conditions. If I had stuck with the original plan of prebooked stops, I would have struggled with both fitness and motivation more than I already did. In my head, I’d already mentally prepared that snow might be a real showstopper in the Alps, and painful as it was, to take a train from Zurich to Bellinzona (the crossing point was always flexible due to weather conditions and I was annexed whichever way I went), it was a lot easier to accept knowing it was a possibility. The total mileage was more than a direct route to Athens even with one leg train journey and this is how I consoled the decision.

When it’s possible to rigidly plan, then rigidly plan. After losing a day in Venice, after reaching Trieste, the weather, whilst far from perfect, was better. I had only one contingency day, and feeling rested and confident in Trieste, I booked the next 5 nights accommodation down the Dalmatian Coast. That got me to Herceg Novi on schedule to then decide whether I wanted to go mountains or coast to Athens, depending on energy and weather.

From Herceg Novi onwards, I freestyled all the way to Athens, sometimes just pitching up at hotels and asking if they had a room. On balance, there was only one stop that I wouldn’t stop at again, and felt liberated travelling this way.

I still trust too much. Two occasions, I got myself into sticky situations because I look for the best in people. One day I will learn, but with it I will become cynical and suspicious...which doesn’t fill me with happy anticipation. Tricky.

You really don’t need much stuff to get by. By the end of my trip, I had a couple of shampoo sachets, cheap travel toothbrush, toothpaste, sun cream, antihistamine medication, my glasses and contacts, razor, two pairs of knickers, a bra, zip-trouser/shorts, t-shirt, hairbrush and other than the cycle gear I wore, camera and phone, that was it.

I really found it difficult to digest as much food as I needed to eat each day, but paying attention to fuelling the next day’s ride I truly believe this was the key to success. I am sure I have as much of a belly as I had before I left! But i never once ran out of energy. Nuts and dried fruit are a better moving food choice than M&Ms but the latter are just such a guilty pleasure and great for motivation! 😆

The next thing that was affirmed (I knew this already from many other endeavours) is that even if people aren’t physically on the road with you, it’s ok to “shout” for support. I actively did this, and a whole community of helpers materialised. Even when I didn’t actively look for support, it was always there...and love it or hate it, for me, it’s one of the blessings of social media. The reality is that only very close people will be thinking of you occasionally as you pedal along. But those are important, and those that are kind enough to take time to respond and give you a little boost, regardless of how big or small, it’s like a triple espresso when you need it most. I thank every single one, whether avidly following me and with me vicariously, or just the occasional like or comment.

My heart is strong, but so is my head. I’ve never felt so switched on and alive for so long. If you take a 4 week period in life, it’s never going to be a non-stop bed of roses and quadruple rainbows, where the sun always shines, birds always sing and everyone loves each other. Being on this trip has of course highlighted this, but it’s also reminded me again how bloody good cyclists are at literally pedalling on and leaving negative stuff behind them and looking forward. I don’t believe you can be a happy cyclist unless you can do this.

Movement and motion become autonomic when your heart controls movement, so regardless of how tired you are, just mount your bike, look forward and just keep rolling...

I 100% acknowledge how fortunate I am, both in life circumstances and in health to have this incredible opportunity. It’s not for everyone, and it’s not possible for everyone, even if it’s a dream. I’ve no doubt hacked a few people off with my continuous stream of progress, photos and observations. But I hope in equal measure or possibly tipping the scales more towards somehow the positive: that a group of oldies in Canada might visualise and anticipate each post, that a sibling or child can think that they can do this, and along the road, like the two Albanian girls I saw watching in fascination as I regrouped after border control, when I grow up, I’d like to have a go at that. She looks cool and friendly and that looks like a lot of fun. Whatever you do and however you do it, you’ll come across people who will want to shoot you down. I’m glad I’m not wasting my energy worrying about it and doing it anyway.

How do I feel about achieving my goal? It’s hard to answer right now. There are people out in the world doing great and brave things, sometimes because they have to and sometimes because they chose to, like me. My achievement, compared to many others is really insignificant in the scale of the globe and time. And it’s hard for me to ignore that. I guess how I feel is that despite pain, danger, risk, weather, and unexpected behaviour, I’ve not let it stop me, and for that I feel stronger than I thought I was. I am better at being alone than I thought I would be, and probably more obvious to other people than to myself until this journey, I’m pretty stubborn and persistent - not always great qualities! But I feel happy, there is an element of emotion just tinkering away in the background there, and I’m not done yet.

So, what’s next? I had to sell my Time Trial bike to get my head around this trip and focus. It’s clear that I am a distance junkie, whether it’s competing or adventure. I think I have to wait for the dust to settle before I can see that horizon. At 46, whilst I’m no spring chicken, there’s miles in me yet. Just where, when, how, why, who knows?

Things that make me happy on the road:

The first sign for the destination I’m heading for that day

A washing machine

Fabric softener

Hair conditioner

Moisturiser

Bread before started arrives

When Google gives the direction “Stay on this road for 24km”

Good pillows

Home made breakfast, namely my porridge

A friendly welcome

Generosity

A quiet road

A surprise vista

As I do, I have several tracks that have defined this, my most epic two-wheeled adventure to date. Some cheesy, some emotional, but definitely the soundtrack to my transcontinental European two-wheeled road trip....

Moving: SuperGrass

Silver Lining (again): First Aid Kit

Arrival of the Birds: The Cinematic Orchestra

Re:member: Olafur Arnalds

Higher Love: Steve Windwood

Big Log: Robert Plant

Broken Land: The Adventures

No Surprises: Radiohead

Crazy: Seal

Titanium: David Gueta

Hibernate: Celine Cairo

Jingle: Tash Sultana

Last night as I was drifting off to my final Greek land of sleep, I received a call from someone called Nikos. I was reluctant to accept a call from someone I didn’t know, but did anyway...

“Hello, this is Nikos from Hotel *****, why did you give me a bad review?”...[click]

As we land, the plane flight video shows the land below and the shadow of the plane. You can see the contours on the ground but not the details all passing at high speed: pretty much summarises in Technicolour the difference between flying and what my adventure means to the rest of the world, and what my Odyssey meant to me....

Thank you for being with me on this journey. I hope it’s not my last, but if it is, it was an absolute blast 🤩. Enjoy your next adventure!

[drabbleitout]

Chapter 8: Caught in the Undertow

Previous | Next

There was no place who hated the Empire more than Franson, and it showed.

They flew their own mauve and lavender banners, designs of their own hierarchy of craftsmen with little to no imports. Anything sold in Franson was made in Franson. They had their own soldiers, their own agriculture, their own order. Even if technically they were still part of the Empire, they didn’t acknowledge it.

The fields that. led up to the city were mostly flooded tracks, tiered and filled with floating red berries. Those that were dry grew a number of vegetables, wheat, and fruit trees. In the distance were rolling green hills dotted with cattle. Stone laid roads separated one farm from another, organized, dirt-free, and sparse.

Franson itself was marked by the solid wall of homes and shops, so tightly lined there was no space between them. From afar it looked like a fortress, but once closer one could see the windows and separate roofs of each building. Upon seeing it, the children grew excited, cheering and chattering.

They reached the arched gates just before sundown.

Myghal spoke occasionally to Taug but had yet to say anything more to Ira after discovering his hands. He was angry. Ira couldn’t understand why. They weren’t Myghal’s hands. Why did he care if they were, well, whatever was happening to them. He had no reason to be angry, and Ira didn’t partially care if he was.

Well, he did, but he shouldn't.

If Myghal was angry enough, it would be more of reason for him to go with the Thunder Hills. As close as they were to the border, away from the heart of the Empire, Myghal could go along with them and take their separate ways. Ira wouldn’t have to worry about his stupid little conscience fighting him then. It was decided for them.

The roads inside the walls were wide, white stone fit so close together the wagon hardly clacked across it. Few buildings were more than one story, each with a different sign, brightly painted to show the type of goods they sold. Each was a shade of faded pink or lavender, trimmed in the same dark color that made up their roofs. Ira marveled at their designs. Clay shingles overlapped like scales on a fish, curling up at their pointed corners.

Clean. Intact. No loose boards or chipping paint. Everything was like that. And the people, there were so many of them, but it was never crowded. There were all shapes and sizes of people, from a range of backgrounds, reminding of what the streets of Felmire used to look like. If he had to guess, before the riots, the city had been a similar marvel.

“This is what I imagined the Empire being like,” Myghal said out loud. Without clearly directing it to anyone, Ira decided to remain quiet.

"Where can we sell this wagon?" Taug called. "I'm tired of hearing it squeak."

"You could try the stables, or a blacksmith. Either would have it for parts." Ira directed them towards a corner which housed a smith shop, the owner working over a pit of embers. Ira got down the help unload the children as Myghal spoke to the workers.

It took convincing on Myghal's part, explaining what had happened, where the wagon came from. Yet, as soon as it was revealed it was stolen from the Empire, the workers lit up in laughs. The three of them were broad in the shoulders with thick arms stained in soot. They walked around the wagon with Myghal, looking it over to discuss a price.

The smiths were reasonable, even offering to give them extra for their situation. They agreed the steel was worth it, able to strip it down and use in their own work. Some of the children grew sleepy while now that they were stopped, leaning on one another or staggering to keep their feet as sleep caused heavy heads. One of the smaller ones held a wrinkle of Ira’s pants, tugging each time they slouched. At length Ira picked them up, setting them on Berma’s saddle to rest their legs.

By the time the horses were unhitched and coin was exchanged, it was dark. As they were informed of a public campground, the group was slow to move. Ira took more children up onto Berma’s saddle, sure to watch them as he walked her.

The campground was hardly that. It was more of a courtyard complete with a communal bonfire, indoor and outdoor sleeping areas, cots and an area to cook. The few occupants there didn’t fit the usual description of homeless. They were well dressed, clean and kind. The caravan was welcomed onto the grounds with waves and an offer of free food.

Ira urged the children down, setting each on their feet and directing them towards Evolet.

“Ira,” Taug called, waving him over as they caught his eye. Ira left Berma with Evolet and the children, cautiously approaching Myghal and Taug.

“We made it.” Myghal smiled.

“And we couldn’t have done so without the two of you. You both have done more for us than we can repay.” Taug shuffled closer, placing a hand on their shoulders, “Without your help, I fear where we may be.”

“The Empire has no right in what they’re doing.” Ira directed his glare to the distance. He didn’t like the weight of Taug’s look, the grip on his shoulder, how close they all stood.

“And, yet, you were the ones who helped us,” Taug chuckled. “For that, we want to give you what little we can.”

"No," Ira scowled as soon as Taug began taking coin from the purse the smiths had given them. "You need every bit of that to get to the border. You need another wagon."

"Myghal and I discussed this, and we have enough for a wooden wagon. You yourself were wounded in helping us. If nothing else, take this to have yourself healed."

"I can't take this."

"Ira, it's alright." Myghal whispered, placing a hand on his back.

"Says you, who doesn't even want me looking at a lock." He stepped back, fighting chills as Myghal's hand drifted to his shoulder where he grabbed his shirt, holding him in place.

"Because this isn't stealing."

"It feels worse than stealing." He wanted to yank free but doubted he could against Myghal's strength. "I'm not taking your money." Myghal leaned closer, sudden proximity making Ira tense.

"Just because you're from the Empire doesn't mean you can't accept a gift."

"That's exactly why." He shuddered, stepping back. Myghal let him go, frowning. "I shouldn't be rewarded for undoing something that never should have been done."

"You didn't cause it." He felt everyone staring, wishing he could reach his cloak. "It's rude to turn them away."

"Then I'm rude."

"Ira, Ira," Taug tutted, both hands on Ira’s shoulders. "You are far too strict with yourself. I understand what we need, and I know we will be able to make our way back, but we will not rest easy unless we can repay you in even the smallest way." They rest their hands against his arms. "I will carry it like a stone in my chest."

"I've got an idea, if you won't take coin." Myghal offered, "Why don't we let Taug rent us a room for the night? A good night's rest will be better than money, right?"

"That's still spending money."

"Knowing you were able to rest would put me at ease." Taug wrapped their hands over one of Ira's, holding it as if he were unsteady on his feet. "We are all safe here. A bed will be good for your wound."

"I don't like it."

"Renting a room? It's fine. You can either sleep out here or in a real bed. Either way, I will pay for it." Taug insisted and then turned towards the road.

Ira was yanked to a stop before he could follow, spun around to Myghal. “Let them do this, please? Taug is an elder," he whispered, "if you don't listen to them, it's disrespectful. I don't like taking anything from them either, but I do because Taug asks it." Ira glared up at him. He had never cared for those older than him, the generation that had allowed things to be what they were.

But Taug was different. They weren’t Imperial, they suffered from the Empire more than anyone. They care of their own, became a leader when it was needed, and they reminded him of Myghal.

Was that what made this so difficult?

"Please, Ira?" His tone softened, more dangerous than a stripped blade. Ira’s stomach knotted with a helpless sinking, like the moment of realization that the undertow was too strong, the fight too much, and all he could do was give up.

"Just know I don't like it." He muttered, jarring as Myghal slung an arm across his shoulders.

"Thank you. Now, come on. We'll find somewhere to put the horses up."

They didn't have to look far. The stable was packed but there was room for Berma and Nepi. Emptying their saddles and draping them on the stall wall, they made their way towards the inn Taug had picked out. Ira thanked them and hated the way he didn't have the right words to express himself. It was too shallow, even if Taug smiled and dismissed it.

Ira followed Myghal into the inn, the low hanging ceilings making him duck when they started up the stairs. Everything was a deep cherry stain, walls plastered with mauve paper that the city was becoming known for. Their room was near the end, a small nook barely big enough for the two beds. It smelt like cedar, warm and plush.

The small dresser held a basin, a plush rug covering the worn floorboards. Between the two beds was a window, one that looked out into an alley.

Perfect.

Myghal chose his bed on the left, dropping his gear at its foot. Ira copied him, hanging his cloak on the post. He worked on removing his boots, stealing glances at Myghal who washed his hands.

"Do you think they'll be alright?" Ira asked, pretending to inspect the sole of one shoe.

"Should be. If they don't have the money for food, I know they can hunt for it."

"I'm sure they'll miss having you around."

"Why do you say that?" Myghal chuckled, removing his shirt.

"Well, you said none of them were warriors, having someone who is takes a lot of stress off the situation. Not to mention you translate for them, and you're a lot like Taug."

"I'm sure they'll be fine then." Ira wouldn't look up from his other boot, half in anger, half in some uncertain embarrassment. He didn't know why he couldn't look at Myghal, why it felt like things were so complicated. "Taug may be older, but they're keen. I know they'll get everyone home. At the border there's probably people looking for them on our side."

Ira hummed, a strange, prickling pain starting in his throat.

On their side.

"You really worry about them." Myghal used the rag to wash his face.

"Call it a soft spot for fellow prisoners of the Empire," Ira forced a laugh, proud at how casual it sounded. "Taug is good, too. Someone like that shouldn't have to go through this." He set his teeth, removing the other boot. He kept them tucked under the bed for easy access. He unlaced his vest and gloves, dropping them on the foot.

Once Myghal was asleep, he would slip out the window.

He arranged the pillow deciding to lie on top of the blanket to keep from dirtying the sheets. He grimaced as he stretched out, hands covering his face and shutting his eyes. It was almost painful.

"Been awhile since you've been in a real bed, huh?" Myghal laughed from the wash basin. Ira held his breath, trying to remember exactly when he last had a bed.

"Yeah." He exhaled, prying his hands off his face causing pops to settle in his back. "Don't know when that was."

"No beds in the guild?"

"Hammocks," Ira smiled, staring up at the ceiling. "Might as well have been lying a top one another though." He took deep breaths, fighting to keep his eyes opened. Thinking on it, it had probably been since he was a child that he had been in a real bed. Straw piles and hammocks filled the time in between.

Humming a chuckle, he closed his eyes listening to Myghal chatter about being happy with any bed that wasn’t the ground.

When he opened his eyes, it was morning.

Myghal usually woke before Ira, that was nothing new. But it never lasted long. Ira had some second sense in knowing when someone else was around –even while dead asleep. This morning he could have actually been dead.

The quilt had bunched to one side, causing him to lie diagonal on the mattress. An arm was bent under the pillow, cradling his head with half of his face buried into it. He was so lax that when Myghal first woke he lie there, squinting, trying to make sure Ira was still breathing.

The sight of him relaxed, without a glare or wrinkle in his brow, how youthful and serene he was, made Myghal feel like he was home for the first time in eight years. Funny, considering how far from anything homely Ira was to a stranger's point of view. The dark cloak and hood, snarls and quips sharp enough to wound, and above all a thief, an outlaw, a local legend that rivaled tails of the Northmen’s demonic Son of Death himself.

But as carefree as Ira looked in sleep, Myghal had been restless. All throughout the night he jarred, in and out of shallow rest from worry. Why, he wasn't sure. Ira had fallen asleep before Myghal could finish his birdbath, but the idea of him disappearing kept prying Myghal awake. Maybe it was how easily Ira surrendered to Taug's offer or how he slept almost fully dressed. Either way, troubling, nauseating dreams kept him rolling over to make sure Ira was still there.

The golden glow of dawn revealed he was.

Myghal lay on his side, taking a moment to watch him before getting up and quietly dressing. Braiding back his hair, he noticed an odd sound. It was soft, so soft in fact, he thought it was in another room –birds nested in the rafters somewhere perhaps. But as he listened, he realized it was Ira.

The serenity of his face was wrinkling, brows diving together, fingers twitching with another whining huff. Myghal recognized what he was seeing from long nights in war camps, when the haunts of memories and fear of what could be revealed themselves through night terrors. Ira's face tensed, pressing into the pillow with a flinch. A grumble turned to a yell, lurching awake.

He sat up, hand flying to his side for a hilt. Bleary eyed he reached for the foot of the bed grabbing for his dagger. Stripping it his eyes shot about, wide and unseeing.

"Good morning," Myghal tried whispering, hoping to calm him down. Ira had one foot on the floor, a knee on the mattress, sinking to sit as he recognized Myghal. He was breathing heavy, dark hair stuck up in every direction, fingers raking through it as he tried making sense of things. "I'm just going to saddle the horses."

Ira stared dumbfounded, blinking in silence before the words caught up to him. 

"Okay," his voice was scratchy, clearing it as he looked about the room. "Okay." He nodded as if needing to reassure himself. Myghal lingered to watch. The dagger was set down, Ira sitting back on the bed, fingers smearing at his face. He cursed as he turned to the window and Myghal took it as his cue to slip out.

Franson reminded him of home, something close to normal life since being taken. Maybe it was because of the Thunder Hills, their stories and language making him homesick. He thought about it while brushing and saddling Nepi and Berma. Besides fighting Taug for paying for a room, even Ira seemed more at ease.

At least, not angry and easily irritated.

Until seeing his hands and coming to Franson, Myghal thought he was uncomfortable with the Thunder Hills. That it was an awkwardness in how different they were. Since Taug's offer he knew it was guilt, shame, and possibly pain that made him so distant. Myghal worried about his hands. It was part of the reason why he had suggested the inn. Hoping some rest would slow the spread of The Foul.

It turned his stomach to knots thinking on it. The way Ira had crumpled in pain, the sparking dance of arcs through his skin, how he had mentioned it was “just an ache”, something he had since before meeting Myghal. Had it always been this bad? Something he had become used to? Or was the curse making it worse?

Finished with the horses, he went back to the room to check on Ira. He wasn’t ready. In all that time he had managed to get his boots on and comb his hair down, fixing his shirt when Myghal entered. He didn’t turn or acknowledge him, charily threading his arms into his vest with care to his shoulder. Without his cloak, he looked small, lean, younger, not yet weighed down with a weapon belt or darkened by the cloak.

“Hey,” Myghal started and suddenly became very aware that he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Ira hummed in question, back still turned. “Well, I’ve been thinking. You know, about the curse and, uh, the Emperor and everything –and I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think I know why the curse chose me.”

As soon as he said it, he hated how self-absorbed it sounded. As if it were meant to be because nothing was ever meant to be. Things happened with rarely any coincidence. The world didn't plan and plot, that was man's creation.

Ira turned, still tightening the laces of his vest. "Oh?" His brows were lifted, a sure sign of snark, but his voice lacked the tune or strength. "Why you?"

"Well, I think, maybe, it's because we work really well together. Think about it," he drifted closer, fighting to keep his voice and movements casual. "I've got the big hits and bad jokes covered, and you've got the details, the navigation, the facts and reasoning. We make a pretty good team, don't we?" Ira’s hands stopped working, face blank and staring.

"We do."

"So, maybe, when we get your curse broken, maybe we can make a living out of this."

Wrong wording.

It made heat flare in his face. He was like a hunter with a cornered wolf, and nothing to defend himself with. Ira sensed it. His face hardened, brows lowering and hands cinching the knot with a snap. "Like a business of some sort.” Myghal attempted a recovery, “We could travel around finding work. Hey! Maybe we could even track down the lost Prince and get that reward—”

"You'll be gone the moment the curse is lifted." Ira shook his head, "Things will go right back the way they were before. You'll go home and I'll get back to my work."

"You don't want this to be your work?" Myghal offered, too late to simply walk away. He could tell Ira wasn't angry, not in the way of flashing teeth and daggers. He reminded him of a wounded bird Myghal had found once, grounded in the woods with a bloody wing. It hissed and snapped, but not because it was angry –but because it was scared.

"It doesn't matter what I want, that's the way it will be. When the curse is lifted none of this will matter. Don’t you get It? That's what the curse is. That's what's keeping you here. Once that's gone, once it's broken, you'll come to your senses and pack up."

"Come to my senses?" Myghal squinted in hopes of understanding. He didn't. Moving closer he shook his head. "What are you talking about, Ira? The curse isn't keeping me here."

"Well of course you don't think that. That's part of the curse."

"I'm not cursed, you are." Myghal chuckled, "it doesn't affect me."

"The curse on me is from the magic, it’s what’s tricking you." Ira lifted a hand as if to show Myghal his palm. They were smooth, not cracked or marred, thin fingers and round nails; they were talented, beautiful hands.

"But the magic only works when you use it."

"That doesn't mean it isn't there while I'm not. Like I said, it's part of the curse."

Myghal continued to stare at the hand, digging in search of any feeling that would prove Ira right. He couldn't find anything. Humming, he shook his head, "I don't think I agree with you, Ira. Remember? When you first told me about this curse, I didn't believe you and I certainly didn't just up and follow you. I chose to follow you, and I'm choosing to stay with you now. I don't think it's magic, I just like you."

"Now I know it's the curse." Ira huffed and turned away. Myghal grabbed his wrist, pulling him back around.

"It isn't, alright? You've let those imperial assholes make you think you're this horrible, festering monster when you're not. They treat you like dirt but that doesn't mean we all will, okay? You're smart, witty, you know how to take care of others. Curse or not, you do plenty to go out of your way to care for me." Ira looked as though he had been slapped. Blinking widely in a daze he fumbled, shaking his head to look away.

"Give it up already, Myghal. It's the curse."

"It’s not! In fact, I think Mirth knew what she was doing. I think she knew we needed one another."

"Listen at yourself," but Ira wouldn't look at him. He kept his face turned away, wrist tight in Myghal's hold as he made a fist.

"Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the one who needed you, because that's when you showed up. At my lowest point, when I needed you most."

"Stop it."

"I don't think this is a curse at all. If anything, it's my curse to see you suffer when I should've found you sooner."

"This is a curse!" Ira barked, shoving his hand towards the sky with such speed, Myghal almost lost hold of him.

His skin grew cold as blue light brought about the tendrils and fog.

"It’s a curse and you don't even see it.” Ira had to tilt his head back to glare up at him. “You've been under someone's control since you were torn from your home, and now you're under its control. Letting you think otherwise makes me just as bad as the Northmen. What you feel is manipulation –The Foul. It's happened without you knowing it, without me knowing it, and it's tricked you." His face was taut.

Like that bird, he was afraid.

Myghal frowned, releasing a deep sigh through his nose. “I know when I’m stuck under someone’s boot. I know when I’m being ordered around and when I’ve lost my voice. This isn’t it.” He whispered, careful in loosening his hold on Ira’s wrist. “What I feel is that I don’t want you to leave. What I feel is that I don’t want you to get hurt. What I feel is that I don’t want you to be alone or afraid anymore, Ira.” Sliding his hand up to Ira’s palm, he could feel the chill of magic flickering against his hand like serpents’ tongues.

Ira’s glare lost its edge.

“This is entirely me; not magic, not a curse. Me.” Myghal trailed his fingers across Ira’s palm, through the chilling fog watching the way his face saddened, tension slipping from his shoulders. Confident with care, Myghal wove his fingers between Ira’s and squeezed their palms together. “You wouldn’t use it on me.”

With a quick tug to Ira’s hand, Myghal leaned down for their lips to meet.

Ira tensed, drawing in sharply as his hand gripped into Myghal’s. He shifted back and Myghal grimaced, knowing he had made a mistake. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” He scowled. But instead of a fist or a slap, Ira grabbed him by the back of the head, pulling him along with the stagger.

Myghal was drawn in, brought closer instead of shoved away. Another kiss –Ira’s fingers in his hair, their hands still clasped as if it was all that kept them from being swept apart. Myghal's heart raced, stomach plunged as if falling from great height. Dizzy with it, alight. Ira kissed him again, and again.

And pulled away with a snap.

“I'm sorry,” Myghal whispered, loosening his hold but not completely letting go. He feared if he did, if Ira slipped away, he'd run and never be seen again. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I should’ve asked. I should’ve—”

“It’s not… it's just –just stop.” He was trembling, his voice, his arm.

“Will you talk to me? Just once, will you tell me what’s happening instead of turning away?”

“I’m scared,” Ira wheezed. “I’m terrified of you.” Myghal felt as if the air had been knocked out of him, fingers slipping from Ira's wrist and backing away. He felt sick.

It made sense. Why Ira was always staring, as if keeping an eye on a wild animal, why he kept his distance, why he always danced around explanations. He saw Myghal as something bloodthirsty and destructive, and Myghal hadn’t even asked for the kiss.

“You’re a paradox,” Ira took a shaking breath. “People trust you, they’re first reaction is to help you instead of fight you –and you’re a warrior.” Ira turned to him, withdrawing a step. “I’ve had to fight every step of my life because people hate me. They’ve always hated me; as an orphan, as a pickpocket, a thief, a criminal. Except you. You’re here and suddenly everything is taken care of. I’m safe. I’m protected. I’m provided for. That’s not what I asked for.”

Myghal struggled to understand. He couldn't read Ira, if he was upset or openhearted. He was cagey, fingers digging into his palms and nailbeds. “It’s what I… what being home must be like. And that terrifies me.” His stare fell away, crossing his arms as if it was all that was keeping him together. “Because you will make me soft. You will make me weak. And when this curse breaks you will leave, and I will be here, alone, with this weakness.”

“No. Ira, no,” Myghal eased a step closer, and another when Ira didn’t retreat. He didn’t move at all, head bowed and shoulders heavy. Myghal carefully approached, touching his arm. “Look, please look at me.” Ira shook his head. “I'm not leaving. Curse or not, I’m not leaving you alone.”

“You don’t know that,” Ira growled, brow pinching hard enough to wrinkle his nose. “You’re going to wake up one morning and it will be broken.”

“And I will still be here,” Myghal whispered, leaning down until their foreheads touched. Ira drew a shaking breath, tense again. “It’s going to be you that wakes up one day and realizes I’m not here because of a curse, but because I care for you.”

“No,” it was a wheeze, keeping his forehead against Myghal’s, faintly turning it side to side. “If you knew who I was, you wouldn’t.”

“What about who you are now?” Myghal smiled, brushing their noses together. “The Ira who lets me get away with stupid things. Who lets me take detours and stops, who puts up with my complaining about food. Who will attack an Imperial caravan without question, and then travel days out of the way without money or food?”

“Myghal, there’s more to it than that. I’m—”

A knock at the door drew Myghal around. The lock clicked and Evolet poked her head inside. “I was hoping you both had left.” She whispered, slipping in to shut the door. “There’s a man asking around for you,” she pointed to Ira. “He’s strange.”

“Strange how?”

“I think he’s Imperial but isn’t dressed like it. He’s alone, on horseback, but carries himself like an Imperial soldier.” She worried her bottom lip, “He’s asking for you by name.”

“He’s asking for an Ira?”

“Yes. He’s asking if anyone has met a young man named Ira. Described you down to the crook of your nose.”

“What did he look like?” Ira asked, gathering up his cloak to throw on.

“He’s tall, very tall. It was hard to see his face, but I think he only had one eye. Was in a straw hat, carried a spear. Had a falcon on his arm.”

Myghal cursed, hurrying over to cram his things in his bag. “Thank you for telling us, Evolet, but you might want to make yourself scarce. You don’t want to be caught around us.”

“Is he trouble? Should I go try to stall him?”

“We appreciate it, but you really should go.” Ira snapped, belting on his gear. She shut the door and Ira pried open the back window.

“A Falconer?”

“Sounds like it.”

“Where did they get your name?”

“Probably Dungaree, which means Harpies are on the move.” He turned to Myghal, both standing by the window. “You don’t have to come with me. He isn’t looking for you.”

“What did I just tell you?”

“This is no time to be stupid!”

“I’m not being stupid. What’s stupid is you’re standing here arguing this with me.” Myghal continued hissing as he clambered out, clinging to the sill. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. I’m not leaving you to face Falconers and Harpies alone.”

“And you say you’re not being stupid.” Ira shook his head, dropping his shoulders with a sigh.

“I’ll go get the horses, since they’re not looking for me. You get down and meet me here. Alright? Right here?” It wasn’t that he thought Ira would ditch him, that he would leave Myghal and the horses, but that he may leave to lead Falconers and Harpies away.

“Right here.” Ira surrendered, a helpless, tired smile softening his face. Myghal grinned, only then letting go of the sill dropping to the ground.

[heironymous-smash]

…And nope, I'm not referring to oral sex.

CW:  Living in a puritanicalish society, this is one of the cool Life Truths I don't get to discuss very often, but screw it (heh), I'm here and I've gotta post something today.  This is knowledge I've earned through hard work and deliberate experimentation and long thought, so here it is.  And yes, to be explicit (lol), as the title indicates, this post contains information about sex.

If you hate reading about sex, then by all means skip this (there'll be another post tomorrow!)

…But if you hate reading about sex because you feel like it should be "automatic", a thing that just flowers out of a crush or a date and then, y'know, happens, be aware that in this post, I'm declaring that you're BAD AT SEX.

—

I'll keep the backstory short here so as not to embarrass either of us, but it's relevant to know that I've put two decades of conscious experimentation into sex — at least as much work, writing, and trying things as I've put into sleep.  And I had reasons for this — I was really screwed up initially, given SO much bad information and some early non-consentual encounters that messed me up about it badly.  And when I determined to "fix it" by figuring it out on my own, I found that I had to change and challenge a lot in order to find what "good sex" even was. 

And what I found is what's in the title:  You can absolutely gauge whether anyone, yourself included, is good at sex based on how well they use their mouths — or hands, if they use ASL — i.e. how comfortable and willing and experienced they are at communicating about sex with someone they'd like to have (or are having or have had) it with.

I've reached an age where sometimes teenagers ask me about sex — I probably make a good target because there's grey in my hair and I'm not afraid of swear-words, nor has a sex question from a kid ever shocked me.  In truth, I'm way more shocked at how many adults can't summon the wherewithal to answer simple questions you'd think they know by now.  Questions like "how do I do this right / avoid doing it wrong?"  That your standard adult answer sounds something like "don't do it" or "stop thinking about it" strikes me as violently absurd, and also harmful, since avoiding thinking about sex is one of the real fast roads towards being awful at it, and potentially hurting yourself or others.

Sex is not an emotionally safe activity, just like rock-climbing isn't a physically safe activity.  That's why we have safety gear, and why smart people require that you have a basic amount of training and awareness of what you're doing in order to participate in it.  We don't want children to have sex because they're too young to do it safely, but once their bodies are ready and they've developed an interest in it, you'd think we'd give them the tools to do it right and as much advice as we could.  But we suck at this.

Rather than talk about why, though, I want to just go ahead and give the advice — yes, the advice I give to teenagers and adults alike, and which, by the way, kids are perfectly capable of understanding.  (The adults are too, but many of them really don't like knowing that they're doing this wrong and need to work harder at it.  There's a myth out there that adults magically get their Sex Card sometime in college and from then on out get to claim to be good at it.  Yeah well, HA to that.)

—

THE BASIC SKILL of sex — for you tabletop fans, the stat you roll for it — is COMMUNICATION.  It happens and matters first, and during, and also after and in-between.  Being good at it gets you laid, makes you better during the act, and makes you a better lover to have, and to have had.  Here are some (just some!) of the ways this manifests:

  1. You let people know that you're interested in sex, and ready for it.  (I tell teenagers, "If you aren't sure if you're ready for sex yet, imagine being naked in a room with this person and talking to them about sex — what you want to do and don't, what your body's needs and desires are — and if you can't stomach the embarrassment and vulnerability of that conversation, you're definitely not ready.") 

Also, I'll say this here but it applies to all these points:  Doing this is sexy.  It turns people on.  If you don't have as much sex as you'd like…have you tried fucking communicating about it??

2.  You seek and listen to information from the other party(ies) about what they're interested in and ready for, then you confirm for both of you that activities X and Y are things you both have overlapping interest in and readiness for.  (Note that this requires being aware of what you're ready for and interested in!  Knowing this about yourself is a prerequisite, though it's true that maybe you don't know the details until you're right there contemplating it with someone — our interests definitely change by circumstance.  So not only do you need to know your basic yes-and-no's; you also should, especially by the time you're an adult, be able to feel what they are on the fly, at that moment.  And if you have the slightest worry about your ability to do this, never, ever have sex drunk/high, because drugs inhibit this part of your brain.)

3.  Once you're touching each other, you feed data back and forth, through words, noises, muscle-tension, facial expression, etc. about what is pleasurable and "working" for you, and what isn't.  If the more subtle communication methods are confusing (common when someone's new to you, but happens all the time), you back up to using words to make sure.  You do this because you know that going slowly and taking communication-breaks is FAR preferable to (and sexier than!) hurting or squicking each other. 

4.  After Stuff has been Done, you check in — at least once, more if you're awesome — and share thoughts about how it went, how it felt, and what you both might be interested in doing later/again. 

—

It's astonishing to me how many people — sometimes people who've been having, or trying to have, sex for years — think these steps are somehow optional or unimportant.  That's like saying your ropes are unimportant in climbing!  It IS the cultural narrative, I get it — in the movies (romantic or porn or anything in-between), you rarely see these parts happen.  The "ideal sexual encounter" we're fed involves some kind of telepathy or accident that makes everyone magically consent to and express their enjoyment of things; total strangers are assumed to have completely understood each others' needs based on a single glance and a tiny moan.  (And I won't harp on this, but so as not to skip acknowledging it:  The root of that icultural story is in misogyny; it almost always goes badly for the woman — whose job in that automatic script is to "give in" to what the man wants — and it's one hair away from real rape, though which gender(s) are taken advantage of can change in any particular circumstance.  Seriously though?  The opposite of rape is consent.  And the basic requirement of consent is communication!  THIS ISN'T HARD. :P)

The idea that good sex will happen automatically, without clear communication, is just about as smart and realistic as how guns in movies never need reloading, never make anybody standing next to them go deaf, and kill you instantly only if you're a bad guy.

The above four things are SKILLS, yes — you need to do them and pay attention to them, and as you do so more, you'll get better and faster and more artistic about their execution.  (And oh man, th higher / artistic levels are FUN, I assure you.) 

They do NOT happen automatically, or as a magical result of your pheromones.  I don't care how good your phereomones are, or how attractive your face or whatever is.  Those things do not produce good sex — good communication, and that alone, does.

And by the way, like anybody new at a skill, I used to get super nervous and kinda hate the experience of doing them — it was scary, especially when it didn't go great.  But after a while, I got comfortable with them, and now, I love doing them — I even love doing them first — because they tell me immediately if the person I'm considering bonking with is going to be any good at it.  By cultivating those skills, I not only made myself into a universally-lauded Good Lay (what; it's my blog; if I can't brag about that here then where can I), but it also gave me an iron-clad system for knowing when it'd be better to just politely say no and avoid an unpleasant experience with someone:

If they can't overcome their embarrassment to talk with me about sex, they 100% cannot have good sex with me.  OMG the amount of bad sex I've avoided just by making "you must be able to talk about it" my rule!  \o/

If they keep looking for an "automatic progression" of things instead of checking in with me about what we're both into, ::BUZZER NOISE::

If they're clearly not watching for or interpreting my reactions (and pausing to ask me if they aren't sure what they mean), hell to the nope.

If they refuse to tell me what they want (yup, this happens), there's the door.  (I'm not going to sully my excellent pants-reputation with sub-par encounters with people who clearly can't dance. :P)

Sex sometimes happens according to an unspoken social script, sure.  You both have some drinks…you lean in…you kiss…you grope…you fondle…you remove clothing…etc etc…but I will stand by my assertion that GOOD sex almost NEVER happens this way — especially not more than once!  (If you have enough drinks or don't have much experience with really good sex, you could interpret that automatic BS as "good enough", sure.  But you'll get sick af of it, if repeated, precisely because it isn't involving what you actually want at all.)

—

In closing, it's amazing to me that people of all ages will buy books and read articles and ask eager questions about, like, what specific geometric shape they should make with their tongues at what speed for what duration in order to "please their partner", but when told that the answer is talk to, pay attention to, and check in after with your partner, they screech like vampires given a garlic sandwich.  Dude, that IS sex.  Asking and noticing and clarifying and responding to another person's body IS SEX. 

If that's too difficult or embarrassing for you, for all our sakes, don't have sex.  If you do, you'll just be awful at it.

If you're lucky enough to be trying it with me or someone like me, you'll at least know you're awful at it, and probably not get very far before you get told to go home — and that's a huge boon for both parties, believe me.  What's really saddening is when "you", whoever you are, try it with someone else who doesn't know about this, and who thinks the way to do it is to let you fumble around and use them to get off on, and then they have to deal with that suuuuuuuper gross feeling the next day of having had really terrible, impersonal, uncommunicative genital-play (I won't even call it sex, frankly) … that makes me upset just to contemplate.  So if this rather revealing post does nothing but save one person from that experience, it was worth it!

Happy f****** !  :D

[bananannabeth]

You seem so happy with your pastry boy, I'm really happy for you! 💘 You've always given really good relationship advice, now that you're in a relationship do you have any new advice to share?

Aww thank you for giving me an excuse to gush, nonnie, i really appreciate it!!

1. TALK to each other. If they do something you like, tell them! If they do something you don’t like, tell them! People aren’t mind readers and even someone who loves you isn’t going to always know what you want unless you tell them. If you have expectations that you never tell them about, they’re never going to reach them and then you’re going to get upset about it and it’ll be a mess. Please just talk. Even if it feels embarrassing and awkward to say it, it’s so important to communicate.

2. Figure out all the ways each of you say ‘I love you’, because even if there’s a bit of overlap it’s not going to align perfectly, but it’s important that you recognise them all. For example, I show love primarily through physical affection, including sex; Pastry Boy shows love primarily through gifts, like baking things he thinks I’ll like or buying a tea I mentioned I liked once. This isn’t to say that he doesn’t enjoy sex and that I never make or buy him anything, because that’s very far from true, it’s just that they have a different place on our hierarchies of ways we show affection and care. Some people show love through grand romantic gestures, some through doing all the household chores even though it wasn’t their turn, and both need to be acknowledged for the intent and emotions behind them.

3. Talk about sex, during and especially before and after the act. Similar to the first point, if they do something you like or don’t like, tell them!! Don’t be afraid to check with them, too. “Does that feel good?” is a question that gives them an opportunity to change things up if it’s not working or to boost your ego by moaning an enthusiastic yes if it is. If you want to try something new, try to talk about it beforehand to get their opinion and make sure they’re comfortable with it. If something new happens in the heat of the moment, debrief afterwards and check how they felt about it. Talking about it in the post-sex glow is great, but make sure you also talk about it when you’re both fully clothed with clear heads, too.

4. Make sure you’re both giving in sex. Not to say that you both have to orgasm every single time, but make sure it’s not one sided. Also, don’t assume that just because you’re in a relationship sex is always going to happen when you want it. Get consent, either verbally or through ENTHUSIASTIC response, and if they’re not into it then stop immediately. People have different sex drives and that’s okay.

5. Let them have their own interests, and be excited for them when they talk about them/achieve new things! I like watching baking shows and eating food, and I cook to survive, but I am almost as far from a chef as you can get. The majority of Pastry Boy’s life revolves around food: work, leisure, connecting with others, everything. So when he talks to me about it I make an active effort to listen, I ask questions about things I don’t know (a lot), and even if I don’t completely understand it I get excited when he achieves or discovers something new, because it’s important to him and makes him happy. He does the same with me and my writing and Disney (lol), and it’s great! You can’t lose your identity just because you’re dating, please don’t ever do that. And on that note, make sure you still see friends and family and do your own stuff sometimes.

6. Be vulnerable. Sometimes embarrassing, shitty things happen, and finding someone who can offer you a modicum of comfort in those awful moments is a sign of how compatible you are. Like… when I blurted out “I love you” way too soon and was so mortified I wanted to cry, and his immediate response was to make sure I was okay, asking, “Do you want to talk about it or do you want to pretend it didn’t happen? I’m okay with either one… You haven’t scared me off.” Or more long term things, like mental health. Being open and honest is better for the both of you. There’s no point trying to hide things for months, as it’ll just stress you out even more. When you do talk about it, they might have questions, or need time to process, but ultimately they should be okay with talking about it and should make an attempt to understand and comfort you (and you do the same for them).

7. Make friends with their friends and family. They’ve been around waaayyy longer than you have and you should respect that. Make an effort to be polite and to get to know them, because they’re an important part of your partner’s life. You don’t have to become besties, but you should at the very least be able to hold a conversation without your partner in the room.

8. Laugh. A lot. About inside jokes, about awkward things that happen during sex, about a show you watch together, about how cute they are. It’s a cliche, but being with someone who can make you laugh really does make everything easier.

9. Make sure that they’re a friend as well. I don’t mean you have to start as friends and then transition to dating, although that can be a good foundation. And I don’t mean that your partner should be your best friend, because the dynamic is different. But I do mean that, at the core of it, you genuinely enjoy spending time with them doing everyday things, and like their personality. As Pastry Boy put it yesterday, “You can love certain members of your family but not really like them. If you can find someone that you love AND like, you’re really lucky and you should hold onto them.”

10. Make sure that they make you happy, and that you do the same for them.