#CONSIGNMENT DONE RIGHT!

[lakesbian]

nobody move. i've just successfully articulated the sentiment that taylor's power turns her into a panopticon because she was living in one & explained her trigger in a way i feel satisfied with for the first time in my life

the concept of the panopticon is not just about surveillance, but about creating an environment where people cannot be sure whether or not they are being surveilled, and thus must constantly act under the assumption that they are. which is exactly what happened to taylor--we see from when we first meet her in the school that she's anticipating attack from every possible direction to avoid it, and the one time she lets her guard down a fraction and assumes she's found a safe spot to hide from abuse, she's targeted with the juice spills. and this is after her trigger event, but it's clear she behaves this way because it was beaten into her over the entire course of the bullying. it's what she describes when she recounts the trigger:

“I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.  But I made a friend, one of the girls who had sometimes joined in on the taunting came to me and apologized.  ...  Her approaching me and befriending me was one of the big reasons I could think the harassment was ending.  I never really let my guard down around her, but she was pretty cool about it. “And for most of November and the two weeks of classes before Christmas break, nothing.  They were leaving me alone.  I was able to relax.” I sighed, “That ended the day I came back from the winter break. I knew, instinctually, that they were playing me, that they were waiting before they pulled their next stunt, so it had more impact. I didn’t think they’d be so patient about it. I went to my locker, and well, they’d obviously raided the bins from the girls bathrooms or something, because they’d piled used pads and tampons into my locker. Almost filled it.”

the precise moment when she stopped consciously anticipating and preparing to react to abuse--when she relaxed, when she stopped acting as if the lack of danger didn't mean that she couldn't still be hurt at any time--is when she was brutally reminded that she's never safe. she's still in the panopticon. she isn't literally being watched every second, she isn't literally in lifelong danger of having her vulnerabilities exploited, but it feels like she is. she can never ever be sure she's safe.

so she triggers, and she gets a power that turns her into a panopticon, and lets her watch everyone right back. it lets her regain control by turning her into a source of danger that could attack anywhere, from any direction, any time, fully unexpected.

& the reason her power enables her to watch Everyone--not just a single person, or a few people--but Everyone, is that the other major aspect of her trigger is the trauma of facts like this:

“It was pretty obvious that they had done it before the school closed for Christmas, by the smell alone. I bent over to throw up, right there in a crowded hallway, everyone watching. Before I could recover or stop losing my breakfast, someone grabbed me by the hair, hard enough it hurt, and shoved me into the locker.”

"All I could think was that someone had been willing to get their hands that dirty to fuck with me, but of all the students that had seen me get shoved in the locker, nobody was getting a janitor or teacher to let me out."

for months, for years, she was in a community where everyone regularly witnessed her humiliation and abuse, and everyone, dozens and dozens of kids and teachers, either contributed to it or was knowingly, silently complacent. this is what sticks with her: the idea that she is so universally reviled, so deserving of revile, that any crowd of witnesses would, without hesitation, consign her to the filth of the locker.

what else is she supposed to conclude, but that everyone she interacts with is a threat? that she can't drop her guard ever again, because no one will be coming to help her if she does? of course she has to become the panopticon. of course she has to watch everyone, all of the time, if she wants to stop it from happening again. of course she has to live among the teeming lowly and crawling things she has been taught via one firm shove that she is worth less than, and of course she has to use them to watch everyone back. and it would be inaccurate to say that doing this--monitoring everything with her bugs--makes her feel safe. all it does is allow her to remain in a constant state of paranoia and traumatized hyper-vigilance more efficiently.

[naamahdarling]

You know what? You know what I think?

I think that if we lived as we were meant to, in larger intimate ("extended family") groups and with more shared labor and time to do it (UBI NOW) people like me would not feel so useless and burdensome because there would be people around to help and to do what neurodivergent people can't while making valuable space for the neurodivergent to do what they ARE good at.

The way we live right now, all right, the way we live right now forces units of two adults to be able to do EVERYTHING or PAY to have someone come do it for them. I have to do the housework. I have to do it! But I am having to do a million different things and most of them I am not good at. I suck at them.

I wouldn't feel like shit, okay, if I had more than one other person around who was not a child and who could do the things I can't, like do the yard and cook and do repairs and basic maintenance; and someone else to split everything else that I like but is too much for me. It would free me to do what I am good at and enjoy. Cleaning, as in the sink and toilet, the windows, the blinds. Taking out trash. Folding, hanging, and sorting laundry.

But because all the shit I can do often relies on other shit being done first, and I can't do or have trouble doing those things, the shit I can do often can't be done. And even the shit I can do, I can't do ALL of it. So I can't keep up, and things get very bad.

We aren't meant to live like this. We are not meant to live like this.

That thought hurts so much because being able to flee the birth family is integral to survival for so many people. I'm so afraid that living in larger family groups would create more opportunities for, say, queer kids to be isolated, rejected, bullied, and abused. But if we gave people enough money to survive, and stopped considering children the property of their parents with no system in place to help them escape bad situations except a system that is often just as bad, just different.

I'm aware that communes and collectives aren't all that successful and are kind of a joke. I don't mean that. I mean a fundamental shift to multigenerational families where taking in "strays" (which my family did) is also normalized so people escaping abuse into existing households was accepted, with these families centered in maybe a couple of different larger residences so not everyone has to buy and maintain their own fucking washing machine and vacuum cleaner, and so people can benefit from large group meals that yield leftovers, and so child and elder care can also be centralized.

Then disabled people and the neurodivergent and sick and injured people, and pregnant people, and grieving people, would not have to either labor through all those stressors or consign themselves to living off an unlivable pittance or being put under legal guardianship.

I'm not saying anything new. People live like this in other parts of the world and maybe it sucks and I am wrong. But I'm just really mad right now because I can either do laundry or clean the sink but not both, and I really think we could improve society somewhat by making it so I did not have to choose one without sacrificing the other.

[laiiaaa]

Carmen definitely knows how to sew, repair, and obviously find clothes. He loves his vintage denim, he has his staple pieces, he covets his patchwork jacket, and over time he’s learned the skills to take care of those items.

Naturally, that passion extends to you. He’ll get all particular about the laundry and will do it for you, graciously and without asking—separates whites from colors, treats the different fabrics accordingly, folds and hangs and puts it all away, assuring you that it’s just something he felt like doing.

Not a big deal, baby, jus’ wanted to do it for you.

He sews back on lost buttons, gets any stain out of any fabric, knows a guy who knows a guy who tailors clothes like a pro and gets it done for you for dirt cheap. Goes to the thrift shops, consignment stores, and flea markets, and somehow finds fucking fortunes. Forages Facebook Marketplace like his life depends on it. Gets you little trinkets and a few pieces he thinks you’d like. He’s just got an eye for that type of thing, especially when it’s for you.

Saw this and it reminded me of you.

You said you’ve been wanting a jacket like this, right? and you find out he harassed the fucking seller to get it for a decent price??? Demanded pics of the topstitching too to make sure it’s legit???

If I find these in your size, do you want a pair?

Thought you might like this dress, sorry if the measurements are off :( and he’ll hand you the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen??? And you’re just like??? Where did this come from??? And how did you find it???

Was walkin’ by that jewelry shop you like…saw these earrings and thought you’d look pretty in ‘em. (He was planning on going in there all week, but you didn’t need to know that.)

And to him it’s not even about spending money or trying to make big gestures, he just does all those sweet little things as second nature, knowing it’s what his girl deserves <3

[tinytennisskirt]

The Thrash Particle

loosely based on the song 'The Thrash Particle' by modern baseball (don't let the song deter you! It's not a mandatory listen)

summary: art has loved you forever. but even in loving you first, patrick was first to date you. you're now single and still friends with both boys, but art's feelings never really left, even when patrick's did. Art loves you and you're all he wants, but he can't have you.

warnings: drinking, yearning, some fluff, mostly angst, jealousy, tiny hint of puppy!art MWAH

Art couldn’t do it. He couldn’t watch Patrick’s game. Not when his serves used to be dedicated to you. Not when you grinned wide, perfect lips parting for perfect teeth on a perfect day. The sun was setting as Patrick continued to play. The crowd was loud and you were beside him, but he couldn’t do it. Art wondered if he could play sick and pretend he felt better for the party later. 

He didn’t want to leave you there in the stands but the way you cheered for him felt like kicks to the ribs. He usually never had an issue with it, he was over it, past it, beyond it. So you dated Patrick, and that was fine, you were his, and now you were nobody’s and there were no hard feelings. They didn’t exist and maybe that was the issue. Like a ball hits a racket, impact, he remembered sitting back in his dorm at MRTA and watching you kiss him, too high to mind being the third wheel. You kissed Patrick a lot then and it was hard to forget how you did so. Art wished it was him then the same way he still wished it was him in general. 

The problem became Stanford. The distance with Patrick on tour. And it ended mid-summer and apparently, it was mutual but the thing about a mutual breakup is that it didn’t crash and burn into nothing. It was still something and you were still friends and that was fine, on a normal day Art was completely fine with that. You three had always been friends. You just liked Patrick enough to date him and no matter what Art felt, he had to swallow that for the sake of his best friend. There was nothing he could have done back in high school and now you were single, there was still nothing he could do without ruining one friendship or the other. 

“My mom is calling,” Art lied, speaking over the roar of the crowd. Your eyes widened and you nodded, smiling at him too. “I’ll see you back at my dorm?” You shot him a double thumbs up and Art just nodded in return, getting up and leaving, the sun setting behind him, walking toward the night. He took out his phone as if his mom calling was something real and he stuffed it right back into his pocket, sitting at the base of a nearby tree. The dusk was warm and a cool breeze blew his curls around. 

He found himself fidgeting with his watch, twisting it around his wrist, thinking about you and only you. Fuck, the conflict of his feelings. The ones he used to feel so freely. Grade ten, liking you first, knowing you were perfect from the first time he saw you play, spinning in a circle when you won that game, jumping up and down, coming to find him in the stands the second you could. You’d been his friend before that moment. After that, you were everything. And it stayed that way throughout that year. You, Patrick, Art, best friends, always hanging out. Art would flirt, you flirted back but he never knew how genuine it was.

 He wanted to tell you how he felt, but he didn’t want to ruin anything by doing so. So at first, he stuck it out. Shrugged it off, and lived his life knowing he wanted to date you more than anything- pay for your meals and pick you up pretty necklaces from consignment stores and go to movies and have it all. Pretended like he didn’t think about it all the time. He knew it would fuck up your relationship with Patrick if he told you- if he dated you. He would wait it out for the perfect time. But Patrick didn’t extend the same courtesy. It was you and Patrick, over the summer between eleventh and twelfth and it was the first day of school, finding out you were dating. And had been for a month. Because you worked the same goddamn summer job and got to talking more seriously. So serving ice cream between tennis matches turned into something that excluded Art. And it just about crushed him then. 

It did get easier. You and Patrick had him around a lot, assuming that he didn’t mind that you were together. Hands intertwined, Patrick’s hands on your hips, telling Art about the first time you’d… It had ups and downs, he was never truly okay with it. He never truly got rid of the jealous ache in his chest, the ache he had for you, his best friend’s girlfriend. Because he had liked you first, you, young and pretty and spinning. Sparkly lip gloss and rhinestones on your jeans and knit sweaters with cats on them sometimes. The way you only drink tea from November 12th- December 31st because of something your aunt said when you were nine. How you tuck your hair behind your ears when you receive a compliment, how you fidget with your lower lip the same way he does, how you’ve never said no to coffee in all the years he’s known you. He liked you first and he watched you kiss his best friend and it did get easier, but never completely. How could it?

And when you dated it his feelings couldn’t just disappear. That wasn’t him, he couldn’t just turn that off, not when he’d felt this way for so long. So he stopped flirting for what he had control over- sometimes it would slip but you didn’t really seem to mind. And you didn’t seem to bring it up to Patrick and Art wasn’t a homewrecker, so he wouldn’t ruin anything intentionally but some part of him hoped it would end. He hated hoping for that, but what else could he do when Patrick swung around the corner while you two were watching tv and offered to grab you a cup of tea? It was all the hotel room had, but it was November 22nd. You said ‘no thank you’ with that perfect smile, fidgeting with your lower lip. 

And it was a mutual ending and that was the problem. Nothing crashed and burned, it was all still very much existing in the past and you were friends, you were all still friends. And Art still fucking wanted you. It had been worse- the wanting- because you and Art were at Stanford together, and when things were boring, you were in his dorm room laying upside down on his bed talking about everything and nothing and you were close to him. Closer than you’d been allowed when you were with Patrick just for the sake of not coming off the wrong way. You were single and you were beautiful and every sentence spoken in the lamplight of his dorm room on a quiet, intimate Friday night threatened to spill his every secret. But no matter how much he continued to want you, he couldn’t have you. It was wrong to date your best friend’s ex.

Fuck. You were his every thought, all the time. 

He remembered when you were both younger and you’d kissed him on the cheek. Not just a peck either, you’d mushed your face into his cheek, your hand on his other cheek for leverage just because he remembered your birthday. Out of everyone who had forgotten, he remembered and he gave you some stupid gift, a pink tennis ball and you loved it so much because it was the only thing you’d gotten. Even Patrick forgot your fifteenth. It was okay, though. Just made you appreciate him more. And then there was the first time you hugged him, really hugged him, arms around the neck when he won a game. You smelled so sweet. And then there were those casual touches he had never forgotten, too many to count, even now, your hand over his when you spoke or on his knee, or fixing his hair… It never ended. And with you around, it never would. But he wasn’t supposed to feel the way he was feeling for you. It was wrong. 

Art met you back at his dorm. Patrick wasn’t there yet. You’d changed, you were in a pretty black skirt and a pale blue tank top and you looked… too good. You had clipped some of your hair up with little clips Art knew you kept from when you were a kid and you were just so beautiful it hurt to look at you. 

“Okay, so I have shooters and you have vodka and Patrick has mixers.” You worked out the alcohol situation for the party. “Plus I have vodka too, but don’t tell Patrick I’m holding out on him.” You tossed Art the little vodka bottle with enough for two. It was already half-gone and Art gladly drank the rest straight. “No mixer?” 

“No mixer,” he repeated. “How did the rest of Patrick’s game go?” 

“Pretty boring.” You replied. “He keeps trying to pull that one trick shot and fails, so he plays it off. It was just a lot of that for the rest of the game, he looked like he was practicing.” A smile crept up your lips, teasing. “I told him in passing that I would fall in love on the spot if I ever saw that trick in real life and not just on tv and he made it his goal. Back before we were-” you coughed. “But he started trying to master it and hasn’t stopped.” 

“That’s the one with the double fake-out and the back… underhand thing with the twist?” 

“Yeah! That one. Whatever it’s called. He looked dumb doing it, honestly. It involved a lot of twirling to play it off.” You added. Art chuckled, tossing the bottle into the recycling from across the room. “It’s the move from that movie we watched the day we met. You and me. The stupid low-budget tennis underdog movie, you remember?” 

Art laughed, remembering. He didn’t remember much about the day he met you. Not where or even when. but he remembered that movie and the fact he made friends with the girl who sat down with him to watch it on the boxy common room TV because that’s all the stupid VHS would play. Tennis movies. Apparently some MRTA alumnus had directed it. With some movie magic that move that Patrick had been trying to do was born. It probably wasn’t even possible. “I remember. That was the one with the guy whose cat choked on the tennis ball.” 

“Halloween costume idea number one,” you remarked, laughing. It was stupid. Things were always stupid with Art, from the very beginning. “Jesus, the budget was low but they still managed that one shot, that one move.” 

“He’s still trying.” 

“He’s never going to get it.” 

“You hoping that he doesn’t so you don’t have to fall in love with him?” Art asked. Mostly as a joke, but the small silence that came after was uncomfortable. It was only a few seconds. Your eyes met Art’s and you shook your head no, whatever that meant. “I’m sorry.” Even Art couldn’t escape reminding himself and you of things. 

“Why? It’s funny,” your smile broke through the clouds. “I’m confident in him never getting it. So I confidently say I will, in fact, belong to the first person who pulls that move in my sight.” 

“A gamble. What if it’s some old ugly guy?” Art held up his hands like the hands of a monster. Your grin was the most beautiful thing in the fucking world and it was almost heartwrenching to not be able to do something about it. 

You shrugged, just as Patrick knocked on the door. “I’ll just have to be his controversially young girlfriend then. And then marry him and take his money and make my own awful tennis movie.” 

Art smiled, getting the door. He let the conversation slip to something new as Patrick walked in with the mixers. Classic orange soda and for you, your favourite, cherry coke. At least Patrick remembered some things. The three of you talked about the game and you didn’t mention anything about him and his stupid attempts. There were certain things kept between the two of you that almost made up for certain other things.

Around nine, the three of you headed across and just off campus to where the party was taking place. It was a wonder how it hadn’t been shut down yet with the music audible from a street over. You were excited to go and urged the boys to pick up their pace. Art just smiled, trying to, but Patrick was still a little beat from the game earlier, so he wanted to go slow. Art kept pace with you just a few steps ahead. 

“He’s wearing his shirt backward,” you whispered to Art, giggling. 

Art looked behind him, laughing quietly. “Patrick?” 

“Yeah?”

“Your shirt is on backward, bud,” Art chuckled. Patrick looked down and immediately started turning it around. He looked back at you, continuing to giggle. You were so beautiful in the yellow of the streetlights. Art was glad that he wasn’t a bad-decision drunk so he didn’t have to worry too much about anything, taking another swig of the vodka as they neared the house. You snatched the bottle back and copied him, tossing the bottle back to Patrick, who had fixed his shirt now. 

You grabbed Art’s wrist gently, guiding him. You reached back for Patrick’s but he was a bit too far. Your hand then slid down his wrist and into his own hand. He pretended it was nothing, like his heart didn’t skip. “We’ll go around back so we don’t have to pay. One of my girl friends is dating one of the guys throwing the party so they know me. Just come with me. I promise it’s not too bad once you’re in there for a while.” Your fingers went so far as to interlock with Art’s. Art almost pulled his hand away just for the sake of Patrick, but you were only pulling him along, nothing crazy. He smiled, your hand was so soft for a tennis player. He was sure his hands were calloused… “You’re so slowww, come on, come on.” You urged both boys, Art’s hand in your own still, leading them up and around to the doorway. 

You stopped at the door and you pulled Art almost into you when you did. He had to brace his hand out on the doorframe above you to keep from crashing into you. You laughed at him and he just pressed his lips into a straight line. You didn’t even let go of his hand. Seemed the pre-gaming was pretty decent. Art didn’t let go either. Patrick already pushed his way into the party. You just stood at the door, still holding Art’s hand. “I promise it’s better inside.” 

Art laughed, “It’s you who won’t go inside.” 

“Pretty sure it’s you.” You replied, teasing little smile. Pretty. “I’m just. Waiting.” 

“For your friends?” 

He didn’t get an answer. He was only met with your hand slipping out of his as your friends came and grabbed you away, your laughter absorbed by the loud music. You were out of it, it was okay. Art just went to go find Patrick, grabbing the secondary bottle of vodka back from him, taking another swig, no mixer. And Patrick cheered him on. There wasn’t anything wrong with drinking heavily at a party like this. 

You were around, you passed Art a few times, asking if he was okay. You couldn’t hear his response, so you leaned in, asking him to speak a little louder. He told you was okay, noting your handle gently on his upper arm, how good you smelled in this pit of strong perfume and bad cologne mixed with the smell of weed and alcohol. You smiled and your palm grazed his cheek as you went separate ways again, you back to your friends and Art back to find Patrick. 

He couldn’t tell how drunk you were. You seemed about your wits when you found Art again. You were worried about how much he had, asking Patrick how much of the bottle Art consumed but failing to find out truthfully. Art would admit he was maybe just a little bit drunk. Just a little. The lights stretched and he could feel static in his veins but he hadn’t had enough to be drunk drunk. But he was very drunk. 

Art found Patrick, leaning against the wall by the stairs. He was talking to some blonde, Art was too out of it to care. “Do you get jealous watching Y/N talk to other guys?” He asked, filter off. Sober thoughts, drunk words. 

Patrick, also drunk, smiled. “Do I get jealous about the guys Y/N is talking to?” He gestured to the girl he was just talking to. “No, I don’t care. Why, is he ugly?” 

Art laughed, looking the other way. He didn’t see you with any guys, he only saw you with your girl friends. He wasn’t even sure what possessed him to ask the question, but Patrick didn’t care and that was the answer. “I wouldn’t know,” Art said. “Do you still think about her?” 

Patrick shoved Art playfully, “Huh?”

“I’m drunk I don’t know, man,” Art pressed his hand to his head. “I mean I’ve known her forever so it’s weird all around. I think about her.” 

Patrick leaned into Art, their faces close. He grinned at Art. “Yeah? What do you think about?”

“You and her.” He replied, bad grammar. He couldn’t feel much at all other than the buzz that warmed his skin in the already-hot house. “It’s weird seeing her with anyone who isn’t you. I mean, that was just a year and a half ago, right?” 

“Yeah,” he replied. “I think about her in a friend way. I mean, she’s hot but I don’t want her anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.” Patrick was a little less drunk than Art. 

Art groaned, “I don’t even know what I’m asking, I’m-“ he leaned against the wall but the wall was a bit further than he thought. Patrick grabbed his upper arm to save him from crashing into that very wall and the boys just laughed at how drunk Art was. The small, weird conversation would haunt Art later when he was sober. For now, it was just really funny. And Art had more to drink from a random girl who poured some of her Smirnoff right into his mouth and he got a shot from another guy with a bong. He was so far gone. So drunk. He even smoked a little weed just for fun. You passed Art again, grabbing his arm so he wouldn’t walk past without noticing. 

“You are so so drunk,” you said, cupping Art’s face in your hands. He grinned wide, eyes shut, letting you. Your hands were soft and a little cold, which was refreshing. “You’re okay?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He replied, not even opening his eyes. Your thumb grazed over the left side of his cheek. He just hummed, which you couldn’t hear over the music. You were concerned for your friend who was usually the responsible one who drank the least just to make sure Patrick’s dumb ass got home okay. Art was a weed guy, Patrick was the alcohol guy. 

You smiled, hands leaving his face, sliding down both of his arms. “Let’s get some air, okay?” 

“Okay,” He replied with the will of a puppy training to be a good dog. He let you lead him to the back door and you helped him down the stairs with the help of one of the guys smoking on the back step. He was really fucking drunk. The backyard was mostly dark aside from the orangey light on the side of the house. He rubbed his eye as you helped him sit down on the swing bench at the edge of the lawn. It was pretty trippy for him to sit on a moving bench, but he was vaguely aware of your hand on his back and his shoulder.

You were sat on your knees, your feet beneath you and the way you braced him was a little bit hug-like, your one arm around him, hand running slowly up and down his back in a soothing manner. “We did not have enough with us to get this drunk,” you laughed gently. He just smiled. Even under the influence, he was a little scared to say something he’d regret when sober. “You promise you’re okay?” Your voice felt like velvet. He could feel it. It was a weird drunk superpower. 

“I’m okay, just had a lottt of vodka. And other stuff.” He smiled, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to look at you, you were so close that if he did, your faces would be too close. “I feel great.” 

“You don’t look great,” you said, tilting his head to face yours with a simple touch of your finger to the side of his jaw opposite you. He was putty in your hands, you could do whatever you wanted and he would let you. It wasn’t your intention, though he wished it was.  “Is something going on? I want to know. You never drink this much and I know your mom didn’t call earlier. Your stupid ringtone didn’t go off.” You knew this might not be the time to get an intelligent answer, but it might be that. Art’s face was so close to yours he could see every detail and speck of colour in your eyes. Even in the dim. 

“What was the question?” He grinned. You just laughed quietly, biting your lip. He was staring at your lips, he knew that. “I’m sorry…” 

“You have had too much. Way way way too much. I think we should get you home. Or even to my dorm. My dorm is closer.” 

Art tilted his head just a bit, soft smile on his lips. “I was thinking about the movie. The tennis one.” 

“Art…” you hushed, your face still close to Art’s. It was no wonder you dated Patrick, you had the same habit of talking way too close to someone’s face. “What about the movie?” 

“I think Patrick is gonna figure out the move.” He said, no meaning behind it. But somehow the words set up the perfect vision of the day he met you. Sitting on the floor. Only a few years ago but you were so cute then and you were so gorgeous now. 

“Really?” 

“Probably. With his luck.” 

“His luck?” 

Art just shook his head, he barely even understood himself. “Fuck, I think maybe I did drink too much.” 

“Yeah?” You smiled, continuing to try and ground him a little more. You’d signaled to one of the guys to grab you a bottle of water and you handed it to Art when you received it. “Can you sit here while I go grab Patrick?” You even unscrewed the cap from the bottle for him. He nodded and you gently pat his thigh, getting up in your little skirt to go find Patrick. He was glad you weren’t there because how would drunk Art hide his stupid fucking boner? 

You slipped into the house again and Art sat there thinking about you. Had he admitted to something yet? He wondered through the alcohol. Maybe he did and he just didn’t remember it already and maybe he wouldn’t remember it again. He hoped he wouldn’t. He drank the water in small sips, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, shirt sleeves rolled up. He hated that you were off limits. He hated that he wanted you so fucking badly. He hated that in his head he could admit he was probably in love with you. How could he not be? 

Patrick came outside and sat on the swing next to Art. “Y/N is saying goodbye to her friends before we go.” 

“I need a babysitter,” Art chuckled, but the laugh died out. “I’m so fucked.” 

“You’re drunk, that’s what. I don’t know why she’s all worked up about it, she’s drunk too.” 

Patrick still didn’t understand you. Art found that a little funny. She wasn’t worked up, she was worried. And there was more to the story than Patrick could ever know. “It’s fine.” Art managed. 

“How long were you out here?” Patrick asked. 

“Fuck, I have no idea.” 

“Just you?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

Patrick was quiet, but he was smiling. “Uh huh… I know you like her, Art.” 

“I probably love her but it’s all fucked.” Art admit. Patrick’s smile didn’t waver one bit. He already knew it, there wasn’t any denying, he knew Art. And he knew Art loved you. It was easy to love you, your personality, the way you look. “I’m sorry, that is…” 

“No, no, it’s fine. You’re a good guy and it’s hard not to love her. I mean, I never could, not really.” Patrick was also drunk, there was space to be honest. Art just shut his eyes and took another swig of water. “She’s amazing.” 

“She is.” 

“And you’ve loved her forever.” 

“I think so,” Art replied. “Remember watching that tennis movie? The really shitty one? I watched that movie with her before you watched it with her. She watched it with me, then showed it to you.” 

Patrick nodded. He knew. 

And you hopped down the steps and back to the boys, asking if they were ready to go and Art was as ready as he could be. Both boys had confessed to something and now the real stuff was out of the way, you and Patrick tried to help Art walk back to your dorm. The stairs were harder than they looked. And your dorm room was small, but you let Art have the bed. He laid on his side with your trash can next to the bed in case he needed it. You made him drink another cup of water while you changed into your pajamas in the bathroom. Patrick made you a makeshift bed on the floor and you thanked him for everything, bidding him goodnight. Art was too out of it to properly say anything other than ‘goodnight, Pat’.  

Patrick went back to Art’s dorm to sleep for the night. You smiled, looking at Art on top of your purple sheets. He was still laying on his side, fidgeting with his hands. He was feeling just a little less drunk, but still drunk. You put your hands on your hips and he raised his head to look over at you. 

“Are you feeling better?” 

“Yeah,” he replied. 

“Enough to answer my question?” 

“Hm?” Art propped himself up on his elbow as you came to sit on the edge of the bed. You in your pajama shorts and your tank top, no bra. He did what he could not to look. But his focused stayed on you, perfect, concerned. He loved that you cared so much. 

You kept your warm smile on, “Earlier today, the game. You just upped and left and you weren’t being called. And then, maybe I’m reading into it, but you don’t usually drink that much… I just thought maybe something was up.” 

Art heard all of your words this time, noting the way your eyebrows furrowed. “No. Nothing, just two events.” He shrugged. He lied to you, which he hating doing because you were beautiful and he just never wanted to lie to you. But he had to because telling you the truth would be wrong. And would create a wreckage he wasn’t sure he would be able to clean up alone. 

“Art, I love you, but I’m not stupid.” You replied. “What’s wrong?” 

If he had words lined up to say, they were gone when you said what you said. He knew the context, but you did love him, regardless of platonic or not. As much as he wished it was different, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He looked at you and he wanted you more than anything. He was young, but he’d known his future was supposed to be you. He wondered if he belonged in yours the way he knew you belonged in his. He looked at you, met your eyes, his mouth twisting to the side. He looked at you, wondering how it was possible to need you so badly, how Patrick had you and how he never could. It was unspoken. 

His heart ached. He felt it even through the buzz. His heart physically hurt looking at you. And you just looked back, your hand outstretching to take his. “Okay.” You said, smile still there. “You promise that whatever it is, it’s fine?”

The silence hung for another moment. “Yeah.” Art lied, feeling his chest squeeze just a bit. He wanted the feeling to pass again, he wanted this to be easier. He wanted you more than anything. You were all he needed, he knew there was nothing he needed more, he would give anything to be with you the way he wanted. Anything. Everything. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, I promise it’s okay. I was just worried. And I’m here if you want to talk or tell me… anything.” You grinned and Art grinned back, it was all he could do when you squeezed his hand. “I care.” 

“I know.” 

“Good. You should.” You said. “But you should finish your water and go to sleep. I’m scared for your hangover tomorrow.” 

“Me too.” He said, his chest constricting so much he swore he couldn’t breathe. You turned out the lamp, but the purple night light in the corner cast just enough light. Art’s hand was cold without yours. You got into your makeshift bed and said goodnight to him. 

The next few days Art took to himself. Said he was sick, then he said he had practice. He had a game in just a few days so he made himself busy because that night almost broke him. He needed to remember his place. He needed to remember that he couldn’t have you for a reason. Both him and Patrick forgot about their confessions, their understanding, lost to a night of drinking. You missed him, but you and Patrick understood. Saw him once that week in the cafeteria for lunch. 

And then there was that game. You made plans for afterwards, just you and him because Patrick had to get back on the road half-way through the game. He apologized, patting Art on the back before the game. You rolled Art’s sleeves up, folding them over instead of letting him just push them up.  “Good luck.” You said. And you smiled that winning smile. 

The game began and things kicked off pretty strong for Art. He always played better when you were around, it was just how things went. He played well- kicking the other guy’s ass. He could hear you and Patrick cheering, swearing and not meaning to. It was funny. And then he let it get to him after a week of trying to cleanse himself. It was you and Patrick. You and him, it would always be you and him because he never even got the chance and it wasn’t like he could still be jealous. His chest tightened and he missed the ball. And then it happened again and again and he tried to focus on you. Gorgeous, flawed but still perfect. Kind, caring, intuitive. You with your quirks and favourites and the things he loved about you, but he couldn’t say. He tried to save the game, but it was up and down. 

You watched him, not taking your eyes off the game, even when Patrick pat you on the shoulder and said goodbye. You said it, but Patrick, occupied with his phone didn’t notice that you didn’t look at him. You’d said proper goodbyes before anyways, it wasn’t a big deal. You sighed, watching him miss another ball. This was a game that would help him qualify for so much more… his backhand was off and he just seemed like he wasn’t there. There was only so much time left, so much left to play… He had only a few chances to fix this and you were on the edge of your seat over it. You cheered extra loud for him, crossing your fingers he would pull through. You missed him a lot the past week, you were excited to see him, but with everything that seemed wrong, this just went along with it. He had this game in the bag, he’d been practicing all week… 

He could keep the scales balanced but he couldn’t get ahead. He was so plagued by this thought of you, the twistedness of his situation, how completely fucked over he was. You were there and you weren’t his and you couldn’t, wouldn’t be. It was fucked. It was all so fucking stupid? What did you want? Was it always Patrick? Was it ever him? Could it have ever been him? 

He hit the ball back and scored another point and he just needed two more to win but two more to lose and fuck, he was stuck. The ball went back and forth, the rally having you on the edge of your seat, fully submerged in the game, wanting this win for him so badly. He worked so hard and he’d been so down lately, in his own head and he needed this. Another point was scored by Art. He just needed one more to win. The rally continued and it was increasing in intensity by the second to the degree that it was almost violent. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath at such a close game. 

Art glanced over at you, alone where you sat in the crowd, no Patrick in sight. Just you in the glow of the sun. An angel, a good luck charm, someone beautiful. And the ball came flying at Art in a way he hadn’t anticipated. It was as if time slowed down. Art stuck his racket out sideways to anticipate it. He then switched angles, going at it with an upright racket. A double fake out. Time stayed slow, the ball was still in air and Art stepped backward, twisting his arm around him and itself. The racket met the ball and it was propelled with a mix of an underhand and a backhand at the same time. His body followed through with the twist and his opponent, not knowing what the fuck that was, fumbled and missed. 

Everyone stood to cheer for Art, but not you. You stayed seated, looking at him in complete disbelief, eyes wide. He pulled the move. He did the move from the movie. Art just stood on the court, looking at you. His eyes said what he couldn’t. That he loved you. And you knew it. As if you were telepathic, you knew it. It’s why he practiced the whole week. He loved you and he said it through that one stupid move from that one stupid movie. 

You just tilted your head and smiled. Isn't this what you wanted? And that smile of yours turned into a laugh. A gorgeous laugh that he could hear, even in the crowd. His eyes were soft and they were telling. He hadn’t intended to pull that move when he did. But you swore what you swore. In that promise you’d made, there was some truth. Words unsaid were murderous. Ruinous. You just got up and left. 

taglist: @swetearss @lalalandofive @xoxog0ssipg1rl @bayleequits @reallycreativeusername @kaaaiiaaa

[jpitha]

The Long Way

This is an edit of an old one of mine.

"No" Cellmenian's voice rose in pitch. She was trying to hold back the rising tide of panic. "No." Her fur bristled and stood out straight, making her look fluffy. Without knowing why she did it, humans might call it cute. It was not.

The blast had only happened about an hour ago. They were en route from Sol to Parvati, a ferry flight of the Starjumper City of Troy, when three of the four reactors had oversped and exploded. If that wasn't bad enough, they were just about to engage their wormhole generator and link over when it happened. The explosion had caused an overload of power to flow to the wormhole generator, and they mis-linked. THe wormhole generator was sheared in half, with the other half somewhere else in space. Deep in interstellar space, Troy was able to triangulate their location from known pulsars, but that was a small comfort when they calculated how long it would take to cruise to where they could be rescued.

"I'm sorry Celle, It's the only way." Kat said, shrugging. "We're too far from the warp gates; we lost most of the reactors in the blast. Hibernation is the only way to get back. It won't take that long. Maybe a decade."

The humans had explored space for a long time before they found other sapients in the galaxy. Long enough to try out just about every different kind of way they could think of to shrink the distance between stars. Most other sapients think the humans insane for the different ways they made "canned mammal" and flung it into the abyss.

They assumed it was some human thing; a desire to leave their planet by any means necessary. They thought the humans were trying to escape. They were right, but not for the reason they thought. It wasn't escape the humans sought, but exploration. The need to see what was out there with their own eyes. The need to go somewhere new.

Among the more gossiping sapients were whispers that there were still human generation ships, soaring in the interstellar darkness between stars. Ships where whole cities of people grow up, live, love, and die just to be caretakers of their hibernating colonists. Being born, living, loving, creating the next generation, and dying not even knowing that their compatriots back home can now warp between stars in days and (for the truly in a hurry) punch holes in spacetime and link between planets with a wormhole. When asked, the human authorities get quiet and make noises that make it clear that this line of conversation is done.

Only the humans make wormholes, the other sapients shudder at the insanity of it, yet, will still use their systems when they need to be somewhere right away.

"Cellmenian?" It was City of Troy, the ship. "I do not have the printable mass to repair the wormhole generator, and even if I did, the reactor's destruction severely limited my power producing ability. I can thrust towards Parvati, but at this distance, it will be... a while before we get there. I am sorry."

"No!" Cellmenian was screaming now. "You can't consign me to spend however many years it takes for us to get to a place where we can be rescued when I...when I..." She broke down, sobbing. "When I have my family to get home to." She slid down to the deck, sitting rather than passing out, tears streaming from her large eyes. "This was supposed to be a one month trip!" She cried "One month!" Kat couldn't help but notice that the K'laxi cried just like humans did. She didn't mention it though, Celle was going through enough.

Kat sat down next to her friend and said nothing. After a while, she put her arm around the smaller sapient. "I'm sorry Celle." She whispered. "If I could wave a hand and fix it, I would."

They sat in silence together, the gravity of their situation pinning them to the floor.

"What about everyone else?" Celle asked.

"Unfortunately, many of them were caught in the blast." Troy said. "You, Kat, and a few others are all that is left. They are all preparing to enter hibernation as well."

"And you're just okay with this?" Celle's ears and tail were flicking in irritation. "Most of the crew is dead, and you're all being entirely too calm about it."

"Well, for one thing, we've had training." Kat said, gently. "We understand that even though we've been a spacefaring species for a long time, accidents still happen. Any trip we take could be our last, or could take so long that everyone we know is gone by the time we return." Kat sighed. "And for another thing, if we stop, we'll die too, Celle. We will mourn them when we're safe. For now though, we have to put it aside for our own survival."

"A beacon!" Celle stood suddenly, unsteady on her feet. "Why don't we link a beacon to Parvati for help?"

"Our supply of beacons was destroyed in the blast." Troy said. There was a touch of sadness in their voice. "I am making a note to recommend that emergency beacons be placed in other areas of the ship for future revisions."

"So that's it then." Celle said, sitting back down, her eyes welling with tears again. "I spend decades in a box, and when I awake, everyone I know is old or dead."

Kat said nothing, she just sat with Celle.

"Okay." Celle said, with a sniff. "If we're going to go into hibernation, I want to do it now. I want the shortest possible time conscious before I see my... family...again." as she blinked, more tears ran down her cheek.

"Well Troy?" Kat addressed the ship. "Are the hibernation berths printed?"

"Almost, Kat." the ship replied. "Luckily, I had some data from Contact about K'laxi needs in hibernation. You can both hibernate safely for the boost home. You'll climb into the cabinet, close the door, and before you realize what happened, the door will open, and you'll be at Parvati."

"Let's go then. No time like the present."

[dunmeshichilchuck]

For That One Guy on Tumblr, part 3

Chilchuck x !fem !halffoot reader

@dunmeshimeshi @leguink

Approximately 10 minutes later your optimism floated away with your appetite while you stared down at what looked like a lamb chop in abject horror. 

"You've been eating WHAT??!!" 

Laois looked all too enthused. "They're good! I promise! Just try some!" 

Marcille backed him up. "Yeah I know it seems weird but it really is very tasty!"

Almost reflexively, you looked at the other halffoot in the room. Was this some kind of prank they were playing? Were they actually criminals consigned to live down here for the rest of time? Was this...actually safe?

He seemed to somewhat understand your unspoken questions. He nodded and shrugged. "It's what's gotten us to this floor. Otherwise we wouldn't have been able to buy and pack enough food." 

He picked up his fork and took a bite. "Mmmm Senshi this is really good!" 

Everyone else followed suit, and even though you figured they were playing it up for your benefit, it did seem like they were genuinely enjoying it. You watched Chilchuck carefully, and when he didn't seem to be doubling over and dying, and at the insistent prodding of Laois, you tried a tentative bite. 

It was, unfortunately, amazing. Probably the best meat you'd ever had in your life. Once started your hunger took over and you started to scarf down the food. 

Someone grabbed your fork and you glanced up angrily to see Chilchuck looking concerned, along with the rest of the party members. 

"If you eat it that quickly you'll throw it back up, and then it'll just be a net loss." He said brusquely. "Especially with our smaller stomaches resurrection hunger can be difficult to remedy safely." 

You knew THAT, you weren't fucking stupid. Just it'd been so long since you'd had good food, and you were so hungry...

Senshi looked chagrined "aaahhhh I should have thought of that! My apologies young lady, I'll make you some broth you can drink slowly." 

You scowled. "I can handle a little meat! And I'm fucking starving!" 

Chilchuck scowled right back and summarily yanked your plate from you. "Don't be stupid, if your stomach explodes from overeating we'll just have to ressurect you again, and that'd be a waste of time and mana."

You briefly contemplated how difficult it would be to get the plate back, but your knife was in a neat pile with the remnants of your clothes and you were weak from hunger. Seeming to read your mind, Chilchuck firmly placed the plate to the side out of your reach, along with his own. 

You scowled at him angrily, but were distracted by Senshi pushing a delicious smelling bowl into your hands. 

"There you go! Whipped you up just a quick broth. Drink that SLOWLY now, and then you can probably have a bit of meat." 

You took one sip and then chugged the whole bowl, gasping for breath between every few gulps. Your stomach screamed at you insistently. You NEEDED this you HAD to have it. 

A few minutes later you, thankfully, barely, made it outside to vomit up the contents of your stomach into the snow outside instead of all over your clean clothes. 

As you retched into the snow you heard the opening to the sauna pull back and Chilchuck say "you see? This would have been a lot worse if you'd had solid food in you. Come back inside once you're done and we can try again." 

You weakly told him to fuck off, and he just snorted a bit and popped back inside. 

You walked back inside already ready to be on the defensive, you'd just wasted perfectly good food after all. But Senshi just beckoned you over with some more broth and a spoon. "Now take one bite, and then count to 3, and then another bite, and you should be able to keep this down." 

you sat there and slowly, determinedly, got the whole bowl down without losing control or throwing up again. 

Once you finished, Senshi smiled broadly. "Very good! Now lets give it a couple hours and you should be able to drink some more! This was just a quick preparation, but I'll go make you some actual soup that'll still be easy on the stomach!" 

You watched Senshi happily start to cook again in bemusement. 

You sat down next to Chilchuck against the wall and said in a low voice. "Is he....always like that?"

"What, obsessed with cooking? Yeah no he loves it. Laois is the same but with monsters, and then Marcille is weird about magic. Weird magic too." He cast a furtive glance at Marcille, who seemed to be happily occupied in mending some article of clothing. "Izutzumi just kinda hangs out but she doesn't do anything she doesn't want to do." 

You nodded thoughtfully, digesting the information.

"And are they...." You paused, considering how to ask this. "They seem to treat you....well."

Chilchuck scoffed. "Ah times have changed since you were frozen, the union's helped with that. Contracts are hammered out in advance and they have to stick to it no matter what. I get paid in advance, I don't fight, I'm not bait, and I have an equal say in the party. Anything less and I'm out of here."

You nodded again. That was good. That was very good. Having another halffoot to travel with was going to be great. Just one issue....you didn't have a contract with this party. 

[galedekarios]

i was thinking a bit more about the drow twins scene again in relation as to why gale might go along with it if so 'persuaded' by tav.

i've talked about the scene itself already (more than once), and i have seen other people discuss the topic very well, too.

i think i have come around as to why larian has the option there, and why gale might agree to go along with it, despite not only his initial refusal and not wishing to talk or think about it afterwards if tav tries to talk to him about it, but also rejecting every other to open the relationship up outside of this scene.

i have seen people say quite often that gale is toxic, but i honestly think that it leans more the other way around: gale is willing to accept toxicity from his partner to some extent, if it means he'll also be "loved".

one could already extrapolate that from what little we know from mystra's relationship with him, but also from the things he's willing to accept from a player character, including a tav, who, in this scene, can potentially coerce him with a dc 25 persuasion check into a foursome/fivesome without prior discussion.

i think this scene shows where gale is at this point in time, relationship-wise and love-wise. by staying even though he refuses initially, and i think it was intentional (in hindsight) on larian's part.

he endures imo because at least in this scenario with the drow twins, he was included here. asked to participate. he's not strong enough to break up with his partner, if they still extend at least this much to him.

whereas he does break up if tav cheats on him without including him, or he feels the relationship may be subsumed by someone else (i.e. the player engaging romantically with someone other than him, see his reaction to also romantically engaging with any of the other companions).

i do believe he's enduring tav's toxicity here with the mindset of pleasing them. he'll accept this, hopes that they have sated their curiosity now that they are done with their "rutting" as he puts it - and hopefully afterwards the entire affair then can be "confined to the footnotes" of their romance:

Gale: Ahem. I hope you’re not here to ask about our recent, erm, activities. I’d rather those were consigned to the footnotes of our romance, if it’s all the same with you.

i'm sorry if this is incoherent. i'm still trying to order my thoughts about this, but yeah, i just think this is where i land on it.

that even with how badly tav treats him here by springing this onto him, by not giving him time to think and even actively encouraging him not to think about it, he's still acknowledged as their partner. singular. and it's clear this is 'just' a sex thing.

the instances where he breaks up with tav is when tav sleeps with mizora, where he was not included nor acknowledged as their partner, or consulted prior (even as briefly as with the drow twins), or if tav tries to bring someone else into their romance, were he believes he would be lost in the equation of adding another person to what he shares with his partner now.

so here, in this moment, he just does it bc well, his partner told him not to overthink, right.

and he loves them. and he wants to please them. and he might come to enjoy it, just like they said. and it'll keep them happy.

he hopes it won't come up again.

(i should clarify that this is a personal interpretation and one that i’m not comfortable arguing over.)

[vickyvicarious]

There was a certain method in the Count's inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in sequence; the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.

Let's talk about this method.

Dracula opens this conversation by first checking if he could have multiple solicitors, then questioning further whether he could have them for different tasks/locations. Jonathan accedes the legality of all this, but first says it's not usually necessary, then wants more detail when Dracula keeps asking. Dracula explains, but his explanation seems a little contradictory:

"Now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have sought the services of one so far off from London instead of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest might be served save my wish only; and as one of London residence might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?"

He claims he didn't want any local interests to be served over his own in London, but then turns right around and says that local lawyers in various ports would be able to help him there more easily. If he really wants his own interests served first and foremost, Jonathan's suggestion that he could work with one solicitor, who would then work on his behalf with colleagues in other places, seems perfectly reasonable. Of course, if he wants to limit how much of his affairs any one person knows, then dividing his various tasks amongst various people makes sense. It's more unusual or even suspicious, but it's perfectly legal.

(Aside here - part of the reason I think he actually wanted a lawyer who wasn't from London is because he wants as little connection drawn between himself and that lawyer's (or lawyers' plural, going off my theory he might plan to kill Mr. Hawkins later) strange disappearance/death. He wants anyone he meets in London to know nothing about him before his arrival there.)

Dracula's happy to hear this. Then he starts delving into all sorts of specifics, with an attention to detail that impresses Jonathan. He obviously wants to be very careful to be as fully prepared as possible. Only after this is all confirmed (in books, not just by Jonathan's word - perhaps guarding against Jonathan, who knows he is imprisoned, lying to him?), does he ask whether Jonathan has written home. He uses clever wording and an implicit threat to coerce Jonathan to agree to remaining another month and helping him further.

This, just after they have completed all their business. It's extra cruel with that timing. And then as soon as he sees Jonathan is trapped, he presses his advantage with insidious charm, essentially dictating the content of the letters he wants him to write home. He gives Jonathan extremely thin paper, once again a threat without words that his words will be seen, his cooperation assessed further. He proceeds to sit right there the entire time Jonathan is writing, and only after he is done does Dracula begin to write his own letters. This little choice increases the pressure immensely, meaning Jonathan has to write while feeling watched the entire time, then wait in suspense even longer after he has finished. Sure, he says he's just reading a book, but I doubt he's putting all his attention on that. Dracula is essentially taunting him here - all the more so when he leaves the room and the letters unguarded briefly.

Throughout the entire conversation, and the letter-writing that follows, he slowly tightens a net around Jonathan. The first part might raise suspicions about what Dracula plans to get up to, but it also is completely focused on business and very productive. It's also a lot of Jonathan saying yes, you can do that. Yes, it's odd to have multiple solicitors, but you can do that. Yes, if you want, that's allowed, and here's how to avoid any negative consequences. Then he uses the claim of business and duty to impose further on Jonathan. Jonathan is forced again to say yes, you can do that. You can have me stay longer. Yes, I accept, Mr. Hawkins did say I would help you however you needed. I will do that. Then as soon as Jonathan has agreed to that, Dracula ramps up the charm and threat both, and pushes harder with the letter request. He forces Jonathan to once again agree, this time without any words. Yes, I'll do that. I'll do what you want me to.

And then, at the very end, after establishing this pattern of agreement and complicity, after making Jonathan feel completely trapped in so many ways. Then, he starts to test Jonathan. To push him more. He leaves the room, leaves his letters behind. Two of them unopened. What is that if not an invitation to snoop? Jonathan takes the invitation - but he's frustrated in any effort to read inside by Dracula's swift return. Dracula removes any opportunity to learn more about the letters, and moves to leave Jonathan alone to stew in his thoughts... but turns back at the door to deliver a warning.

Don't sleep outside your room. If you do, who knows what would happen to you. He gestures as though he's washing his hands, as if saying I'm not responsible for the result or maybe even I won't save you. Coming right now, after the way the rest of this conversation has gone... it feels a lot like a deliberate taunt. A test. A push, to see if Jonathan will rebel once out of his sight. A trap, perhaps - especially if leaving him with the letters was already a trick, especially if he could tell that Jonathan tried to spy on them.

[companionjones]

We’ll Always Have Cuba

Pairing: Sierra Six/Courtland Gentry x Reader

Fandom: The Gray Man (Netflix)

Summary: After the events of The Gray Man, Claire and Six run off to Cuba because it doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the USA. There, they meet you. You are staying in the same apartment building as them for the summer. Over that summer, Six falls for you.

Warnings: None that I can think of, I skip over the smut

*******

    “You’re staring again.”

    Claire’s voice snapped Six out of the trance he was in as he gazed out the living room window. “Am not,” he childishly defended.

    “Are too.” Claire plopped down on the couch with her newest record folder in her lap. It was currently playing. Claire’s eyes scanned the words of the folder. “Is Y/n home?”

    Six turned away from the window. He glanced at the young girl as he headed for the front door. “Maybe,” he vaguely informed.

    “You’re a stalker!” she called after him as the door shut.

    He was far from that, he thought as he descended the stairs of the five-story apartment building. To be a stalker, one must follow a person places, and Six hadn’t done that in a couple months.

    Yes, he knew that sounded bad, but he was only checking to make sure you hadn’t been sent by the CIA to hurt him or Claire. His mental alarms were set off when you didn’t bat an eye at his code name, which Claire had presented to you as his real name. You just kept the same sweet (and beautiful) smile on your face and thanked them for welcoming you to the building.

    Six tried not to trust you after that. He followed you to stores and to the beach, looking for any sign that you weren’t the kind, gentle, and loving person that Six came to know you to be. He found nothing to contest what his instincts were saying about you. So, Six stopped following you, and consigned to only keeping a close eye on you while you were at the apartment building. Maybe too close an eye for what you warranted.

    “Oh, you’re a life-saver,” you smiled at Six as he started to help you with your bags. “One thing I won’t miss about this place: the five-floor walk-up.”

    He smirked at you. “It’s not so bad when you’ve got someone to talk to. That’s why I’m here.”

    You tried to hide a smile from Six, and that made his heart skip a beat. Because of that, the bags he was carrying seemed light as air.

    “You know, this was my last grocery trip here,” you pointed out as you and Six walked into the apartment you were staying at.

    Six’s brow furrowed when he felt his heart drop slightly. “You’re leaving at the end of next week, right?”

    “Yep.” You put the milk away, and opened the next bag. “I think the owner of this place told me that I’ve been at this Airbnb the longest out of his customer. A whole summer...And I really want to thank you and Claire for helping me feel more at home.”

    “No problem.” Six glanced at the ground to hide the sincerity behind his words. “Well, if that’s all you need...”

    Your eyes grew wide. “Oh! Yeah, you can go. I’ve got it from here. Thank you again!”

    “No problem,” Six repeated under his breath. He felt he needed to get out of there, or else he would end up saying something he would regret.

    “Hey, Six?”

    He turned around at the sound of your voice just in time to duck his head out of the way of a box. Of course, Six caught it. He read the English words on the box.

    Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum

    Six smiled.

    “I, um...found that at the store for you...I hope you like--”

    “I love it,” he interrupted you to say. “Thank you.”

    That put a smile on your face as well.

    Six popped one of the pieces into his mouth, and exited your apartment.

    “You’ve got it bad...” Claire teased as soon as Six came back into their living quarters.

    He snapped his fingers and pointed at her, “No, I don’t,” before moving to the kitchen to put away the gum.

    “Oh really? Then what’s that?” Claire leaned over the back of the couch as she referenced the present you had gotten Six.

    “None of your business,” Six warned with no real malice.

    Claire rolled her eyes. “Come on, Six. That’s just proof they’ve got it bad for you too. Why don’t you do something about it?”

    Six leaned on the counter and sighed. “You know why I can’t.”

    “Why? Because they’re leaving? That’s more of a reason to take the jump now, before you never see them again. And who knows, maybe they’ll--”

    “Not with the life we lead, Claire,” reminded Six.

    At that, Claire just shook her head. “You can’t let that hold you back forever, especially from stuff like this.”

    “Somewhere between getting kidnapped and running away to Cuba,” she shrugged.

    Six stood at the counter, contemplating for a moment more. Then, he figured he should go now before he talks himself out of it. Six marched toward the door, and yanked it open.

    And there you were.

    Both you and Six were shocked into silence.

    You were the first to speak. “Um, I know I have a couple weeks left, but I was wondering if you and Claire would like to come over for dinner, so I can properly thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

    Before Six said anything in return, Claire was off the couch and heading for her room. She gave a fake yawn. “I’m actually pretty tired. I think I’ll head to bed early tonight. You two kids have fun, though!” Her bedroom door shut behind her.

    “What was that about?” you said over a laugh.

    “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” Six smiled, hiding his embarrassed. “You sure you want to make dinner?”

    You answered as if it were obvious. “Of course I’m sure. Plus, I’m going to miss you-guys,” you clarified. “Why not start the goodbye now?”

    Six could feel his heart clench in his chest, but he hid it well. He closed his front door behind him, and followed you to your apartment.

    A couple of hours later, Six couldn’t remember ever being as relaxed as he was right then. There was just something about you that put him at ease.

    “What are you thinking about?” you asked as you sat down next to him on the sofa, two refilled glasses of wine in hand.

    Six couldn’t find it within himself to lie to you. “You,” he answered sincerely.

    You blinking, obviously taken off guard by the response. You tried to hide your nervousness. “What about me?”

    He smiled as he elaborated, “You brought me here to thank me, but I’m pretty sure I should be thanking you.”

    “For what?”

    “For being you.” Six informed, “You showed me...that life can be normal.”

    “Can you tell me what you mean by that?”

    Six hesitated. “My life, my whole life...has always been...less than normal.”

    You smiled, “I know, Six. I’ve always known when it comes to you.”

    That threw him off guard. It even scared him a little. “What do you mean?”

    “Well, I can’t guess the details, but I always figured you and Claire have lead less than easy lives. It’s in how you carry yourselves, and how you treat each other. I mean, come on, your name is Six.”

    He chuckled. His worries were somehow put at ease by you somewhat understanding his past.

    “I’ve lived a life, too,” you admitted, “Let’s just say there’s a reason behind why I ran away to Cuba for a summer.”

    Six’s interest was peaked, but he wasn’t going to ask about it if you didn’t want to know about his past for the moment.

    You took a drawn-out sip of your wine. “I really don’t want to go back. This summer has just been so amazing. Plus, there’s you and Claire.”

    A part of Six wanted to ask what else was keeping you from going back, but he surprised both you and himself by what he said next. “Stay.”

    Your brow furrowed a little as your soft voice questioned, “What?”

    Six put his glass down on the coffee table. “Stay with me, with Claire.” He took your glass from you and put it next to his Six took your hands in his. “Please, sweetheart. I don’t want you to go.”

    “Where is this coming from?” came your worried question.

    “It’s coming from what I’ve felt since the moment I laid eyes on you. I’m sorry, I just can’t keep this inside anymore--mmhh.”

    You had cut him off with a kiss.

    Six relaxed against you, but he tensed up again when a thought crossed his mind. He broke the kiss. “I’ve killed people.” He bluntly stated. He couldn’t let the night go on without you knowing.

    “I know.”

    He realized you had guessed as much as you caressed his face between your hands.

    “That don’t change anything for me.” You pulled him in to kiss you again, and this time, Six accepted it wholeheartedly.

    Hours later, you and Six were curled up in your bed together, with you in his arms.

    He kissed the top of your head. “You know, my real name is Courtland Gentry. Court.”

    You smiled, “That’s a nice name.”

    He went on. “I actually prefer Six.”

    “Why’s that?”

    He shrugged. “Because, for the longest time, it was tied to my purpose in life, the CIA. The name Six helps me kill bad guys and help good guys. And it doesn’t help that my abusive dad gave me the name Court.”

    “But?” You had guessed correctly that that word was coming.

    He smiled, “But...I don’t know. I’m not a part of the CIA anymore, my dad’s long dead, and I got a new purpose in life now.”

    “Taking care of Claire?”

    “And you, if you’ll let me.”

    You bit your lip and nodded, cuddling closer to him. “I think I like Court. Courtland Gentry.” You tested the name out.

    Court smirked. “I definitely liked the way you said that.” He put a hand on your cheek and guided you back to his lips.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it. I would also really appreciate a comment, if you have the time. If you would like to read more, I have more stories over on my page, you should check it out. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you! <3 <3 <3

[uboat53]

Well, it's been the news a lot and the reaction has sparked a few things, so who's up for a LONG RANT (TM) with some thoughts that have come to me as I've been watching the CEO killing coverage?

LAW AND MORALITY

As the story has gone on, it's been clear that there's a disconnect between coverage of the victim and how the public views him. In the news coverage, he's only broken the law against intoxicated driving, but in public opinion he's a vicious murderer responsible for mass death. What gives? Well, let's take a look at the difference between law and morality.

Immanuel Kant once said "In law a man is guilty when he violates the rights of others. In ethics he is guilty if he only thinks of doing so." Given that the law is a precise (as precise a possible) list while morality is infinitely complex and nuanced, it is impossible for the two to match exactly, but it is generally agreed that it is best if the law matches morality as precisely as possible with prosecutorial discretion being used to make it match even closer. But what happens when the law diverges from accepted morality?

This isn't a trick question, it's actually one of the things that happens in a society where the government is unrepresentative of its people. In America, this is happening to the greatest extreme around laws that affect corporations, where corporations are able to lobby, cajole, and bribe (there's no other word for large campaign contributions in my opinion) lawmakers into making changes to law that benefit the corporation and harm individuals. According to the law, Brian Thompson and other corporate executives have done nothing wrong, but that doesn't mean much when they're the ones who basically get to write the law in the first place.

When law diverges from broadly accepted morality, the law loses legitimacy. If there is no law against mass murder, then why should anyone obey the law against individual murder that does exist? This does not mean that morality ceases to exist, those who commit these actions may still be following clear and coherent moral codes, it simply means that the law itself is no longer respected as a guide to what is right and wrong.

The solution, of course, is for the law to come more into line with accepted morality. In order for this to happen, however, corporations are going to have to loosen their hold on our government, something they have shown no inclination of doing in the last several decades.

CAPITALISM

If you point a gun at someone and pull the trigger, are you responsible for their death? I think that one's obvious, so how about another one? If you ask someone to go on the train tracks knowing there's no way off the tracks and a train is coming, are you responsible? I think the answer is fairly clear here, so let's take another step. If you design a device intended for widespread use that has a 0.5% chance of catastrophically failing and killing someone over a 10 year span, are you responsible for the deaths that occur?

This one's a little tougher, isn't it? Doesn't it depend on what the device does, how it's marketed, and how it's used? What if the chance were 0.05%? Or 0.005%? Does that change anything?

When a person is more and more removed from the actual death, injury, or other harm caused by their actions, it's harder and harder to assign direct moral responsibility to them, isn't it? When you get to the point of sitting in a corporate board room making decisions about corporate policies, it's almost impossible for a person to feel responsible for any harm because the actual consequences of their decisions are so abstracted from what they are doing.

But let's not mince words, corporate executives, like political leaders, can be responsible for a massive amount of harm without ever directly taking action against another individual. The decision to deny coverage for a specific drug may consign thousands to pain and suffering while procedural decisions regarding the process to approve or deny any coverage at a national corporation can cause exponentially more harm than any individual action. It's worth noting that our legal system, while capable of prosecuting and punishing a single person who causes direct harm to another individual, has absolutely no ability to address the moral harm of an individual who causes mass harm through systemic means.

Now, corporate executives and the owners of the companies will say that they're required to put their fiduciary duty first, but is there any moral system you can name that would put fiduciary duty ahead of basic human morality? The fact is that we've built a system where, if you murder a single person, you'll be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law (a bit more nuance on that later, though), but if you create a system that kills thousands, there will be no consequences at all (and likely a good deal of profit).

What does this have to do with Capitalism per the title of this section? Well, contrary to popular belief, Capitalism isn't a system of supply and demand, that's just a tenet of economics, Capitalism is a system in which the means of production (Capital) are exclusively controlled by private individuals to be used for their own personal interests. Unlike in a system like Monarchism, for example, where power resides with the monarch personally and those who are given it by the monarch, or Fascism, where power resides with a specifically defined ethnonationalist group personified by a single leader, or Democracy, where power resides ultimately with the people expressed through their direct vote or representatives, in a Capitalist system, power resides with the individuals who are able to own the greatest amount of Capital who can then use that wealth to gain further power.

In other words, far from being pawns in the system who are simply carrying out fiduciary duties, the capital class, in fact, holds the power to change the system itself in our Capitalist system. Moral responsibility increases with the amount of power a person has over a given situation, and the corporate executives and major shareholders who enact harmful policies are not helpless but, in fact, have a great deal of personal power over the situation in which they are enacting policies. They're not just enacting policies for their company, but have the ability to alter the laws under which those policies are carried out.

In this way, they have much greater control over their actions and the consequences thereof than most people and, thus, greater moral responsibility. The fact that the law assigns them no responsibility at all is something that will either need to be rectified or it will lead to the delegitimization of the law itself.

PUBLIC OPINION

Honestly, the outpouring of public support for the alleged killer in this case seems to have been shocking for much of the upper class of this country, which shows how disconnected they've become from broader public opinion. The fact that the upper class doesn't realize how broadly they are hated (across party lines!) is a testament to how much effort they have put into creating a bubble around themselves that keeps out unpleasant opinions.

Look, public debate tends to focus around issues of politics, not class. The news is full of talk about trans issues, foreign policy, education policy, and a thousand other issues, but there's no real reporting on the divide between the wealthy and powerful and everyone else. There's a good reason for this, the wealthy and powerful own the news outlets and decide what topics are subject to public debate; their money protects them from uncomfortable realities.

And it's not just the news, money attracts those who want money. The person who goes to work at a job where they interact personally with a multi-millionaire or a billionaire isn't going to be the kind of person to tell them off or talk about uncomfortable things; the low-paid janitors and cleaners need the job and the middle-managers and other aides want to climb the ladder! Unless a wealthy person makes a concerted effort to seek out uncomfortable opinions, they're likely never to be exposed to them.

And, let's be clear, hatred for the wealthy and powerful is widespread across the political spectrum. Trump and the billionaires in his social circle may not think his diatribes against "elites" includes them, but the average person certainly includes them in that group. Those on the right and left of our political spectrum may have different ideas on how to address it, but I would say that the vast majority of Americans agree that corporations and the wealthy have far too much power in our society and that something needs to be done to address this. The longer this does not happen, the greater acceptance there is among the public that more extreme methods may be required.

I should also be clear here that I, personally, think that these kinds of actions are morally wrong and should be punished, but it is still important that we, especially those with the power to do something about it, are aware that my view may no longer be in the majority.

POLICING

Quick, do you know what the unsolved murder rate in New York City is? It's around 50%, 47% in 2023 according to city statistics. That's right, more than 400 of the estimated 800 murders every year in New York City will never even result in an arrest, much less a conviction, for the perpetrator. NYPD isn't unique here, FBI data shows that only about half of all murders nation-wide will actually result in an arrest.

This isn't inevitable either, the rate used to be much higher. In 1970, 85% of all reported murders resulted in the arrest of a suspect. So what happened?

Well, one thing that probably happened was that police started spending less time chasing murderers. As of 2019, LA County Sheriffs reported spending 88% of their time on officer initiated traffic stops and only 11% of that was on reasonable suspicion of a crime. In Riverside, it was 83% of their time with only 7% of that based on reasonable suspicion of a crime. In other words, cops are increasingly spending the vast majority of their time doing things other than trying to find criminals.

But what did we see recently? Well, we saw a murderer who left basically no clues as to his identity be found in less than a week due to police spending a huge amount of hours reviewing surveillance footage from around the city, searching the area around where the crime occurred, and communicating with the public to get more information. In other words, all of the things they DON'T do for the vast majority of murders in the city.

The fact that more than half of murders in NYC go unsolved isn't some immutable fact of nature, it's a result of choices made about the priorities of police time, and we've just seen that they can absolutely make a different choice and that it works! Pressure about the nature of policing in this country probably isn't going to abate anytime soon.

HEALTH INSURANCE COMPANIES

Finally, it's worth taking a moment to talk about health insurance companies and why they, more than all of the other parts of our health care system, are uniquely hated. Lots of people have made the very valid point that health insurance companies are only one part of what is an extremely dysfunctional system and that their share of the profits in this system are actually fairly small. So why all the hatred for health insurance companies instead of, say, doctors or hospitals?

Well, it's fairly simple. Doctors or hospitals may gouge you, but only health insurance companies make decisions that lead directly to denial of care. It's a matter of incentives, hospitals want to give you more stuff, as do doctors. The only part of our health care system with an incentive to deny you care or make you use less stuff is the insurance company which has to pay for all of that stuff with reduced profits.

And, look, the fact that United Healthcare is one of the most profitable companies in the country while the people it covers don't get care they need is certainly something to be concerned about, but this is bigger than just one company. Hospitals and doctors may gouge you, and that price-gouging distorts the economy and causes the systemic issues we see, but the insurance companies are the messengers here. Even if UHC was a non-profit and spent every penny it earned on patient care, it would still have to deny at least some care on the grounds that it simply does not have enough money to cover everything and that would make people dislike it.

You may be a little annoyed at the doctor who overcharges for their time or the hospital that tries to charge you $45 for a single Tylenol, but the health insurance company that refuses to cover chemotherapy for a cancer patient or a bypass for a cardiac patient or refuses to cover emergency care after the death of a loved one is likely to drive you into a fit of rage on a very different level even if all of the underlying decisions are made based on monetary issues.

Again, I'm not trying to absolve UHC or other health insurance companies, they certainly do more than enough on their own to add to the misery that is the American health care system, but there are a lot of people who are in the weeds of American health care and don't understand why the insurance companies are uniquely hated. Hopefully this helps clear that up.

[kom-poetry-channel]

In my daughter's defense, she no longer says "capitalism" with ThatSpecific Intonation; much to my surprise, her school has apparently done its job of indoctrinating her in the Correct ideology by exposing her to "The Girl in the Red Scarf". However, I wrote the poem before that happened; it took me a long time to put the videotogether. Nonetheless she still does not appreciate the enormousmind-boggling scale of our civilisation; perhaps you have to have seen it increase, before you can really notice it.

Tolkien's "no beautiful things" is a throwaway line about goblin workshops, and it's possible I'm defaming the man by taking it to refer to all the products of industry (and also he might respond that nothing mass-produced can be "well built", but there he'd be JustWrong); but in the depiction of Mordor and the Scouring of the Shireit does seem that he was against industry generally, not just as applied by goblins. The hell to which I consign him would, obviously, consist merely of living in the Shire with nothing machine-made. There's an ironic punishment, if you like.

I can no longer remember which language I first composed this in, it may have varied line by line.

There's a highway between my house and my office. I cross it in the morning going to work; and in the afternoon, coming home. If you stop, at the apex of the bike bridge, and think about life for a minute, as one does - though you will have to do this one; I have things to do,and bills to pay - perhaps a thousand cars might pass beneath your feet.

A thousand cars?A thousand tons of metal! Glass, steel, titanium, copper, tungsten, platinum, rhodium, lead. Metal ripped from the uncaring Earth, smelted and forged, cunningly wrought so that it leaps at the lightest touch of foot to pedal. "Many clever things,'' the gentleman poet says, "but no beautiful ones''; well. To hell with him. He never sat the front seat of a coach-and-six and shivered through the rain that his patron might make an important meeting. Call me a goblin if you like: There's beauty in things well built.

An unending stream of shaped iron: Power beyond the dreams of kings. No committee decreed this, no czar nor emperor commanded it. A thousand tons of iron were ripped from the uncaring Earth; but not to make tanks for defense of the Motherland; not to build a monument to the glory of kings; no heroic patriotism dug the coal that smelted this iron. People did this, uncommanded: Because we had things to do,and bills to pay.

My eldest doesn't see what I do, standing on the bridge. She has things to do, but no bills to pay; a mere kiloton of iron passing every minute beneath her feet has no power to impress her. "Capitalism,'' she says, and there's venom in her voice; copied from a dozen streamers. That's irony, if you like: A thousand tons of it, ripped from the uncaring Earth, forged and streamed, cruelly wrought to get the most clicks. Capitalism doesn't sell.

It's all right, though. No doubt I, too, was unimpressed when my father tried to point out some miracle of logistics that he had not been born to. It's hard to be mindful of the sheer boundless power of the beast when you sit atop it and it obediently carries you as it has done all your life.

When all's said and done - provided only words are said, and no violence done - the wealth beyond the dreams of kings, the power and the glory, is only what we build because we have things to do, and bills to pay.

[samkat10423]

A bakery and elixir shop

Since I have gardens all over town where sims can steal produce, I deleted that Azalea Garden lot EA created and placed my elixir store there. This lot came from Mod the Sims - Shadow something (I downloaded it ages ago for something else) - and was originally just a regular consignment store. But with a name with Shadow in it, I figured it would make the perfect elixir store. The original was also on a smaller lot, so I added parking in the back.

This is the ground floor of the shop. I got rid of all the regular consignment stuff and added some Supernatural stuff that I have.

And this is the 2nd floor. I left a few of the original things - like the fish tank, since I figured that's where they store all those newts for eye-of-newts. Or whatever.

Then right next door, I placed another lot that my good friend Manu created for her Bourgeneuf world. Thank you, @yourpicasso25! Anyway, this is where the town laundromat is located - along with a bakery. Again, her build was on a much, much smaller lot, so I added some stuff. I also redecorated the inside, mostly because this is an old build and a lot of new things have come out since she built it. BTW, that dome came from SimsKey and after my last computer died, I had a devil of a time re-finding it.

And here's the inside. Only the ground level is used in this build, since the upper floors all have that 'skip level' marker. Anyway, as you can see, the one end is a bakery, while the other is my laundromat. I used Sandy's Laundry set and some store items for it.

And that was all I got done today, because my whiney dog won't stop with her "You're ignoring me and I'm starving!!!!!" Liar.

[thelongestway]

Well! And now story two is officially drafted! I generally don't like naming my stories for songs (and I don't know if I will have a chapter naming scheme for this one yet), but for now, this story is called "Formless and Vanquished We Shall Travel."

What's next? A break, hopefully one or two weeks, during which I will do the edit and make a second masterpost, continuing with posting the cycle of stories on AO3 and doing a lot of pre-writing that I need for the third story. After that, there's a skip to after System Collapse, and... Story three. I mean, SecUnit did ask ART where they were going next in TMBD book 7, right?

As of right now, I plan four stories in the cycle, but the fourth is going to be heavily dependent on the largely mapped out third story, so we'll see how that goes in reality.

Before all that, though... The final chapter.

Chapter 15

The SecUnit disembarked on the next transit station Dandelion visited. It never said if it liked Super SecUnit Defender or not, but it did send this Friend an archive named least_realistic_shows_good before it left.

The refugees considered their options and eventually chose a social support center located several jumps away that the Friend had recommended. It was not curated by the Friends specifically, but at least some years ago it was still a good place to get back on one's feet. This Friend did not see much of them, intimidated as they were by the nearly empty ship inhabited only by an impassive bot pilot and a heavily armed soldier. They disembarked after stilted goodbyes.

With respect to itself, this Friend gave Captain Reed a choice of drop point and received the curt reply, Provided you maintain current behavior, even the furthest drop point from BreharWallHan is not a problem.

After some discussion, the Friend and Dandelion agreed that the furthest drop point would indeed be the least likely to lead this Friend's pursuants to more of the Friends, and the several months of forced idleness on board were a lesser price to pay than the potential tail. The Friend took the option as provided. As thanks, it sent the Captain a second list of contact points, titled with the customary "In the hope this list is never needed, in the knowledge that the Friends' work will never be done."

A day later, this Friend received a return message, which contained the formal text of the judgment Captain Reed had rendered. It had one clause amended: while the Friend was still to be made known to Arborea Cosmica ships and stations as a potential hostile actor, it would be granted leniency if it came aboard in time of great need or under invitation so long as it did no harm to ship, station or crew. The message appended read: "There are few enough hands on deck to remove a pair needlessly. Captain Reed and Ship Dandelion, Tenacious Cluster."

Regardless of the letter, it seemed the Tenacious cluster did not need its hands all that much. After a few days of recovery, this Friend requested that Dandelion use it as she saw fit, but all she answered was, "Despite the amendment, you are still a prisoner for now, Friend. Giving you useful things to do would not constitute much of a punishment."

It couldn't argue with that logic, and consigned itself to doing only preparatory work for its own missions.

But then she continued: "We have conferred, however, and decided keeping you in full solitary confinement would be inhumane. Additionally, you have access to Greenhouse Ring 4, whereas most of the crew will not while you are here. If you help with maintaining it, that will be appreciated by our gardeners. No more than four hours a day."

This was how this Friend found itself in the strangest section of a ship it had ever seen, surrounded by plants it had no names for. It weeded bright green flowers under trees whose leaves whispered even when there was no artificial wind or rain cycling the air, and it cleared a small pond of other tiny green aquatic plants. On one occasion, it found folded paper flowers left on a flat stone near the pond. It left the flowers alone and watched them dissolve under the artificial rain over the course of several days. And then there were the animals. Largely self-sufficient, they did require the occasional check in.

It did not have much else to do save recover its good physical shape and fix some equipment from spare parts Dandelion provided. Now that Iceblink could maintain closer contact with Rim stations, they were also getting news bursts, which Dandelion sent to it upon request over the feed--it found its wider terminal access cut off again, even though it could still be used for basic data processing--and the Friend used the information to consider possible next operations. Provided some pressing need did not rear its head first, it was more likely its next destination would be decided after (or if) it came into contact with the Friends, but it was always good to know the lay of the land in advance.

Perhaps a month into the journey, the Friend had been organizing data when it noticed its own terminal was now networked into three more. They were cut off by the same flimsy walls it had seen on its very first foray into the Tenacious' systems, with one entirely undefended. Back then, it had other targets, and paid terminals such as these no heed, but now these were the only things it could reach and it found its disused and sore muscles itching. But why give it access now? Had someone made a mistake?

It sighed and reported the problem to Dandelion. The answer came back immediately:

I see. Friend, you may consider that an invitation. Explore those terminals at your leisure.

And a test, the Friend noted. What would have happened had this Friend tried to exploit the weakness immediately?

Displeasure rippled through the feed, directed outwards.

A course of action I would not have elected were the decision mine, Dandelion said curtly. This ship has been through its own share of tests like that conducted by allied organizations and they have always been an utter waste of time. Still. The situation has been cleared up and the invitation stands.

The Friend agreed, so it sent a file to the unprotected terminal which only contained one string: Social engineering amateur hour.

A second string appeared moments later.

oh you are so on. out of respect for your dumb augmentation choices i won't be going full contact but everything else goes

This Friend found itself grinning.

Should this Friend throttle its processing speed as well? It asked. Out of respect for you tying one hand behind your back?

no. you go full contact. a pause, and then another string: we need the practice.

They had a need. The Friend could fill it. So it did.

[kabutoden]

So limes in Gold Rule just exist and no one is sure what to do with them in general?

YEAH!!!! tbh great question im totally thrilled by this subject!

the main issue is that both on alternia and caeser, caste is an aspect of identity thats extremely significant to many trolls. even if they're in a 'bad' caste, like rust, there's still a deep sense of solidarity for the community they're in. i see it as part of the reason for karkat's severe identity issues, and why his and signless's existences are so contentious: he's without anyone to bond with or form community with, without a predestined 'future' created by an ancestor and caste. his existence essentially breaks society.

fortunately in Gold Rule, multiple limes and reds showed up at the same time and so reds were pushed into the lime caste, but the issue remains: they're a re-emerging caste in a caste-defined culture. caste is literally physically built into the school system with the dorms for each caste, as well as education and different laws and legality around the different castes. There are no lime adults to teach them--and what would they even teach? teals unknowingly caused a radical upheaval when they returned the right to donate to the mothergrub to jades, and now they've got a ton more work to do protecting the legal existence of limes!

limes are in a scary situation, but since they are raised in batches and all came out together, they're not facing a malicious desire to eliminate them, more utter bafflement. they're understood to be a returning caste. having small community of limes, even if none are adults has also done a lot to settle their concerns and leaves a lot of them pretty easy-going.

karkat, hatching alone, would much more likely to be considered in any society without limes to be some kind of egregious mutation then a member of a missing caste. However, this same trait means karkat (or any cancer sign) would not be identified as lime and culled.(on alternia, any eggs that emerge in clutches are killed) instead of leeching iron from a sibling, vantas are simply a lime born with a high iron level--via mutation.

caeser was formed by communications with the psiionic from other consigned goldbloods being used as batteries, so a vantas hatching on caeser would be protected and valued even without understanding limes. id like to talk more about this later.

[digitalcirce]

What Is the Meaning of This? Originally posted on DeviantArt on April 30 2024 (woman to pig transformation)

The beautiful blonde raged and struggled against her bonds, but fruitlessly. Becoming aware of his presence, she demanded answers. He could only smile. Her indignation sounded so much better with a hint of a squeal mixed in.

She was a typical pretty party girl. Her drink was not difficult to spike. In fact, the hardest part was getting her out of the car and into the barn completely unconscious, her limp body uncooperative. She was surprisingly heavy. Although she’d be getting a lot heavier. “What is the meaning of this? Why did you do this to me?” she demanded, but it was nothing personal. He’d been rejected by girls like her a lot when he was younger, and learned how he could get even. Make them less than human. Then… he became turned on by the transformation itself. It’s what he really enjoyed. Sure, she’s beautiful. But would he really want her in his life? Want to put up with her stuck up, entitled attitude?

And then the glorious moment came; her awareness of what was really happening. Perhaps it was her changed voice; or perhaps she recognized the feeling of a new feature like her squiggly tail whipping above her delectable ass. Regardless, she realized that she was physically transforming into an animal. And that the animal she would soon become was just a lowly pig. A pig like the others she could hear quietly grunting in the darkness.

Yes, this is what he most enjoyed. Transforming a pretty girl into a bloated breeding sow and consigning her to life with the other pigs. About a quarter of the sows in the sty were just like her; haughty invincible-feeling girls at the wrong place or the wrong time who now bred piglets for a living. She would too. Or if not she’d be turned into sausage herself; and he didn’t much care which she chose. But a lot of those former women seemed to like being speared by boar cocks, so maybe she’d come to like being a mother pig in the smelly sty, too.

He watches as her snout stretches, and her dulcet voice is completely lost to squealing. He watches her hooves harden, finally becoming small enough to slip out of her restraints. He watches her many new teats form. He watches her undergarments tear as she fattens, developing the barrel shape of her slow-moving new species. He watches her ears flop and her tail curl and her limbs shrink. He watches her throat swell and her ass widen, revealing a monstrously different vulva and anus, shamelessly presented for his perusal. He watches her healthy round breasts shift into two more teats between her forelegs. He watches her hair fall out and her eyes darken. And he watches as the pig squeals mournfully, aware that her old life is over and her new life has begun. Her life as a pig, and nothing more. Then he hauls her into the pen with a virile male, and watches her snort and squeal under him, her indignant grunts changing to a more primitive and instinctual sound. And after her first powerful orgasm he leaves her there, to adjust to her new home and new reality. What she is and what she has done.

Maybe the other fat sows comfort her in the darkness, rubbing against her fat flanks and letting her know that it’s all right, being a pig. Maybe she cries herself to sleep, and promises herself she’ll never let a boar have his way with her again. Maybe she trots right over to the trough and gorges herself before shamelessly taking a big dump on the floor. He doesn’t really care how she handles it, all things considered. He saw her at her moment of transcendence, and that was enough. It was what her whole life had led up to, the meaning of her life, really, and he had experienced it. What more could he want? The soft sound of pigs grunting echoes through the barn as he goes to sleep, satisfied, another fruitful sow in the sty.

Stock image used available from Depositphotos at https://depositphotos.com/photo/sexy-blonde-woman-in-underwear-kneeling-on-timber-179195114.html

[shady-scripter]

Whumptober Day12

(Insomnia)

I believe it was @luwyv who invented the basis of this

I just checked and it is. It’s also crazy because they just made a post about it-

It was a gift and a curse. During long battles, being able to easily resist sleep was a blessing. On slow nights when his bed was warm, it was such a curse.

This was one of those cursed nights. Taking a watch helped him these nights, but he had watched yesterday and the day before that and now the Old Man was getting suspicious. The last thing Wild needed was for them to bully him into sleeping.

Or worse. Sleep jail.

He shivered at the thought of Sleep Jail. It happened to Time once. He’d taken too many watches and the top of the mountain was when he didn’t wake anyone else up for their watches. Sky Sleep Jail-ed Time. Time slept very soundly that night, but it looked painful.

Wild refused to get Sleep Jail-ed.

He laid down in his spot beside Twilight, who had his head on Wild’s hip. This was far better than Sleep Jail.

Wild loved Sky, but getting bear hugged to sleep by the Skyloftian sounded like a death sentence.

He tried to keep his leg from bouncing. Time was on watch and Wild did snitch on Time and made Sky put him in Sleep Jail. There was no way he wasn’t out for blood.

Wild felt the single eye staring at him. There was no way the Old Man was going to let him live like this. He was going to be cursed to Sleep Jail by Time. He should just consign to his fate-

“Do you bounce your legs in your sleep?” Shit.

Wild froze. He then realized that he was bouncing his leg, but what were the odds that he was talking about him? Four twitches in his sleep!

“Ow!” A rock hit his forehead. Wild heard Time laugh. Wild reached up to rub his forehead, now very conscious about Twilight on his hip. “What the fuck was that for?” Wild whispered.

“You’ll be in Sleep Jail tomorrow. Just so you know,” He sounded so lax as if that isn’t a world level threat.

“I beg you!” Wild whispered. He saw Twilight’s ear twitch. He did not need someone on Time’s side. He would not be locked in Sleep Jail.

Time hummed. “Sleep Jail sounds nice for you.”

“What did I do?” Wild knew what he did. It was obvious that Time knew that he knew with the glare he gave Wild. “In my defense, it was a joke.”

“Well, this isn’t a joke. Sleep Jail for you,” Time sang. He then proceeded to chant “Sleep Jail” another few times.

Wild wanted to move, but Twilight’s gigantic head was still on his hip.

If he had to silence the Old Man, he would.

Now Wild knew how he would silence him without moving from his spot. A smug grin fell onto Wild’s face. “You’re going to make Sky Sleep Jail me, right?”

“Yep,” Time said, emphasizing the P.

“Okay well-“ Wild swung his hand to where he put the Slate. Time wore metal armor. When he reached and didn’t feel anything, he looked back. There was no Sheikah Slate. “What?”

“I’m no fool,” Wild locked eyes with Time. Time was waving around his Slate. “Smithy’s done it before. Never again.”

Wild grumbled. “It was funny though.”

“You know what else is funny?”

“Don’t-“

“Sleep Jail.”

Wild was suddenly overcome by the urge to show Time his pretty little middle finger. He didn’t, but he wanted to. With love of course.

“What do I have to do for no Sleep Jail?” Wild asked, desperation clouding his voice.

Seconds passed. Long, suffocating, but not really, seconds passed.

“I don’t think there is anything. Let’s call it revenge, shall we?”

Wild grumbled.

“Growl again, I dare you,” Wild was startled by the voice coming from his hip. Twilight had a sneer on his face.

“Sorry,” Wild whispered, putting his hand on Twilight’s head and forcing it back on his lap. Twilight was back asleep almost immediately. Wild took a relieved exhale.

“Sleep Jail,” Time was certainly mocking him now. Wild saw the smile on his face. He refrained from groaning again.

The camp was quiet as Wild shut his mouth. Time chuckled.

“Sounds like you’ve given up,” Time mumbled.

Wild decided that now was the time to show Time his finger.

“I love you too. You’re still going to Sleep Jail though. In the wise words of the Champion, “Sleeping is Sleepy.” What does that even mean?”

“It means that…” Wild had no idea what that meant. He ate a weird mushroom that day. Wild groaned.

Wild let out a startled yelp as pain ripped through his hip. Groans rang from across the camp.

“I dared you,” Twilight muttered.

“Did you fucking bite me?” Wild yelled. He forgot to contain his voice.

“Will you shut up already!” Four shouted.

“I will bite er’body, if you all start nonsense,” Twilight groggily shouted. It was evident that Wild’s hip was just too comfortable for him to leave.

Wild shoved him off anyway. Twilight obviously tried for a Wolfie whine, but in his Hylian form, it came out as a muffled scream. Time snorted, trying to stop his laughing with his mouth. Twilight’s eyes truly opened after that. Twilight looked up, probably at the moon. He then looked back at Time, who was also looking up at the moon, a grim expression replaced his smile.

Time looked back at Twilight. They met eyes. Time pointed to Wild. “He hasn’t slept at all tonight.”

Wild jumped on the defensive. “Maybe I would be asleep if you didn’t throw a rock at me!”

“Put him in Sleep Jail.”

“Put him in Sleep Jail!”

“You’re both getting Jail-ed,” a sleepy voice murmured. It was a voice they knew all too well.

“Goddesses no-“ Time put his head in his hands.

“Sky, please! He threw a rock at me!”

“Jail.”

Sky did what he promised the next night.

“So…was it worth it?” Wild asked, the Skyloftian’s right arm and leg squishing his body into Time’s.

“I wish I could say that it was.”

“Sleep Jail is for sleep’in, not chat’in! Close ‘em eyes!” Twilight pointed at them. They both glared at him, Twilight was smiling.

Wild and Time huffed, but they closed their eyes.

“This will not cure my insomnia,” The two victims thought.