#*unduly so? absolutely not*

[jewish-sideblog]

The US House: Hey we’re worried that China might be unduly influencing Americans and that this might lead to misinformed or even disinformed Americans attempting to unduly influence federal law on behalf of an adversarial government

TikTok: How dare you accuse us of such a thing. In response to these allegations we’re going to mislead and mobilize our users to disrupt or prevent the US federal law you’re looking at from being passed

The US House: Hmm. See. This is actually the exact thing we were worried about. So we’re gonna go ahead and pass that law now

Tiktokers: Aha! We knew the Jews controlled the government! This is about Palestine isn’t it! We caught those dirty Zionists in the act and we are absolutely not making any logical leaps! No mental gymnastics here! This is the Jews’ fault, clear as day!

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles pop-up Graduation challenge.

Along for the Ride

Prompt: Graduation | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Post S2, Graduation Day for the Class of '85, Eddie Munson Doesn't Graduate, Wayne Loves Eddie, Unlikely Duo for the Day, Pre-Steddie, Hanging Out

"Looks good on you."

Steve jumps ever so slightly, and turns to locate the disembodied voice that came out of thin air, scaring the ever-loving shit out of him.

It's just Eddie Munson, lurking behind a fucking tree. Of course.

"Munson," Steve says, by way of greeting, but then has to ask, "What looks good?"

Eddie takes a step forward and flicks the mortarboard on Steve's head, "Your cap."

Steve laughs, and takes it off his head, and smooths his hand over his hair, sure it's sticking up all crazy.

"Yeah, right," Steve says, knowing that hat has done no favors for his hair, and clutches it in his hands, worrying his fingers all along the pointed edges. "You didn't walk? I didn't see you in line."

Eddie toes at the dirt, eyes suddenly downcast, "Yeah, well. It came down to the wire, and I didn't quite get it done. Again."

"Sorry, I didn't know."

Eddie has his gown slung over his arm, and his cap in hand. All the makings of a graduate, but no diploma. That really sucks, and Steve knows how close he came himself to not skating through. This could have just as easily been him, so he has no snarky commentary to offer up. Not today.

"They didn't tell you until today?" Steve asks, because if that's the case, it's absolute bullshit. 

"No, yesterday. After graduation practice. But, you know…"

Steve doesn't know, "You came to the ceremony anyway?"

"Hell no," Eddie laughs, "They said I could walk, get a blank folder. No fucking thanks. Just. My uncle. He had to work today. Too many other dads needed off. And I'm just his nephew, so the plant didn't prioritize his request. You know how it goes," Eddie says, and Steve really doesn't know. His dad has been riding his ass hard, but he was damn well in the bleachers, watching him graduate this afternoon, and nobody could have stopped him. Especially not work.

Eddie keeps talking, "Anyway. Uncle Wayne was unduly proud, so I just let him take some pictures of me out here before his shift. Embarrassing, but whatever. Maybe I'll tell him later. Maybe not. I'm over eighteen, it's not like they're gonna call and tattle if I don't show up next fall. I could get my GED. I could say fuck it. Or, god-fucking-forbid, I could try again next year."

Steve nods. He isn't exactly sure why Eddie Munson is telling him all this, not really, because these are the most words they've ever spoken to one another in a row.

"I'm sorry," Steve says.

"So you've said," Eddie says, but he's teasing, even if Steve still thinks he looks sad. And Steve spent a lot of the last year fucking sad, so he has, like, empathy and shit. 

"There's a graduation party at my house later, if you wanna come," Steve offers, suddenly.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Harrington. I'd rather not experience that kind of humiliation again today. It was bad enough having the principal look over here at me in my cap and gown, like I was a fucking idiot. Which I am. But still."

"I get it," Steve says, "but if you change your mind. Come."

"I won't," Eddie says, "don't wait up."

And it strikes Steve as hilarious, and he laughs, like he hasn't laughed in a long time, "Damn, Munson. Break a guy's heart. I was gonna sit by my bedroom window, awaiting your arrival."

Eddie grins, and then there's a glint in his eye, "What time will this party be over, Harrington?"

Steve just shrugs, he isn't sure. His parents will be there, so it's not exactly gonna be a rager.

"Midnight?" Eddie asks.

Steve nods, because surely it'll be over by midnight.

"Then sit by that window, and I'll pull up and get you. For the afterparty."

And Steve doesn't know why he's nodding, but he is, enthusiastically.

At midnight, Steve is standing at his bedroom window, waiting. 

At ten after, he realizes that Munson had just been fucking with him. Of course. Eddie Munson isn't the idiot here, he is. And he starts to pull his shirt over his head, the one he'd changed four times for no discernible reason, when he sees it. The old van, barreling into his driveway. 

Far too fast and wild.

Steve smiles, climbs out of his window, and shimmies down the side of the house, running towards the van like he's really getting away with something. He could have walked out the front door, and his parents definitely wouldn't have given a shit, if they even noticed.

Yeah, he's in trouble about the college thing, and he has to get a shitty job, but they aren't chaining him to the bed or anything.

He pulls the van door open and there's Eddie Munson, in all black, waiting.

"Wasn't sure you'd come," Eddie says.

"I could say the same thing about you," Steve echoes, sliding into the van seat, and slamming the door behind himself, "You're late."

"Sorry, your highness. Where to?" Eddie asks.

"This was your idea!" Steve yells over the roar of the van peeling out of the driveway, and man, Munson is a bad driver. Maybe the worst. 

But the warm night air is whipping through the open windows, and Eddie's hair is blowing all around, and Steve's feeling air ruffling through his own.

It feels freeing. 

He's with Eddie "The Freak" Munson, so that makes no sense whatsoever. But Steve's not gonna question it. He's gonna have some fun, with whatever this night brings.

He doesn't have any friends, not really, not his own age, anyway. Not anymore. 

Eddie shoves a box of tapes onto his lap, "Pick something."

Steve isn't familiar with most of the bands, but he settles on one he likes, and jams it in.

"Harrington, no, that's Wayne's!" Eddie says, punching the eject button hard and fast.

"You decide then," Steve says with a smile, "I'm just along for the ride."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

[apomaro-mellow]

King and Prince 21

Part 20

Eddie had a fitful sleep that night, tormented by beautiful moans and a body moving against his. Every time he jolted awake, he was struck by the fact that he was alone. He felt like a wreck when the sun rose and wasn’t able to face Steve, who surely knew what he had done. So he hid.

He had his breakfast brought up to his room. He stayed there until he absolutely had to leave for a meeting and even then he went through the halls quietly, just so he could be sure he’d hear Steve if he was coming. When he did hear voices, he panicked and turned to a form Steve hadn’t seen yet, a medium sized black dog. He stood at attention in front of a door like he was keeping guard only for El and Dustin to come around the corner.

They gave him the customary pats on the head before continuing on their way. He slumped as he relaxed, transforming back and rounding the next corner only to run right into Steve. They stopped just short of something and Steve opened his mouth.

He might’ve just made a sound. He might’ve been beginning to say something. Either way, Eddie didn’t stick around long enough to hear it. In a blur of darkness, he turned into a rabbit and scurried off. Too quick for Steve to even think of following. He had to go the long way around to get to his study and despite his speed, he was late. 

Nancy was sitting in front of his desk, but he went to the side where a couch was and draped himself across it with a heavy sigh. He was putting on for dramatics only a little bit.

“Am I going to be able to tell you my report or do we need to deal with your troubles first?”, Nancy asked, cutting straight to the point.

“I watched him last night”, Eddie said, arm covering his eyes. “He was getting fucked by another man.”

Nancy raised a brow. “‘Another man’. As opposed to who? You?”

He went from using his arm to covering his face with both hands. Then he stood up and paced about the room before stopping at the window behind his desk. 

“Is it wrong to want him?”

“He’s attractive”, Nancy allowed herself to say. But that wasn’t what he was asking, she knew. “Can we go back to the part about you watching him have sex with someone. How did that happen?”

Eddie turned to face her fully and sat down in his chair. “I was following him because I was curious of the company he kept. I mean, you were the one all concerned…”

“Uh-huh..”

“And I just happened to…see…”

“And you got out of there immediately, didn’t you?”

Eddie sucked in a breath through his nose and Nancy’s eyes widened. 

“Did he see you?!”

Eddie let out a groan as his head fell to his desk, hair spilling over his shoulders.

“Is that why you were late? You were talking to him about it?”, Nancy asked.

There was a muffled ‘no’ from Eddie before he stood up and paced about for around thirty seconds, then dropped onto the couch again, sitting up properly this time.

“I saw him just before coming here and I..I ran.”

“Wait, I don’t understand, you ran away? From him?”

Eddie nodded, head hanging low between his legs.

"I've never seen you run", Nancy said.

"Well, you didn't see me before all...", he gestured to his whole body and then the opulent room around them. "I used to run from my problems all the time." He still felt like that little foundling sometimes.

"And that prince made you do this?" Nancy had seen the power that resided inside of him. It was hard to believe he was afraid of facing anything.

"I can't very much just tear his throat out if he displeases me", Eddie said, lounging across the couch.

Nancy made a sound in the back of her throat that sounded like ‘you could but everyone knows you wouldn’t.’ Despite his great power, Eddie didn’t care much to throw it around or use it to hurt people unduly. She put her chin in her hand. 

“You will need to talk to him eventually”, she said. “And I would do it today.”

“Wanna put money in how long I can play Keep-Away with myself?”, he smirked.

“He’s just a man. And you are a king”, Nancy said, voice firm. “Now if you’re not going to do that right now, let me get to my report.” She tapped the stack of papers on the desk.

--------------------------

Eddie walked out of his study about an hour later, looking for a way to decompress. He decided on the library. It had been some time since he’d been able to truly curl up with a book alone. His collection was vast enough that there were still books he hadn’t read yet. But there were also well-loved and worn books. Stories that he always put in the same place. He started to float over, already feeling lighter.

He got to the bookcase and then rose up to one of the top shelves, quite a ways up high. So he was caught off guard when he found the book, pulled it off the shelf, and met Steve’s face.

They both shouted out but as Eddie just flinched back slightly, Steve fell away from the shelf completely. Eddie flew across the top, reaching out and grabbing Steve from the air. Eddie held Steve to himself as he slowed them to a stop just an inch above the floor. Then he came down the rest of the way.

He relaxed his hold enough for Steve to pull his head back. It seemed to occur to them at the same time and they jumped away in unison. Eddie was clearing his throat and making all types of compensating noises while Steve fixed his clothing. He was turned halfway from the king, trying not to meet his gaze but unable to stop from looking out of the corner of his eye.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “You wanted to watch me?”

“You wanted me to watch you?”, Eddie shot back.

Steve frowned and then pushed some hair behind his ear. Eddie got the glimpse of a red mark just under his ear. Like someone had sucked on it, hoping to leave a mark and make Steve remember them.

“You won’t even tell me about yourself.”

“I’m sorry”, Eddie said. “I don’t-it’s not exactly a happy story. Humans…they took everything from me. I don’t find it easy to talk about.”

“I don’t need to know the dark details, not unless you want me to know. But I hardly know anything.” He knew some of the things Eddie liked, but he didn’t know him. “I feel like you know so much more about me. You’ve certainly seen more of me.”

Eddie withered under his gaze. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone after you. Or overstayed my welcome.” He could make excuses about being trapped by Steve’s eyes or other lurid things. But that wasn’t fair to Steve in any way, shape, or form.

“Were you just checking up on me? I mean why were you following me? Do you not trust me?” Steve expected to hear that no, the king still didn’t trust him. A part of him wanted to hear… he didn’t even know what he wanted to hear. Just something… something warm.

“I was wondering why you never brought your lovers here”, Eddie said, falling back on the reason he gave Robin.

Steve let out a bark of laughter. “And tell them what? That I’m their enemy? That I’m the same prince they would have hanged? Do you think I could be with anyone here if they truly knew who I was?”

Eddie knew intellectually that he had to be hiding his identity. But he hadn’t taken the time to consider what that meant. What else was Steve hiding about himself? What else was Eddie keeping to himself?

“For crying out loud, I didn’t even know you could fly without being winged.” Steve had definitely braced himself for at least a sprained limb when hands, big and warm, wrapped around him. 

Eddie felt something loosen within him. He wanted to reach out and touch Steve but didn’t feel as though he could without some sort of urgent pretense. While Steve didn’t wince and balk when they touched anymore, it wasn’t exactly welcome either. While they couldn’t quite close the gap physically right now, he could do other things.

“Would you like to take a walk with me?”

Part 22

Taglist

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent  @snakeorsquid  @ignoremyworld  @theclichefortunecookie 

@goodolefashionedloverboi  @just-a-tiny-void  @0body0disphoria0  @cinnamon-mushroomabomination  @samsoble 

@jamieweasley13  @y4r3luv  @xtkxkrzrizir  @un-knownperson  @greekgeek24 

@justdrugsformethanks  @potato-of-the-lord  @notaqueenakhaleesi  @swimmingbirdrunningrock  @queenie-ofthe-void 

@nebulainajar  @lil-gremlin-things  @nicememerino  @robininblue  @hornedqueenofhell 

@anne-bennett-cosplayer  @moomkin77  @here4thetrama  @bookworm0690  @autumncrocusandladybug

@lil-gremlin-things @littlebluejane @puppy-steve

[olderthannetfic]

Maybe I'm just dumb and uneducated, but the publishing world just sounds a bit like a scam. Not in the traditional sense, but more in the sense that everyone for some reason thinks they'll make the break through so you should aim to get a publishing deal because you might end up being the next big star! You'll be the one who's books will lead to having a movie made*, you'll get the merch, the comics, the games, you'll be lauded and remembered for your writing and how YOU changed the publishing world. You just need to be a human machine who managed to write exactly what the publishing chefs at the top want. Please keep individuality to a minimum. In reality you might get a boost in money maybe if your book ever gets deigned to be bought up, how much is the average? 10-20K? Everything after that is just dead air. You will probably never be able to survive on the royalties, your book is most likely gonna end up side by side with books with the exact same premise as yours, because publishing prefers just copy pasting the same things over and over. Maybe you'll be the rare "token" #NotLikeOtherBooks that's there to test the waters for the next big trend, but most likely not, because those spots are for nepotism publications or big social media names. Oh but maybe you'll be the super big social media star who managed to get a huge social media following, so maybe you'll get a publishing deal that way, not because you're a good writer, but because you already got an audience. Oh the writing of this famous person is subpar? Oh who cares, just buy their book, we can sell with their name! While you're at it, do all the advertisement yourself, we don't really want to bother anymore. What do you expect us to do? Actually promote your book? Pfff, do that yourself. Oh you don't have social media? Welp, goodbye!

*from what I've seen studios might buy movie deals but that just means they'll keep the right to making a movie, not that there ever will be a movie, and you obviously lose the tiny nugget of chance that another studio does it.

--

I think you're being unduly pessimistic, not because this stuff isn't true of publishing but because this is how most sexy jobs work.

You become an accountant because the pay is steady. You might also enjoy it, but it's not one of those sexy jobs with a zillion people flinging themselves at the opportunity to be perpetually underpaid. Most arts jobs and a fair number of other over-mythologized ones, however, are in this same category where people have romantic ideas that they'll be the lone success... and they won't be.

Sure, it's sad that the dream of buying a mansion from your book royalties is out of reach, but... lots of life is like this? I don't think it's a big deal.

--

Now, as for the movie deal thing, you've misunderstood that one totally. What studios buy is options. That means they're tying up your movie rights for a few years so nobody else can have them.

The key feature here is that options run out.

If you keep being successful for a long time, you can sell an option on the same work over and over and over. It's a great deal for the author!

The chance that your thing will actually be made and that, if it is made, the adaptation won't be an absolute abomination is low. It's not worth worrying about. (If you want to make movies, go pursue that, not book writing.) But that sweet, sweet option money is great if you can get it.

--

A lot of people like to get huffy about how "good" books don't sell and "bad" books do, but this is short-sighted nonsense.

Like other commercial art, a good marketing campaign can sell an inferior product, but a lot of what makes the difference is a book being appealing or not. Yes, yes, the plebes have bad taste, boo hoo. More people want to buy a romance novel than a very depressing and dense literary one in general. News at 11.

But for every genuinely shitty book with a lot of buzz, there are a number of solid genre fiction works that are obviously fun for the audience for that genre.

Celebrity memoir sells, sure, but the majority of novels aren't by famous people. There are some gimmick books on the market, including, yes, novels by social media stars, but a lot of "bad" books sell because people just actually do want a Wattpad-sounding crap romance with an alphahole dude and a girl who's pretty when she takes her glasses off—or whatever other cliche you can name.

--

Like other products, books benefit from a strong brand. An author who's been writing for years is more of a sure thing. As a reader, one has limited time and energy to vet newbies.

This is sad for us as authors, but think about it as a reader! How much of your free time do you want to spend magnanimously giving a chance to people who are probably wasting your time vs. picking up something you know you'll enjoy?

And also from a reader's perspective, I don't want surprises. Sure, I don't want a book that's so predictable it's boring, but when I pick up a romance novel, I want a happy ending. When I pick up a mystery novel, I want the mystery to get solved. When I'm reading on AO3, I expect your ship tags to be accurate.

It's a great mistake to focus on how ~nobody likes originality~. This is just pretentious art student puffery that ignores how normal human tastes and emotions work. People with this attitude are ill-suited for creative professions.

--

I think that, in general, most publishing pros, whether authors or not, are fairly up front that it's hard to live on royalties and that most authors have day jobs. This isn't new. It's something people have been trying to educate prospective authors on for decades.

I'd blame starry-eyed outsiders for these kinds of misconceptions more than I'd blame the industry.

I do support trying to inform hopefuls about the realities of choosing this as a career though. They need to know they're not going to be making rent money in most markets on writing alone.

--

All of that said, the two big changes that I do see are a couple of things related to publishing companies getting ever more beholden to corporate overlords. The profit margin has always been slim, and this can be an issue when the bean counters are too involved.

First, editorial standards have slipped a lot. 1990s trash fiction did often get at least a little bit of developmental editing from the publisher. 2020s trash fiction might get that from an agent, but often, it's expected that an author shows up with a publication-ready manuscript.

I think the idea that the publisher wanted to sit around with their thumb up their ass workshopping your baby forever was unrealistic even back in the day, but there has been a change and most people acknowledge it. I've also seen way worse basic proofreading in recent books that I don't see in used books from years ago. It's still rare to see many errors because publishers do provide this type of editing, they're good at it, and correctness is far more objective than for developmental editing, but I used to see basically zero typos and malapropisms in big publishers' books, and that is no longer true.

I'm no insider, but from what I hear, the basic issue is that publishers are being squeezed and they just don't have time or budget to do more than cursory editing now compared to some times in the past. (Of course, plenty of greats did come out of the world of pulp fiction, and I'm sure that was edited in ten seconds too, so...)

Second, yes, publishers offer very little in the way of marketing help, book tours, etc. now and expect a lot from authors. Again, I gather they're being squeezed.

It's that latter issue that made me just not bother to pursue traditional publishing. I don't trust them to understand BL-y type aesthetics in most cases. I don't want to write books within the word count that is most profitable in traditional print. And I really, really don't want to be asked to do marketing within specific parameters while not being given access to timely sales data like a normal marketer who works for the publisher or a selfpub author would have.

--

But all in all, people who work in publishing are not the enemy. They like books. If they have to make some commercial decisions over artistic ones or bow to popular tastes you don't like... well, that's life.

[thesiltverses]

Hi, same anon who asked about the “fluff episodes” a few days back. Not that I am going to shove fan fiction down your throat because it would be mortifying if the actual creator read my fics (at least in my opinion), but I’m curious what your opinion on fan fiction about your work in general is? Do you encourage it but what nothing to do with it? Hate it? Love it? Complete indifference? Okay with it as long as it is canon-compliant/okay as long as it ISN’T canon-compliant? And thanks for always being personable here on Tumblr. Lol

I deliberately give fanfic a wide berth these days - due to a combination of not wanting to be overbearing or overly visible and not wanting to be unduly influenced or accidentally stealing anything - but in general I think it's absolutely awesome and even when I don't understand the point of some of it, I'm glad it exists on creative principle.

I have come away with the impression that there's not much TSV fic comparatively (or at least I've seen people pointing it out a few times over the years as a notable absence) but I think that's probably OK? My understanding is that sometimes it gets created as a bit of a "I love your characters as a foundation, but now I'm going to gently prise them out of your hands and do more interesting things with them" situation so I'd be worried if there was too much.

And thank you! It's easy to be personable on tumblr. You don't have a character count and you never have to be spontaneous.

[starwars-art-events]

Art Trade 2: Put Them In Situations/Make Them Cozy

Hello there!

This is an informal, for-fun art trade event, meant for people who enjoy drawing for others. It's a pressure-free and casual trade! No need to create a big masterpiece--just something others would happily enjoy.

The theme this time around is "Put Them In Situations OR Make Them Cozy." You can select to either participate in making art of a character/multiple characters in peril/a sticky situation/comedically painful situation, OR you can choose to give them the comfort you feel they deserve. Both of these require SCENES this time! You will create art of the whole picture. What's happening? Who is it happening to? A snapshot (or a few!) of the scenario!

(More below the cut!)

Types of art welcome:

Drawings (digital or scanned traditional)

Short comics

Short animation

Photo edits

Video edits (music or otherwise)

Music creation

Moodboards/photo collages

Quotes-and-photo collages

Other (contact moderator ASAP)

Dates to adhere to:

Deadline to join: October 1st.

Dates to post: November 4th-5th.

Rules:

Joining requires creating art. To recieve art, you must create art! Simple as that. Many types of art are allowed (see above), and all can be adapted to how you wish to conceive yours.

You don't have to be "great" at any art to join! This is an informal event with no level restrictions. The important thing is that your art absolutely must have effort. For example, a moodboard should be cohesive, and it should contain enough photos that it could be worthy of giving as a gift. Make sure you are satisfied with what you are giving out (to your abilities levels, of course--don't expect the Star Wars Mona Lisa if you aren't to par with DaVinci's skills!).

This is an anonymous event. You will know who they are creating art for, but you will not know who you are recieving from! Until posting dates, please keep your art to yourself (or a trusted non-participating friend). In the words of Gandalf the Grey: Keep it secret; keep it safe.

Art should be created for your giftee based on things/characters/ideas they enjoy. Do a bit of "pseudo-stalking" (not real stalking) of their tags. See what the person enjoys, both in terms of mediums and concepts. If they have clone trooper OC's, base something off those guys! If they are a big Ezra Bridger fan, see what types of AUs they enjoy! If the concept of the Force makes them go wild, include that in your art! If you are at a loss for ideas, send an anon message to the person to see what they are interested in OR contact the moderator.

Please sign up only ONCE. You will recieve art from only ONE artist. The artist may wish to give you more than one piece of art, but it will only be from THAT artist alone. If you wish to make more art for someone else, arrange that on your own time, please!

If you need to drop out, that is okay! Things happen. You are able to drop out at any time. Please contact the moderator ASAP if you need to drop. Please understand that the other artists are putting their own time and effort into their pieces. The artist gifting their time and effort to you is no longer obligated to do so anymore. If you drop out, they are completely allowed to drop, too.

Important note: all skin tones and disabilities MUST be accurately portrayed. No skin tone should be lighter than the actor/character's actual skin colour. Disabilities must be depicted correctly. If not, you will be dropped. This is the personal wish of the moderator, but also just basic decency. Seriously, do your research portraying someone different than you. Do not fall prey to harmful tropes. This hurts others.

Depicting clothing for characters of specific religious/cultural backgrounds MUST be done with accuracy. For example, you must properly helmet Children of the Watch as they are shown in canon. Do not depict them out of armour in public settings. Same goes for Mirialans--make sure they are dressed appropriately, as shown by Luminara Unduli and Barriss Offee. There will be NO "situations" regarding them being forced out of clothing/armour. NO THEMES OF SUCH XENOPHOBIA ARE ALLOWED.

NO NON-CONSENSUAL THEMES ARE PERMITTED.

IF YOU HAVE ANY FURTHER QUESTIONS, PLEASE DM THE MODERATORs. You may do so here, or at @engagemythrusters OR @darlin-djarin.

Thanks, all!

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

season 1 episode 13 thoughts

A SCULLY EPISODE!!!! i was overjoyed and then i felt deep and immeasurable grief as the minutes went by.

she wants to leave her christmas tree up all year <3 she's a good cook <3 her dad calls her starbuck <3

but her dad is being avoidant! he didn't even say i love you when he left!

! dana scully lore reveal ! her dad lowkey sucks!!!

and then he IMMEDIATELY DIED right after! that is sick and twisted. why do they make my girl endure such pain.

the next note i made for the episode was "omg windows you have to crank!" which was a brief moment of levity among the Sorrow. except even the guy doing the said window cranking was kidnapped right after. still, the novelty of it all!

when scully came into work even though her dad had just died... we see mulder call her "dana" for the first time... she was visibly taken aback by this... and mumbled her name back to herself... my heart was melting out of my body

and when i thought i was going to already collapse from the "dana" moment, he tells her she should take some time for herself and then. softly cups her cheek. and strokes it with his thumb. holy fuck i nearly sobbed. it was the softest thing i have ever seen. what the hell man.

he has this instinctive need to touch her. to use his touch to keep her safe or bring her comfort. it will be psychoanalyzed at a later date from me but for now, know i am noticing the motifs.

(also, when he finally left his office, we see that he kept the hat from the alien obsessed guy in episode 10... good to know this is a man who takes souvenirs. take him to the zoo and see what he comes back with)

so then we cutscene to her dad's funeral and we learn that her father was in the navy- perhaps this is why he is unduly harsh. and then we got ANOTHER scene that beat my heart into a pulp: scully turning to her mom and asking "was he proud of me?" her mom waits for a beat and says "he was your father". HEY! THAT'S NOT AN ANSWER!!!!!!!!!

(who wouldn't be proud of scully? i'm taking names. write them down)

when interrogating the death row psychic mulder once again said "i want to believe" and i once again wrote in my episode notes "HE SAID THE LINE!"

interesting that this is an episode where scully believes and mulder doesn't, almost immediately from the beginning of the episode. but the psychic says stuff her dad would say and therefore she gets emotionally invested even though mulder says it's nonsense, and that this guy is setting them a trap because mulder got him put on death row. and when she listens to the psychic's clue and find evidence at an abandoned warehouse, mulder yells at her for putting herself in danger. to which she said:

"i thought you'd be pleased i opened myself to extreme possibilities"

scully i am REACHING through the screen and telling you i'm proud of you in case no one ever did that before

(and MAYBE mulder yelling at her for putting herself in danger because he thinks he needs to protect her WAS deeply satisfying but still. read the room my king)

(also revealed in this scene: mulder is a jimi hendrix fan. i am tucking this knowledge in my pocket and storing it safely)

then the psychic decided to reveal some of her personal memories and we learn she stole a cigarette when she was 14 and she thought it was disgusting but she wanting to do something they would disapprove of. and she was so scared but so excited. are you kidding me? are you absolutely kidding me. the need to rebel from an assigned role in which she feels she MUST be perfect has haunted her from a young age, and when she finally did something her parents really disprove of- joined the FBI instead of working as a doctor- she's met with rejection. so now we know she's had this terrible need to do what pleases those she loves and to break that is a rush from its inherent moral Wrongness. the isolation of being the Good Child who does what She's Told vs. the isolation of being the Less Good Child who loses their parent's approval. that terrible ache of knowing you once pleased them and now you don't. the conditional nature of affection. ohhhhh good lord.

later mulder gets shot and scully thinks the psychic lured him into a trap which leads to her screaming at him (like SERIOUSLY screaming) that if mulder dies, she'll kill the psychic herself. now this was especially crazy because we have only at this point seen her yell once before which was in episode 8, but this was 10x that intensity. also wild for revealing that she will kill anyone who hurts mulder. once again i say holy FUCK.

mulder is wheeled in to the hospital and still telling her not to believe him, says that he's luring her into another trap. at this point i was yelling "TELL MULDER HE KNEW ABOUT YOUR DAD!" but she was too deep in the grief to bring it up

(throughout the entire episode she is hallucinating her dad in places he isn't, which is arguably far more impactful than just seeing her cry)

when the psychic reveals the location of the murderer and they go to check it out, scully straight up shoots the suspect. she is NOT playing around, y'all. i think this is the first time we see her shoot someone, which is already a lot to unpack. but then she doesn't follow the killer because the psychic had warned her against it and in this way he saves her life.

then she says thank you to the psychic, who says "come to my execution and i'll give your father's message to you" and she DOESN'T GO. mulder asks her why, because now he seems to think that psychic dude really WAS telling the truth, and she no longer does:

"why can't you believe?" "because i'm scared"

she's scared!! she's scared to believe. she's scared to know what is out there and she seemed scared to know what her father had to say. isn't there enough uncertainty in this world ruled by facts and science? what could the possibilities be like beyond that? why believe in what you cannot control? she says she knew what he would say because "he's my father". is that enough for her? or was she too frightened to hear that he wasn't proud of her?

overall i've said "holy fuck" like a LOT during this recap and i truly feel that those are the only words i have for the situation. getting to see more scully lore was EXACTLY what i was hoping for and i'm so pleased but also so so so sad. like she keeps her christmas tree up and she's a good cook and she has this terrible need for her father's approval that he won't give and then he goes and dies. i need about 10 beach episodes to make up for the sadness here. chris carter i'm in ur walls.

[drdemonprince]

Just wanted to share another experience of hyper empathy side but more from personal life. I live in a household of 4 people (counting me) who have audhd, anxiety, depression, ptsd and hyperempathy towards each other. When I tell you, it's literal HELL sometimes trying to handle any crisis or mental breakdown happening because sometimes we get stuck in a loop of hyperempathy if we don't control it well enough. And we absolutely have to control it very well to survive and support each other, especially through our complex ptsd and poverty. There's many times when I wish I could just nOT have hyperempathy so I could just help my family the most effectively and wish others wouldn't have it too, whenever I get into s*icidal states etc. It's hard but we're making progress thanks to constant open communication.

Thank you for sharing this anon! It may sound paradoxical, but i tend to experience intense distress when someone I'm very close to and living with is distressed. Since I cannot feel other people's feelings but I also experience overwhelming attachment insecurity, I tend to attempt to maintain closeness with partners and such by becoming incredibly codependent with them, scanning their every behavior for signs of unhappiness with me, and bending over backward to anticipate their needs. It can make them feel emotionally surveiled and manipulated into putting on a positive or neutral face at all times, if I don't watch myself for it, and it also means that when someone I live with feels genuinely unhappy, I can have meltdowns about it and make everything worse. i've learned to keep this tendency far more in check in the last couple of years and with the right partners/living mates I can communicate about my insecurities and ask up-front questions about what they are actually feeling rather than projecting worst-case scenarios of my own, and I've practiced taking a distance when another person is in a distressed state so I can gather my thoughts, process my own reactions without burdening them with them, and then take action that helps.

but it is hard and i hate it!! So i can relate a bit to what you have described, though it doesn't tend to happen so acutely with friends unless I specifically think they are unhappy *with me*, in which case it can still be a bit of a shit show internally. But, as many commenters so far have observed, feeling guilty and shitty and wanting to make someone feel better does not help matters at all, and can often worsen it. What helps is controlling my reactions a bit so that I have not unduly centered myself, and then taking the action that I know will actually help (or figuring out what will).

[anambermusicbox]

Excerpt from 2024 人物 interview, found here:

For example, [while redoing the album] Qian Lei "forced" him to write a song. Qian Lei thought, this new album was extremely significant to him, so there should be a song Zhou Shen wrote himself. What's more, others have criticized him for not being able to compose. But Qian Lei knows he can---and quite well too. "It's not possible someone with strong emotions and a sensitive heart to not be able to write a good melody, it's completely not possible." Usually, Zhou Shen will hum out a melody and record it with his phone---sound engineer Xu Wei has listened to them and thought the melody lines were really good, and could absolutely be straightened out into an original song. But Zhou Shen always felt it wasn't good enough, and even said, to compose beside such a skilled composer like Lei-ge, it would be like an elementary schooler insisting on reciting their composition in front of a doctorate holder---so imprudent. His friends all know his personality---for a "master in self-deprication," being unduly humble was a daily occurrence. His old friend of ten years, lyricist 沃特艾文儿 said: "Not just composing---when I first met him, he even thought his singing was bad. It was so upsetting to me. I'm very relieved that he at least recognizes his singing ability now." Qian Lei has also listened to Zhou Shen's compositions before, and told him, isn't this pretty good? Zhou Shen said, don't mess with me. Qian Lei said, I'm serious, I'm not joking, it's quite good. Zhou Shen said, bye bye. Qian Lei said, bye bye yourself. Thus, when working on the new album, he would use every means possible to force him to write a song. One moment he would "hold a hammer behind him and get him to hurry up and write," the next moment he would set his mind at ease, saying "you don't have to overthink it, gradually the more you write the easier it will be. I'm here, so don't worry." This song was written at Qian Lei's home---once the first step of writing was taken, the rest went smoothly. Musically, Zhou Shen already had things in mind, and a few hours later, the main melody was basically set. Zhou Shen also participated a lot in writing the lyrics. He really liked the line "I can catch the flowers floating in the wind; I don't care whether I fall into the galaxy or into the mud." But "no matter how I sang it, it felt a little off, like it was missing something." He hummed it and hummed it, and out of nowhere added a soft, low, even a little "rude", "嘿，少管我," and "suddenly it came to life." Before, Zhou Shen had always wanted to write a song called "少管我." In his earlier years, he had randomly used these words in replies to fans, and in an interview where he talked about how his fans were never satisfied no matter what he changed his profile picture to, he ended up jokingly shouting "少管我, " and it then went viral. After that, Zhou Shen thought, as a singer, if one day I could turn "少管我" into a song, how interesting would that be. These past few years, he found a lot of people to compose its melody, but he always felt the melodies weren't quite what he wanted. The album that was cancelled also had a song in it named "少管我," but he still felt it wasn't quite right. Until now, it came to him like a "gift" from above. The first impression many people get from these three words is more or less rigid, sharp, harsh, stubborn, and capricious. But to Zhou Shen, a rebellious attitude is easy but truly knowing yourself is a long journey. "It's not necessarily about rebelling against the whole world, but you have to clearly know what version of yourself you want to be, and only then can you become yourself."

The day of the interview at an art park in Tongzhou, Beijing, the sky darkened a little. Zhou Shen took out his cell phone and played the unmixed recording of "少管我." The melody was light, "like travelling, very free." He shook his head to beat, and listened to the song he had listened to countless times one more time. "When I was writing this song and its lyrics, I didn't have "少管我" in mind, but in the end it became the "少管我" that I wanted." Moments like these, sparks flying, you think, "that’s right"---that's the biggest joy in making an album.

[gffa]

ANYWAY THIS COMIC WAS SO GOOD FOR THIS MOMENT ALONE The premise is that Cere and Cordova are on a mission to a planet that’s joining the Republic, but one region of the planet is holding out, and the reasons why and Cere’s involvement in the whole thing turn out to be an absolute shitshow that the Republic has to come rescue them from, and it’s at Cere’s most desperate, worst moment that this happens. MACE WINDU, LUMINARA UNDULI, AND ODU APPEARING TO RESCUE THEM, THE LIGHT LITERALLY SHINING OVER THEIR SHOULDERS AND HALOING THEIR HEADS. I FEEL U, CERE, I TOO LOOK AT MACE WINDU THE SAME EXACT WAY. Also, Mace calling her “Luminara” with no other titles, new headcanon unlocked: MACE AND LUMINARA ARE FRIENDS NOW, NO TAKEBACKS, IT’S CANON

[jedimasterbailey]

I think I mentioned in an ask to you once that Luminara’s name essentially means "AN inordinate amount of light", but I realized I don't think I ever shared the finale of my investigation into her name.

So, to review:

Unduli = Unduly

Unduly: To an unwarranted degree; inordinately

But after that I had not idea what her first name meant other than it's obvious connection to the word "Luminous".

Then I realized, maybe her name is like the word helicopter. Instead of heli and copter, helicopters root words are helico and pter! (I am normal, I promise) So then we break her name into Lumin and Ara

Lumin: A word derived from the Latin lumen, meaning "light" or "glow"

Ara: Ara is a name that comes from Arabic and Persian, and means "opinions or "adorning". It is also the name of a constellation, also called "The Altar" from its connections to the latin word for altar.

So there's that I guess. I promise I am normal I just like looking at root words way too much

Oh yes I do remember this ask and I know I answered it a few years back! I’m sure it’s somewhere deep in the Luminara tag but yes I absolutely adore Luminara’s name, it’s more beautiful than I can put words to and she will forever and always deserve more love and appreciation 🥰💚

[jedi-enthusiast]

for choose violence ask game: questions 3, 12, 18, and 22 please! thanks :))

Choose Violence Ask Game

Obligatory Disclaimer: These are just my personal opinions, feel free to disagree but if you're gonna be hateful, rude, or anti-Jedi then just block me and move on instead of posting your bullshit on my page. Like what you like, hate what you hate, but leave me out of it.

Here we go!

3 - Screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on Tumblr...

The worst take I've seen on Tumblr was someone saying that Anakin murdering an entire village of Tuskens---including literal fucking children---was an "understandable reaction" to his mother's death and also that "the average person would've reacted the same way."

Like...speak for your-fucking-self. I would not become a mass murderer and murder a bunch of children if my mother died, actually, and if you would then please stay far fucking away from me.

12 - The unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them...

I wouldn't say she's exactly unpopular, but she does get a lot of hate from certain parts of the fandom and I don't think she's nearly as popular as she should be---Luminara Unduli!

First of all, Luminara has the coolest character design. Argue with a wall, I think it's the best. Second, she's very elegant and graceful in like everything she does---she just screams ethereal and I love her for it! Even her fight scenes are that amazing! She's also willing to admit when she's wrong and do better, which is something that a lot of people ignore---but I think it's a very admirable trait and it just makes me like her more!

And some people might argue with me on this, but I honestly think she was an amazing master to Barriss. It's shown that she really cares about her, and she obviously encourages Barriss a lot---she's honestly the sort of person that I would have wanted as a teacher.

I just think that more people need to appreciate her.

18 - It's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

Everyone always talks about Obi-Wan looking hot when he's getting the shit beat out of him, BUT WHAT ABOUT HOW FINE THIS MAN LOOKS WHEN HE'S THE ONE BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF HIS OPPONENTS??? HUH???

“The piece of hair that falls into his face when he gets the shit beat out of him this”

“The piece of hair that falls into his face when he gets the shit beat out of him that”

WHAT ABOUT THE WAY HE BARES HIS TEETH WHEN HE FIGHTS??? WHAT ABOUT HIS SNARL???

22 - Your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores...

The fact that Obi-Wan canonically beats the shit out of Jango.

Like, Jango has to use all of his fancy toys and missiles and shit, and is wearing indestructible armor, just to be able to fight Obi-Wan who 1. Is wearing 0 armor and 2. Is basically fighting hand-to-hand for most of the battle, he doesn’t even really use the Force on him.

So basically what I’m saying is Obi-Wan should really be winning a lot more hand-to-hand spars in fanfics than he does.

[milo-knight]

Wolf 359 Role Swap AU Ideas

(By me... someone who's only finished half the podcast so far)

Officer Minkowski : Communications

+ A no-nonsense woman who has the Pryce and Carter manual memorized, Officer Minkowski spends her days tirelessly combing the known universe for even a hint of a signal from alien life. Unfortunately for her though her superior, Commander Eiffel, is unduly incompetent- causing her to spend just as much time (if not more) resolving the issues he causes as she does actually searching for signals.

"Officer Minkowski, reporting for duty."

Commander Eiffel : Navigation / Commander

+ The assumedly inept, lazy, and overly unserious leader of the USS Hephaestus- Commander Eiffel treats the remote space outpost as his personal playground. Whether he's recording his daily 'Captain's Logs' documenting absolutely nothing but his own idiotic philosophical musings or merely pestering Officer Minkowski to 'get this thing to pick up the top ten hits of *this* century' Commander Eiffel manages to annoy pretty much everyone onboard the USS Hephaestus near hourly. The one compliment Office Minkowski can give him is that he's good in an emergency. Then again... his lack of skill (or perhaps simply his laziness) in his day to day tasks has been the leading cause of 99.9% of the ship's emergencies.

"Hello dear listeners, and welcome to today's Captain's Log."

Dr. Lovelace : Science Officer

+ Unwilling to talk much to anyone, Dr. Lovelace spends most of her time in her laboratory doing "research". What this research is? Unclear. But it keeps her busy. And keeps her angry. She acts like she hates it- but if she hates it so much- why join the crew in the first place? Odd... But she's good at her job. Scary good. Even if she can be a bit brash. More 'pull off the bandaid quick' than 'take a deep breath and count to three' in her methods. She's an asset nonetheless, taking to this mission like a duck to water... almost as if this isn't her first rodeo...

"Don't interrupt me when I'm doing these tests otherwise I might just move from petri dishes straight to the human trial phase. Got it? Oh god, why are you looking at me like that? I was just joking!"

Cutter : Autopilot / Artificial Intelligence

+ The overly cheery, overly biting, and overly analytical auto pilot of the USS Hephaestus. He controls just about everything. The lights, the engine, the temperature, the access to water, the air. What doesn't he control? Now that's the million dollar question. Good thing his programming prevents him from doing anything that could jeopardize the safety of the crew. Not that he'd ever purposefully put the crew in danger... no... of course not. He's everyone's friend of course. Right?

"Officer Minkowski, you look... troubled. Should I turn up the heat in your quarters? I hear intense heat is an excellent way to destress. Really helps just melt all your worries away. Right?"

(Former) Commander Hilbert : Former Leader of USS Hephaestus Mission

+ Dead. Or... not? When Commander Hilbert arrives everything seems to go topsy turvy. Last anyone knew of him he was in a tiny little spaceship blasting off to Earth. And now he's here. Cold. Gloomy. Russian. He doesn't seem inclined to partake in any chit chat, simply wandering the ship while he waits for his ship to be repaired. Honestly, he acts like he's still Commander. Why do they even listen to him again? Oh yeah... the virus...

"Do not talk to me. Focus on your work. My ship must be repaired. Ms. Hera is expecting me back, I assure you."

Ms. Hera : Leader of Goddard Futuristics

+ Bubbly. Sassy. Strangely argumentative in a way most CEOs of major corporations would try not be (at least publicly). She's polite only when she has to be. And she's kind only when it suits her. While Cutter has full control of the station, she has full control of Cutter. And everything honestly. Thankfully she and Commander Eiffel seem to be rather friendly. So that means she has to be on their side. She has to.

"Officer Minkowski if you ever take that tone with me again- just- don't you start that with me."

[pandora15]

okay i'm gonna rant a lot (like. a LOT) about the ahsoka series and most of it is like. pretty critical, so please skip if you love the series! (you're valid and there are things I did like about the show i'm just. frustrated and tired i guess)

i think i just really miss animated ahsoka and like. ahsoka having actual flaws y'know? and like being an actual character that I can relate to.

it bothers me SO much that she like. has no reverence or even respect for all the jedi who mentored her, to the point that she won't even mention them? instead she mentions anakin, who yes had a major role in her training, obviously, but he's also the source of a lot of her trauma. HE'S the one who stormed the temple and killed jedi. he's the one who spent years afterwards hunting down the rest and killing them — the same people who took ahsoka in when she was a child and raised her.

literally, anakin is the one who tried to kill HER in rebels.

but it's fine because "he's the only one who stood by her even when no one else would" right? and "he was a good master" because he left recordings for her and taught her to survive and —

like okay.

okay.

anakin and ahsoka's relationship is wonderful and important and I love their dynamic in TCW. seeing anakin be in a position of mentorship was really cool, and ahsoka's personality worked with his PERFECTLY.

but TCW also made it a point to see ahsoka be mentored by other jedi, and that was one of the things I loved most about it. we get to see ahsoka with plo koon, with aayla secura, with luminara unduli, with tera sinube, and it was amazing to see all these different jedi and how they're all wonderful and unique and AMAZING through the lens of ahsoka.

but now it's like. she doesn't even mention any of them? in rebels she did mention a few and I was happy to see that, but in the ahsoka series it's like. only anakin, the rest of the jedi don't even matter to her because "wow anakin was the only one who ever stood by me no one else did anything for me"

also damn i used to LOVE sabine. when I was watching rebels I was so in awe of her because she's so cool and interesting and intelligent and has that creative fun side to her as well? and the fact that tiya sircar is an american with bengali origins (just like me) made me feel like. really good about her and her character.

when natasha liu bordizzo was cast as sabine for ahsoka I was pretty disappointed — not because she wasn't asian because she absolutely is, but because to me, sabine was indian-coded. in rebels, her entire family (except for her father iirc) were all portrayed by indian voice actors. that could not have been a coincidence. it was something that I was grateful to see — that I can see interesting, intriguing characters in animation and in star wars that look like me.

but like, fine. I decided to look past it and try to be excited for the show.

but now I feel like sabine is like. a totally different character who she was in rebels. and I understand that the show tries to write off her change in personality as grief over what had happened to her family, but it just doesn't feel like a logical direction from where she is at the end of rebels to where she is at the beginning of ahsoka. maybe if the show decided to take more time to explain what happened during that time or even gave us some flashbacks to that time, i'd be more accepting of it but it doesn't. it just feels jarring to me.

more than that, sabine literally condemns the home galaxy to whatever thrawn will end up doing in his attempts to bring back the empire because she gave baylan the map. rebels sabine would never have done that. it's as though she completely forgot not only what kanan sacrificed when he died, but also ezra at the end of rebels.

and the fact that we don't see ezra finding out about what sabine did (and we likely never will) is INFURIATING to me. like????? this is such an important thing and he doesn't know about it?

and we think about the fact that sabine doing all of this for ezra is something that's like. so attachment-coded and such a central theme of star wars but then not really facing any consequences for doing that is like. hello????? it almost feels like the show is encouraging unhealthy attachment, which is extremely counter to what star wars and being a jedi is all about.

and to be clear, the concept of a character in their thirties who was previously considered non-force sensitive training to become a jedi but struggling to reach the force is definitely interesting. i feel like if it was done for a different character, I may have been more on board for it. the problem with it being sabine is that I feel like this arc is almost at the expense of the arc she had in rebels and it takes away from the aspects of her personality that I really enjoyed in rebels -- like her art??? her mandalorian identity????

i would've also been okay with her like. becoming someone like chirrut imwe — like being someone who believes in the force and the jedi way, and like seeking internal balance for herself, but her becoming force sensitive "because she trained and trained and really wanted it so badly for literal years" (even though rebels never showed us that she wanted to be a jedi, even when she was literally living with two of them and learned solely to use a lightsaber from kanan).

also no one tell chirrut imwe that he could've become force sensitive all this time, he just wasn't trying hard enough i guess. RIP.

okay another random topic change.

i'm eternally GRATEFUL that we didn't end up seeing ahsoka taking obi-wan's place on mustafar to fight anakin because that would've. i probably would've turned off my tv right then and there. (there was a leak about obi-wan's dead body being shown i'm assuming on mustafar but who knows. and genuinely i think that would've traumatized me. i'm not kidding.) i was so NERVOUS about this happening, and i'm really glad it didn't. here's hoping they don't do it in season 2 or whatever ends up coming next for ahsoka.

(ewan please stay away from the mando-verse shows i'm begging)

that being said, looking back at ahsoka's journey from start to where we are now, I just feel sad. I feel like we hit such a beautiful ending point to her arc at the end of rebels and now this show completely soured it for me. I have no idea how they're going to resolve it from here, and I'm getting this sinking feeling that we're never going to get to a beautiful ending point for her character now because we've gone way too far and there's no way to step it back.

I feel like sabine is like. a completely different character than who she was in rebels. literally, in my head, sabine from rebels is a different person. I think that's the only way I can make sense of this in my head. I can't connect the two together.

anyways, sorry for the long rant, now that it's been almost a week since the finale and I had time to reflect, I'm realizing that I'm not very happy about this series. there are things I did like (ie. ezra, huyang, baylan, shin, the music), but I feel like they really fumbled on the main two characters here and it's really unfortunate.

[cdyssey]

One Bed

Summary: When Barbara and Melissa get to their conference hotel room, they're unduly shocked that there is only one bed. [Post-2.16]

CW: Alcohol, Drunkenness, Emotional Infidelity/Infidelity, Sexual Innuendo/References

AO3

—

It’s a mistake, of course.

A clerical error most likely.

Perfectly reasonable given all the administrative duress that the hotel must be under since it’s hosting PECSA.

When Barbara and Melissa get to their shared room, huffing and puffing and ready to park their tired asses down—having lugged their suitcases all the way down a long hallway that looks like it could have come straight from The Shining—they quickly realize that instead of two queens, there’s only one king-sized bed that’s clearly made for two. 

Barbara reacts as she’s supposed to, as is to be expected of her, a zealous woman of God—scandalized and righteously bewildered, stopping dead in the middle of the doorway, clenching the handle of her makeup bag far too tightly…

(… battling unsolicited images of Melissa’s beautiful hair splayed across a white pillow.)

(And she isn’t wearing a shirt in this vision for some inexplicable reason either, the contours of a black lace bra doing absolutely nothing to contain those creamy, voluptuous—)

“Oh, almighty God in Heaven,” she exhales with shuttered breath, blinking rapidly. Melissa nearly runs into her, the tip of her shoe clipping her heel as she also tries to teeter to an abrupt standstill with all her luggage.

It’s almost funny.

The way that Barbara barely feels the ensuing sting.

“What?” The younger woman grunts as she peers over her shoulder. “Is the room not clean yet or somethin’ because I swear to God, I ain’t carrying all this crap down aga—“

But she stops short, clearly sees the dilemma.

That one bed.

“Ah,” she only says, temporarily rendered speechless, which is a damn near feat for Melissa Schemmenti, who has strong opinions on pretty much everything, from the starting lineup of the Flyers to which Wawa hoagie is the best.

(The Gobbler obviously.)

“We should call downstairs,” Barbara suggests weakly, her throat strangely dry. Maybe it’s just the Allentown weather, and her sinuses are acting up, as they’re wont to do in strange environments.

Because surely, it’s not the prospect of sharing the same bed with her dearest friend in the entire world.

That would be ludicrous to be bothered about. 

Absurd even.

It’s merely a bed, and she’s a grown-ass woman who is perfectly capable of cohabiting a bed with another grown-ass woman.

If it has to come to that.

(She doesn’t think it would be a particularly good idea for it to come to that.)

“See if we can get it changed,” she continues, attempting a smile that stretches across her lips like rusted wire.

“What?” Melissa teases, having regained her composure far more quickly than Barbara. Her chin is nearly touching her shoulder, and that makes the kindergarten teacher feel some kind of way too, as though there’s a tightness coiled just behind her navel. She also blames this on her incredibly sensitive allergies, inwardly lamenting that she forgot to pack her Sudafed. 

“You scared to sleep in the same bed with me? ‘Fraid I have cooties?”

She receives an accompanying smirk and an elbow nudge at this, pinned down by twinkling eyes that remind her of both hearth and home, and Barbara can’t help it; she laughs in spite of herself. 

Because it never really matters in the end. 

Not with Melissa Schemmenti.

Whether she’s irritated about paperwork, stressed after a long few weeks of fearing that her husband has prostate cancer, or experiencing inconvenient sinus symptoms, the younger woman always knows how to tease a smile out of her. She’s a menace and one hell of a saint; she absolutely delights in doing so. 

Barbara used to hate that when she was a younger woman, loathed that there was apparently one person who could sneak past her well-constructed defenses and disarm them all with a sly wink and a shit-eating grin. She used to nag at Melissa all the time for being facetious.

It was utterly inappropriate.

All the jokes and games and innuendos that would make a preacher blush.

They were supposed to be adults. 

But now, nearly three decades down the line, she’s forever grateful to Melissa for continually reminding her of how to play.

“No, of course not,” she insists vigorously. “I just know that you and I would both be more comfortable if we had our own beds. Our backs are more twisted than those kids who won at the end of Footloose.”

“Pssh, that’s the moral you took at the end of Footloose, Barb?” Melissa snorts incredulously, shaking her fiery head. 

“Yes!”

No, it absolutely was not, but she isn’t going to admit to spending an inordinate amount of time admiring Lori Singer’s toned arms. 

As inspiration for her own exercise regiment, naturally. 

“God bless ya,” her friend chortles fondly, “but hell yeah, sure. We can grab our swag bags from the ballroom and swing by the front desk afterwards. And then it’s—“

“—pool time, baby,” Barbara finishes with delicious zeal, unable to contain herself, affecting a theatrical, little shoulder shimmy. 

She’s been looking forward to PECSA for at least a month now, anticipating all the best parts in advance: the long car ride with Melissa and the inevitable hours in the pool with her too, luxuriating in the sauna with Melissa, boozing it up with Melissa, staggering back to the room gloriously drunk at 2AM with Melissa, (wondering why life isn’t always as lovely as this in a tequila-soaked daze).

Waking up to Melissa as the first sight she sees in the morning.

Nursing a nasty hangover.

Thinking it’s an appropriate and welcome punishment for ever daring to be so perfectly happy.

(With Melissa.)

These are the traditions that they’ve threaded for themselves in all these years upon years—their rituals of unbecoming, of leaving school and family chaos and the consummate professionals that they always have to be behind. And, of course, what happens at the conference stays at the conference. That’s their maxim anyway—maybe even their chosen excuse—for the ways they tend to act when they’re alone.

“Well, I was gonna say booze time,” the younger woman grins, “but I guess the two aren’t mutually exclusive the way we do it.”

“No,” Barbara easily returns the smile, affectionately knocking her hip against Melissa’s own. “Not at all.”

—

An hour later, they’re stretched out side-by-side on lounge chairs by the pool—pre-gaming for PECSA-geddon with piña coladas—when Melissa gets a call from the concierge; they’d stopped by the lobby before heading upstairs to change into their swimsuits and made the manager aware of the error, leaving with a promise that he’d look for another room and get back to them as soon as check-in rush was over.

But to no avail.

There are no doubles left in the inn.

“He said they’ll send us a complimentary bottle of champagne for the trouble, though,” the second-grade teacher shrugs as she tosses her phone into her beach bag again. “So that’s a plus. I’mma need copious amounts of alcohol to cope with seein’ my sister’s ugly mug.”

Barbara, who had been stuck on the fact that she is in fact going to have to share a bed with Melissa tonight—(again, not that it discomfits her at all! she’s a grown-ass woman!)—is a little late registering what she just said, but when it hits her, when she remembers that they’d run into Kristin Marie before leaving the vendor ballroom, she sharply recalls the way the two sisters had so viscerally sparred.

As they always do when they encounter each other in the wild—claws out, hackles raised, their words like sharp teeth at the edge of the other’s exposed throat.

Barbara frankly thinks that their estrangement has gone on for too damn long. She’s seen enough of their fights to know that beneath all the name calling and cooking-based insults, they clearly love and miss each other, even if they’re both too stubborn to ever admit it. But all the same, she hadn’t appreciated Kristin Marie’s remarkably low blow about Joseph.

Hell, she may have even said something herself had Melissa not gotten there first.

“About that…” She begins, biting her plump lower lip. It tastes like pineapple. She briefly prays—perhaps inappropriately—that the rum will give her liquid courage. 

Barbara is well-aware that they have an implicit but long-established rule not to bring their personal lives with them to conferences. Last year, for instance, they did an exceptionally fine job of not talking about the fact that the Howards had been in unhappy straits, their marriage strained by Gerald’s recent promotion. His long hours exacted a toll from them; his frequent out-of-town trips caused an abyss that neither of them knew how to functionally bridge.

They didn’t argue necessarily—they just constantly disagreed with each other in their normal tones of voice—but that was somehow the exact same thing and possibly even worse.

(Maybe they were too apathetic to even muster themselves to fight.)

They persevered and made it through that dark time, though.

(Mostly.)

They tentatively reconciled.

(They never directly spoke about the thousands of tensions between them, steamrolling over and through them instead, affecting a normality that neither of them looked like they could wholly feel.)

Of course they did. There was no other option. Divorce was synonymous with quitting, and quitting was in neither of their vocabularies. 

But things had been complicated there for a while.

Life had been.

And this time last year, Melissa didn’t have to ask if something was wrong. Attentive to every microgesture, she just capably knew and didn’t press Barbara about any of it. 

Just kept plying drinks into her open hand.

And Barbara Howard had loved her for that—for her discretion, for her clear sensitivity to the delicate situation, for all her innumerable and wordless acts of care—the drinks, her purposefully inane chatter, the way she would sometimes rub circles into the side of the kindergarten teacher’s wrist when they sat at the bar, and every tall man with a sad smile unfailingly reminded her of Gerald.

She’s too something or another—(Involved? Hypocritical? Christian?)—to ever extend her the same courtesy.

“Don’t,” Melissa warns, sucking on the straw of her drink rather petulantly. “I don’t wanna hear it. I ain’t makin’ up with her.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” she replies patiently. (Well, she is. Eventually. If the two of them keep it up this weekend. Both for Melissa’s sake and her own. She’s not willing to play referee to the Schemmenti sisters’ knock-down-drag-out fights again. She’s been there, done that, and every attempt has unfailingly ended with her needing to imbibe copious amounts of wine for doing so.) “I was just going to ensure that you’re okay—see if you wanted to talk about it.”

It isn’t entirely lost on her that Melissa had said the exact same thing to her just two weeks ago when she’d nearly set the school on fire, distracted and undone by the stress of Gerald’s health scare. It isn’t beyond her grasp of irony that they’d concluded that same conversation on a laughing agreement that neither of them believe in the necessity of advertising their stressors.

But still.

It’s them, and they talk through these things when they’re ready or just on the verge of being so. It’s them, and they both implicitly know when the other needs a little push off the terrifying ledge. In fact, it probably wouldn’t be them if they didn’t—push each other and need to occasionally be pushed, that is—always challenging each other in their relationship in some way or another, more than willing to be what the other lacks. 

Melissa immediately averts her eyes, staring at the water mere feet away from them, how it rhythmically laps against the side of the pool, and Barbara stares at her, intransigent and yet so gentle, knowing it is a form of love to not let the moment go.

“What’s there to talk about?” She eventually shrugs. Her green cover-up slips at the gesture and the magenta strap of her swimsuit briefly becomes visible, her slightly freckled shoulder exposed.

Barbara blinks rapidly, forcing herself to concentrate, briefly unspooled by a sudden desire to kiss the creamy skin there, to sample the anatomy of her all the way down…

She coughs into her free hand, briefly choked.

Damn sinuses.

“Kristin Marie’s a little shit,” Melissa goes on, oblivious, still looking away, now idly swirling the colorful umbrella in her cocktail glass. “End of the story. Same old, same old.”

“A little shit who is also your sister,” Barbara parries back with a knowing smile as her friend just as deliberately scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Which is what makes it so complicated, sweetheart—the people we love know how to wound us far more effectively than any knife.”

“Did ya get that off a Snapple lid, Barb?” Melissa retorts. Melissa jokes. Melissa capably deflects. Always, always, always. It’s one of her less aggressive defenses against unwanted vulnerability, the one she tends to wield most in conversations with Barbara. 

(With other people—outsiders—she’d just bark and perhaps even bite.)

But Barbara solemnly shakes her head, unwilling to let her get away with it, thinking of her best friend’s kindness in these last few weeks—how, ever since the fire, not a day has gone by that she hasn’t made sure that she’s okay. Gerald even told her the other night—as they laid in their sheets after yet another round of celebratory relief sex—that he was glad that she’d finally told Mel. 

Mel.

He called her that because he loves her too.

Not in the same way Barbara does, of course…

… whatever way that happens to be.

That’s too complicated for her to ever fully—or at least, audibly—define.

Messy even.

And she despises mess, especially within the immaculate temple of herself; she scrubs it clean at the altar every Sunday, asking God’s forgiveness for a sin that she can’t even name.

She thrilled at her husband bringing Melissa’s pervasive specter into their shared bed, relieved that she didn’t have to be the one to do so; and yet, her hand splayed against his bare chest, she could not bring herself to interrogate the root cause of her own pleasure.

“I was worried about you,” he went on gently, his warm knuckles skimming her forearm as he held her in the dark, “keeping it all on the inside.”

“It was the only thing I could do,” Barbara returned, perhaps a little too quickly, echoing the same sentiment that she had said to Melissa. She could only pray and not talk about it; she had desperately wanted to talk about it, had almost dared to—several times, in fact—as she and Melissa sat at the same table that she’d later burned, as was their habit, as was their decades long norm. But the words remained lacquered on her tongue; the weight of them rendered her incapable of speech; she was convinced that speaking her fears to Melissa would make them all real.

I’m afraid my husband is sick, she could not bring herself to say.

And if he is—if this is our lived reality—then I am devastated, Melissa.

I am so, so guilty.

Our marriage is not what it once was.

She loves Gerald Howard; she always will—he has been her best friend for thirty-seven beautiful years—but she secretly wonders if their renewed closeness in these last few weeks is just mutual and desperate apology, a last-ditch attempt to mend what has certainly been disrupted between them.

They’ve been distant from each other for a long time now.

And it hasn’t been anyone’s fault, really.

All their polite disagreements aside, Barbara is more than aware that Gerald’s promotion was not the fundamental breaking point in their marriage; it was just the easiest grievance to turn into an excuse, the tangible obstacle that they could both offload their hundreds of insecurities into without delving further into any single one of them. They could blame the promotion because it was there. It kept them from having to confront each other, which was far more complicated than having an impartial something to unite against. This lack of introspection allowed their middling reconciliation to be easier to swallow than it probably should have been, and yet, conversely, it made Gerald’s irregular prostate exam results all that much harder to bear three weeks ago. After the fact, they both became alive to the reality that their marriage has long been broken, and they’ve done everything since then to try and bandage the festering wounds.

The sex has been passionate.

Has been sensational even—(they’re both overachievers)—and yet, strangely controlled, as though both of them are seeking atonement from the other’s satisfaction. Barbara appreciates the intimacy; she deeply fears that it is compensating for something that they can never, ever get back. 

“You’re happier now that you’ve told her, though,” Gerald continued, and his voice was so kind as it wound its way down to her in the quietness of their room, and yet, she could distinguish that his eyes were shrewd… and perhaps even a little sad.

That had scared her a little.

And maybe a whole lot.

What was there to be shrewd (and perhaps a little sad) about when it came to her relationship with Melissa?

What did he know?

Was it something that she didn’t? Was it the unspoken thing that she could not force herself to articulate—the twinges in her gut that she sometimes experienced when she looked at Melissa, the recurring visions of the woman in her underwear, the thrill that she just experienced when he had only said her name? Was Melissa the unnamable sin that she kept committing—over and over again—without ever fully acknowledging that she was doing so?

“Gerald—” She started, the slightest plea in her voice. She curled her manicured fingers into the dividing line of his sternum and wished that he had said something that she could truthfully deny.

But he cut across her; he enveloped her hand with his own and lightly squeezed.

“—I like it when you’re happy, Barb.”

And somehow, in their nearly four decades long marriage, that was the cruelest thing he had ever said to her because of what it indirectly and yet so clearly implied.

She was not happy with him.

She found, even in the rawness and the immediacy of that moment, that she could not wipe her hands free of blood and cleanly refute this assertion either, and so, only one ruinous fact remained.

She and Gerald love each other deeply and so much.

They’re hurting each other all the same.

“Be serious, girlfriend,” she tells Melissa, frowning firmly, her mind full of her husband, her chest aching because of her best friend. “I’m not talking about Snapple lids and you know it. I’m talking about lived experience.”

I’m talking about your sister.

I’m talking about Gerald Howard.

I’m talking about us.

(She always is in some way or another.)

We both know what it’s like to be hurt by loved ones.

And equally, what it means to hurt them back.

Maybe she and Melissa—without ever really realizing it—hurt each other every blessed day, just by inhabiting the same spaces and fooling themselves into believing that they are careful about never crossing any of its dutifully articulated lines.

“And I don’t wanna be serious, Barb,” Melissa huffs, the playful smile slipping sideways from her mouth. “I want to drink my piña colada and inhale so much chlorinated water that I accidentally get high. Is that so much to ask for PECSA weekend?”

The answer, of course, is no—it’s not a demanding request at all, and if Barbara is any sort of friend, she’d drop the conversation right here and right now, and allow them to return to their various attempts at self-medication… but she can't entirely help herself, a little reckless under the influence, freer here in Allentown from the facade which circumscribes her in every other given context.

PECSA Barbara has a lot in common with Sea Barbara.

They’re both almost truthful.

“Perhaps not,” she admits grudgingly, watching as Melissa places her drink down on the table between them and starts to take her cover-up off, clearly about to make a run from her feelings by diving into the pool. This is yet another one of her friend’s go-to diversionary tactics, the one she commonly resorts to when joking about her pain doesn’t work.

(It never really works on Barbara.)

“But you miss her, Melissa, and she’s here,” she continues, now dry-mouthed and overwhelmed at the sight of the younger woman in just her bathing suit: the ample exposure of her cleavage, the powerful silhouette of her thighs, the thin pink fabric that stretches tightly over her belly. “Perhaps God is trying to tell you something.”

Her chest bruises even as she utters the words.

She probably shouldn’t be invoking God when she can’t keep her eyes off of Melissa Schemmenti’s ass.

“And maybe it’s just a coincidence,” her friend says bluntly, suddenly standing up and kicking her sandals off. One nearly flies into the water.

Barbara winces at the tone, knows that she provoked it and hates that she did—(why can’t she ever leave well enough alone?)—which Melissa immediately catches, her green eyes softening, her entire expression, a conciliatory smile rising to her lips. It’s as crooked as the necklace of saints nigh perpetually strung around her neck.

“But, uh, enough chit-chat,” she says, jerking her head towards the pool, her messy ponytail violently swinging from side-to-side. “You comin’, hon?”

Barbara quickly decides that she’s pushed her luck far enough in this conversation and nods emphatically, slowly tugging her own cover up above her head, revealing her sky blue bathing suit underneath. It doesn’t escape her notice that Melissa’s cheeks have slightly reddened at the sight, that her pupils have dilated, that she’s rubbing at the hollow of her throat with three fingers. Indeed, thoroughly aware of all these reactions, she swallows thickly, suddenly self-conscious. She makes a meal out of neatly folding the garment and placing it in her bag, giving both of them time to recompose themselves.

“After you,” she eventually says in a voice that’s not her own.

And so, when Melissa wades into the water, Barbara dutifully follows, drawn siren-like by the fiery undulations of the other’s hair. 

—

Barbara showers first, and Melissa follows. 

Afterwards, of course.

Separately.

That’s probably the one thing that they’ve never shared—well, besides a bed, but even that’s about to change in the course of a few hours.

The entire time that she’s getting dressed, blow-drying her hair, smartening up in a green dress and turquoise blazer, meticulously applying her mascara, she’s thinking about that damn bed. She can’t escape it no matter where she moves in the room. It’s too big. It invades the entire space and all her rational senses. Even as she was showering, rinsing off the sharp stench of the pool, she could not escape the inexorable pull it had on her, the sensual thoughts that it engendered…

Red hair on a pillow.

Lace bras that don’t do their one and only job.

Hands touching hands.

Verdant eyes peering out of the darkness, pulling her inwards into the jungle of the night, a beautiful kaleidoscope of revolving bodies… scarlet curls, plum-colored lips, thighs like creamy taffy, skin like smoky quartz.

She can’t remotely blame any of this on her sinuses, so she rationally concludes that she should stop drinking for the evening—

—a resolution she almost immediately gives up on when a bellhop knocks on the door and delivers the hotel’s apology champagne. 

She pours herself a glass in one of the red solo cups she and Melissa had brought with them for the trip and unslowly drinks it, sitting on the edge of the bed that she and Melissa will eventually share. Some paint-by-the-numbers procedural show is playing on the television. She stares at it without really comprehending it and idly wonders if Melissa is the big spoon or the little spoon.

But then that particular line of thought makes her remember that her best friend has a boyfriend, and her stomach unpleasantly lurches at the thought of Gary the Vending Machine putting his hairy arms around her waist, pulling her in to his chest, working his undeserving fingers beneath the elastic band of her undergarments…

She’s never entirely liked the man.

(Yes, she absolutely pushed Melissa to date him in the first place.)

He’s good, he’s fine, he’s perfectly okay—but those are the same sorts of adjectives that one might apply to a functional kitchen appliance, not a romantic partner. 

She takes another distracted swill of her drink and doesn’t clock the precise moment when Melissa apparently steps out of the en-suite bathroom in a white robe, her vivid hair wrapped in a towel. But when she looks over and apprehends this dizzying sight, Barbara can only stare.

“Forgot my bra in here,” she chuckles, which is precisely the worst thing she can possibly say because Barbara’s eyes immediately roam upwards to the v-shaped divot of the robe, where little is visible except for curving shadows, the tantalizing suggestion of something more. “Kinda need that.”

“Yes,” she hears herself agree in a pathetically small voice, squeezing her plastic cup as Melissa saunters past to her suitcase, which is resting on top of the armchair in the corner of the room. It’s all very hypnotic, the pendulum-like swing of her hips, the graceful coordination of all her white-clothed limbs.

Barbara wonders if this effect is intentional, if Melissa knows exactly what she’s doing to her.

But she doesn’t give the thought too much air lest she accidentally name the animal of an emotion prowling around her gut for what she thinks it might be.

(It’s certainly nothing her fellow brothers and sisters in Christ would sanction, that’s for sure.)

(Happiness, her own husband might call it in the dead of night, in the sanctum of their shared bed.)

Melissa bends down to rummage through her suitcase, which doesn’t help matters much either, and Barbara tugs at her layered necklace, thinks she may have clasped it on a little too tightly.

“Listen, Barb, I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said earlier,”' Melissa starts falteringly, clear reluctance in her low voice. “About Kristin Marie. Y’know, at the pool.”

After Melissa had so firmly put a stop to that conversation, Barbara hadn’t brought it up again, and within minutes, they had returned to their jovial selves again—or, perhaps more specifically, the selves who they were at PECSA—hedonists, only thinking about the next physical pleasure. They laughed. They played. They were both experts at compartmentalizing, well-versed in the art of drowning out the noise with a facsimile of a smile. They dried off, finished their piña coladas, and enthused about the party tonight like it was the only pressing matter in their two-person world.

“Oh, do allow me to apologize for that, Melissa,” she frowns deeply as the other teacher finally straightens up with something in her hands. “I know your sister is a sensitive subject for you, and I… I shouldn’t have brought her up… we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

But Melissa vehemently shakes her head, a few damp curls falling from her towel, and finally turns to face Barbara again, a sad smile crooked at the corner of her mouth, a silky black bra dangling from her fingertips.

One hand still gripping her solo cup, Barbara buries the fingers of the other into her right thigh.

“Good, yeah,” her friend laughs, though the gesture doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She shifts uncomfortably, rolling her weight from foot to foot. “That works for me… but, uh, I also just wanted to say thanks, Barb.”

Barbara can’t pry her gaze away from that damn brassiere; Melissa’s own is darting anywhere but her: the ceiling, the carpeted floor, the empty space just over her shoulder. What a pair the two of them make.

“For what?” She asks in a constricted voice, and the oddness of it must draw the other’s attention because suddenly, they're finally looking at each other in the face again. They’re staring, mutually constituting each other in the wordless interaction.

Seeing and being seen.

It is all that they have ever done.

It is all that they seem to want to do.

“For bein’ there for me,” comes an equally charged reply, freighted by that which neither of them can openly name. “I know you were just trying to help out, and I appreciate that.”

“Always,” Barbara breathes immediately, so glad that there is space between them—some six feet and something even more intangible than that. The elaborate ring on her fourth finger digs into her thigh too. “You’d do the same for me.”

A slight beat; she smiles so widely that it almost hurts.

“You have done the same for me,” she adds passionately. “I don’t know who or where or what I’d ever be without you, Melissa Schemmenti.”

But she does in fact know—maybe they both do. Maybe even her sweet husband does too. Maybe it's the most horribly kept secret in the whole wide world.

“God, you’re such a sap,” Melissa laughs because it's easier than actually engaging, and Barbara allows her the indiscretion this time, even joining along.

“Girl, you’re one to talk!”

“Hey!”

She is more than dimly aware that it’s probably better for them both if they continue to treat their relationship like it’s some huge joke.

Because isn't it, though?

They love each other, and they can never actually say it aloud.

Isn’t that the funniest punchline in God’s almighty world?

They love each other, and they can never act upon this reality in any meaningful way.

They live with this crucial fact every single day and spend so many of their waking hours dangerously straddling the borders that they've so carefully articulated to keep themselves apart.

But, of course, that's only when they're sober.

—

With each math-a-rita that they guzzle at PECSA-geddon, the more liberal with their affection that they get, all of their studious inhibitions subsumed beneath the ministrations of tequila. 

One drink in, they start with little gestures.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Innocuous even.

Forgivable.

Barbara places a guiding hand on the small of Melissa’s back as they weave their way through the throng of nicely dressed people, looking for a table with room enough for two. The younger woman is wearing a leopard-print dress.

And she never wears a dress.

And she thinks about this, much longer and more sinfully than she probably should.

Melissa curls her fingers into Barbara’s wrist when they realize that they’re sitting with the Dawn Nichols, whose school supplies are legendary amongst educators. The second grade teacher gives her a knowing look, the kind that clearly says, Holy shit, there’s an opportunity here. 

We can make something happen.

And Barbara shivers with quiet delight as their ankles accidentally glance beneath the table, as the expression in those green eyes does something to her, unloosing her at her tightly knotted core.

Two drinks into the night, they’ve run into Kristin Marie by this point, and Melissa’s entire body is wound so tightly that Barbara thinks that to touch her is to break her.

But she does it anyway—touches her, that is—a little reckless with her head buzzing so pleasantly, the sermonizing voice who often tells her no locked outside her personal church for the night. She interlinks their arms together as they revolve around the ballroom, and Melissa vents about her younger sister being a total puttana—whatever that means—and a shithead—which is perfectly comprehensible.

She gets a little tired of this after a couple of revelations, though, her feet aching in her heels, and she doubles back on her initial resolve to not interfere with the Schemmenti sisters, suggesting the impossible in the same breath—that they try to make up with each other. 

And she touches Melissa’s arm when she says as much.

She presses her thumb into the crook of her soft elbow.

And when they look at each other—really look at each other—less than two feet between them, an island unto themselves in the middle of this crowded room, Barbara somehow knows that they’re both thinking about their conversation in the hotel room earlier—about the fact that they’re always there for each other, and it's not just a trite thing that either of them have unthinkingly said.

It's the truth.

Trust me, Barbara tries to say with just her eyes. I’m here for you.

If it doesn’t work out, I’ll be there to catch you if you fall.

Fuck you, Melissa all but communicates with her own, though with the deep sigh that comes shortly afterward, she just as immediately intimates, Okay.

Yeah.

Sure.

I believe you.

Trust has been hard won between them in over twenty years of companionship.

(It is a part of the love that they can never fully say.)

Two plus one math-a-ritas in, they’re back at the round table with Dawn Nichols and Kristin Marie—the Schemmenti sisters have finally made up!—and they’re all tipsily laughing about a story that Melissa is telling. Something inappropriate, of course. Something crass. Something about a wild escapade that she’d had when she went to France with a few of her friends for her college graduation trip, where she somehow became very close friends with a young Parisian couple she met at a bar.

“So we go back to their place and I’m thinkin’ that we’re just gonna throw back some shitty European wine,” Melissa carries on, simply exuberant, her cheeks suffused with a rosy glow, “and the guy, God bless him, he was flippin’ hot, but he didn’t have a thought in his head.” 

“Just your type,” Kristin Marie snorts, but the quip doesn’t have any real bite to it anymore. She grins at her older sister lopsidedly, with a reluctant tenderness that makes the striking resemblance between them all the more apparent.

“Yeah,” Melissa acknowledges cheerfully, nodding once, and Barbara is just happy to see her friend so happy, even though she’s not exactly sure where this adventurous story is going. “So his girlfriend’s in the bathroom, and he starts jabberin’ away at me, askin’ if I wanted to take my jacket off." Her eyes twinkling with mischief, she affects a spectacularly bad French accent. “Do you need to use ze restroom? Would you like some… lotion, mon chéri?”

She switches back to her normal voice, snickering at herself.

“Only he didn’t say lotion, y'know."

Dawn Nichols and Kristin Marie must arrive at similar conclusions at the exact same time because the former claps an amused hand over her mouth, while the younger Schemmenti sibling goes, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

“What?” Barbara purses her lips, pouting a little, feeling left out, as she stares between the three women. She’d gotten sidetracked by the leg brushed up against hers beneath the table and perhaps lost the nuance in the conversation as her companions laugh raucously. “What am I missing?”

“It was lube,” Melissa proffers without the slightest modicum of reserve, shrugging her nearest shoulder. “They wanted to fuck me, Barb.”

Barbara can't recover her face fast enough; her mouth falls open where she sits, and she can only blush and suddenly be assaulted with a thousand new images pirouetting through her head—all of which have to do with Melissa and none of which are remotely acceptable to God.

“And did they?” Dawn asks in a hushed voice, her own features delicately feathered with pink, as she leans forward in anticipation of an answer.

“Oh, hell yeah,” her best friend smirks as Kristin Marie guffaws at Barbara, who is now currently choking on air.

Melissa, unshaken and unfazed, takes it in stride, though, rhythmically patting her on the back.

“Oh, shit, ya’ve broken a woman of God,” Kristin Marie snorts, wiping at her eyes.

“Nothing new,” Melissa says charmingly and she leans over to press a kiss against Barbara’s cheek as though to prove a point. 

Barbara cradles her burning face in her hands.

“Lord,” she exhales into her palms, fully incapable of looking at the woman next to her, “I don’t know why I’m even still friends with you.”

Melissa just laughs and laughs, and she continues to massage the spot between her shoulder blades, and she laughs.

Four drinks in, and they’re having a math-a-rita drinking contest with Derek, a bellhop whom they’ve become friendly with over the years. 

Well, Melissa has a drinking contest with him, while Barbara uses the barest sliver of common sense and sobriety that she has left to cajole Dawn Nichols into working with Abbott for at least a year.

“Thank you,” she enthuses, briefly squeezing the other woman’s arm where it rests on the table. “You don’t know how much this will mean for our students.”

“Of course,” Dawn says, warmly observing the drinking game happening a few feet away. Melissa has nearly polished off another glass to Derek’s growing chagrin and Kristin Marie’s violently loud delight. “It’s clear to me that you and your partner are excellent educators; I know you’ll put the resources to good use…”

In her unadulterated surprise at the word used to describe hers and Melissa’s relationship, she nearly forgets to be gracious.  

“Oh, we aren’t—“ She suddenly starts and then stops herself, reevaluating mid-sentence. 

Partner isn’t necessarily a romantic term. Partner simply implies companionship and association with another, inseparability and togetherness. And they have absolutely been those things.

Inseparable.

Together.

A united front.

Partners.

Yes, of course they are and have always been.

“I mean, thank you,” she amends herself politely. “Melissa is truly one of a kind.”

The second grade teacher’s ears must be burning because she apparently hears this and turns back to face them with a radiant smile on her lips, as red as the blush that enlivens her soft cheeks.

“Damn straight I am,” she jests, comfortably resting her chin on Barbara’s shoulder. “What are we talkin’ about again?”

Barbara naturally leans into the touch as Dawn briefly turns away, now engaged by Kristin Marie asking a question about supply packages.

“Oh, nothing, sweetheart,” she muses in a low voice, suddenly feeling herself pulled into the other’s mischief, even wanting to play along; she's simultaneously breathless, intoxicated, by her intimate proximity and the scent of her orange blossom perfume. “Just about how you and I are partners. It’s a rather lofty descriptor for the shenanigans we get up to, isn't it?”

“Yeah, it’d be far easier to just say gay.”

“Melissa Schemmenti!” She nearly chokes. 

Again.

“I kid, I kid! Jesus, Barb! Get a sip of water!”

But there’s not one ounce of water to be found on their table, and so Barbara has to compromise with another hearty swill of margarita.

Tragic.

But she'll cope.

An ungodly amount of alcohol later—(Barbara has lost track of how much either of them have consumed)—they finally stumble into their room around 2AM, supporting one another as best as they can with their altered equilibriums, giggly and utterly euphoric, triumphant in their respective conquests. 

Melissa has outdrunk Derek for the fifth year in a row, and Barbara has secured a contract with Dawn Nichols.

And they are both so drunk and so exhilarated and so unbelievably alive in the moment, that they don’t entirely know how to extricate themselves from each other in the come down from such an exquisite high; they fall into bed—that one, singular bed—in a tangle of loving limbs, still in their dresses, only just capable of kicking their shoes off into the semi-darkness of the room. They didn’t close the curtains all the way before they left for PECSA-geddon, so moonlight intrudes upon the moment, silver and stunningly bright, catching both of them in the simple act of being happy.

Frankly, though, at this current junction of time, as compromised as they are, it’s beyond either of them to fully care. 

“Shit, fuck,” Melissa laughs so hard that she shakes the mattress beneath them. “Your ring’s caught in my hair, Barb.”

“Oh, sorry, girlfriend,” Barbara apologizes and attempts to unravel her fingers from that mass of scarlet waves, but her ring is caught in the wilderness of it, snarled and apprehended. Somehow, in the incredible dysfunction of her mind, she thinks that raising herself above Melissa as she lies vulnerable on the mattress is the best way to set herself free, but all this does is give her a proper aerial view of her prone best friend.

All this does is nearly place her on top of her, their heaving chests inches apart, threatening to collide every so often by the force and desperation of their breathing. Barbara’s slender hands are splayed on either side of Melissa’s head. 

Her face.

She can see every pronounced lineament in the younger woman’s face. Its dramatic height and angular proportions. The complicated expression in her eyes: the profound tenderness of them and something else too. Hunger. Reverence. Melancholy. She can trace the crow’s feet that gather beneath them and at the very edges of them. The redness of her slightly parted lips and the parentheses which enclose them. The slope and the playful upturn of her sharp nose. 

She is beautiful, so unspeakably gorgeous.

Melissa Schemmenti.

Her very best friend.

Her partner.

Maybe even the love of her life, the opportunity who has always eluded her, the what if? just beyond her reach. But, at long last, there is no barrier between them, no insurmountable wall. There is only them and their bodies and the chemistry that electrifies them both whenever they so much as look each other. There is this feeling in her stomach that has been building all day, a tension that she cannot swallow, a queerness that she cannot properly digest. It erects itself in her like a monument, scaffolding its way up the column of her spine.

It will reach her tongue finally.

Those three glorious words.

Fuck me, Melissa. 

(Because I love you is something she still won't be able to say.)

(I love you would make all of this so very real.)

(And precisely none of it can be real; these are the fantasies; these are the fairy tales.)

(The delusions.)

“Ouch,” Melissa murmurs as her hair is pulled. 

By Barbara Howard’s diamond encrusted wedding ring.

It shines in the irradiated light of the moon, glinting harshly, in clear and damning reprimand, and Barbara flinches viscerally, as though stricken. The ring becomes a token again, symbolizing something else besides its own beauty.

Gerald is a good man.

She loves him so much.

She isn’t in love with him, though.

But even still, what gives her the right to ever hurt him?

She straightens up into the air so fast that her head spins, that her stomach lurches, that all the booze she has consumed in the past few hours nearly crests within her and outside of her. She frees her hand; she undoubtedly tugs some more of Melissa's hair. She almost reels backwards into the TV, unable to recapture her balance. She covers her mouth with the hand that always reminds her that she is a married woman, a taken one; the silver band firmly scolds her lips.

“Shit, Barb,” Melissa breathes, abruptly sitting up in the bed, concern in her eyes, such tender and evocative care. “You okay?”

She nods mutely, incapable of trusting herself to speak without expelling all of the accumulated pollution inside of her. Tears form in her eyes and leak over her lower lashes anyway. 

“No, you’re flippin’ not,” her friend readily supplies, standing up herself on rather wobbly feet, but she takes a step towards Barbara anyway, as though to bridge the gap between them, the untenable, omnipresent distance.

And Barbara equally takes a step back, her lower hip hitting the wardrobe that the TV sits upon. 

“Don’t,” she hisses painfully, finally uncovering her mouth.

“Why not?” Melissa challenges, at once defiant and wounded, her brow furrowed over her eyes. The recognition of this makes the kindergarten teacher want to scream. In not hurting Gerald, she’s surely plunging a knife into Melissa. She’s proving her own point from earlier.

Love is a weapon.

It maims and occasionally destroys.

“Because I would kiss you,” she admits, and it feels good to finally say it aloud, to give shape and dimension to these feelings that have seethed inside of her for so long, for so many of the years upon aching years that they've taught at Abbott Elementary side-by-side.

“… and that would make a monster out of me,” she quickly adds because this is also true, and it needs to be said aloud.  

It needs to injure, push away, and deter; she doesn't want to do it; necessity drives her on.

“Oh, yeah?” Comes a reply gentler than it has any right to be. Kind. It Is far less than what she deserves. “And what would that make me then, huh?”

One too.

Complicit. 

Just like me. 

She could say any of these three things but doesn’t; it was clearly a rhetorical question; she can see in Melissa’s darkly lashed eyes that she is willing to accept every wayward epithet if this is the price, if this is the blood sacrifice of their communion.

They can be monsters with each other; they can be so totally in love.

Barbara swallows; thoroughly inebriated though she is, she is not insensible to the magnitude of this offer, the knowledge that all she has to do is say the word and down they’ll descend into hell, hand in monstrous hand.

Alone.

Together.

“I can’t,” she rasps anyway. She swipes angrily at the tears still slipping down her face. She sniffs noisily and loathes herself for it.

“I know,” Melissa returns, her own eyes suddenly overbright. 

But then Barbara Howard leans down and almost does it anyway, gathering the silky hair at the back of Melissa’s neck in her fist, her knuckles softly scraping the skin there. And their noses brush. Their boozy breaths gather in hot pockets in the barest space between them. 

Their lips never touch, though.

Sacrilege remains uncommitted.

“You can’t,” Melissa echoes as a singular tear spirals from the corner of her eye and down the tall plane of her cheek. It collects calmly on the vertex of her chin and remains there.

Barbara brushes it away with her thumb before completely letting go.

“No,” she agrees hoarsely, stepping back for good, and there is a finality to the act that saves and devastates them both.

—

They take turns showering, rinsing the night off them, the copious amounts of booze. Melissa goes first this time, and Barbara follows. 

Afterwards, of course.

Separately.

And when Barbara eventually stumbles back into the bedroom, wearing pajamas that she’s pretty sure are inside out, she sees that Melissa is already in bed, covers pulled up to her face, clearly asleep, lightly snoring.

She’s erected a pillow wall between the two halves of the one bed. 

It’s a smart move.

And an incredibly isolating one.

But smart moves usually are.

Barbara accepts this for what it is and staggers to her side, slipping beneath the sheets as quietly as she can, briefly tossing and turning to get comfortable, which eventually means facing the two feet tall chastity belt, staring at it as her eyelids begin to droop.

Loving it.

Hating it.

Eternally grateful to it.

Disappointed at its necessity, disappointed with herself.

She is so weak in a thousand myriad ways; maybe that, too, is love…

… she doesn’t exactly know what compels her to in the end—(weakness, loneliness, monstrosity, love)—but before she entirely drifts away, she reaches underneath the pillows and is relieved to find a hand waiting for her there.

A concession.

A forgivable compromise.

And so, Barbara allows herself this one pittance too. She intertwines their fingers beneath this latest boundary that divides them, understanding that this—yes, this—is the sole degree of happiness that she can afford without too high of a moral cost.

She falls asleep haunted by the way that the striations of their fingers so perfectly align.

[alexeithegoat]

14!!

HI CY !!! <3 Thanks for sending! 💜💜

14. Favorite book you read this year?

I am going to be completely honest with you, 2023 was not a year for books for me I am afraid. I reread A New Dawn by John Jackson Miller for the nth time however! And a little bit of the Ascendancy books by Timothy Zahn!

As for fanfics however, there are few that stick out to me that I will link now. Fair warning, all but the first one are Sonic (because that Star War divorce is in full swing baby):

Luminara and Barriss by JediMasterBailey

absolutely stunning writing and grasp of characters! I am always in love with Bailey's writing and she never ceases to immerse a reader in deep. This one is incredible and I always find myself going back to it when I need a little cheering up! If you love the wonderful Luminous Lineage, this one is for you! the worldbuilding is insanely good and so is the dialogue (internal and external). Highly recc! (centred on Luminara Unduli and Barriss Offee!!!)

What Was I Made For? by bitter_sweet_coffee

my most recent read and a wonderful one at that! they capture Wave and Espio down to a key and it's so heartfelt that you can really feel the love put into it! shorter than the last one but that doesn't take away from how much I love it. <3 (centred on Wave the Swallow and Espio the Chameleon!)

Learning & Teaching by SAJ_Man07

oh my GOD okay I am not normal about this at all. I did read it completely sleep deprived and emotional but I love this so much. the writing and characterisation is remarkable and they have a good love for the Babylon Rogues!!! This fic is constantly on my mind and I love it sm. I think it's one of those fics that change the way you think fundamentally. absolutely incredible would read again for the nth time <3 (centred on the babylon rogues ((namely storm and wave))

and lastly, Swept Away in Gentle Waters by melting_shards

this is so cute!!! I love it sm and I keep thinking back to it! The way they word and describe things is AAAGH and I am in love! It's expertly written and very light to read, would 100% recommend this! (centred on Kitsunami the Fennec and Miles 'Tails' Prower <3)

thank you sm for the ask and I hope you don't mind my slight derailment from the OG question! I wish I had more to say on that. Maybe 2024 will be my year for books, who knows 🤷‍♂️

end of year ask game!!!