#He just hates the realization and admittance required with the feelings

[glitchtricks94]

Addiction is weirdly cathartic to write because I rarely ever look so forward to ripping someone to shreds using their heart to farm the pain. Gyokko has irked me in ways nobody can really do. I like the idea of taking him down a few notches.

[amyisherenowitsokay]

You know what just to SPICE it up a bit imma say zadr too bitch

This bitch tryna give me arthritis smdh. Making me out myself for my dual-ship on main, can't even believe a bitch.

PRE-RELATIONSHIP

1. How did they first meet?

School. We must never forget the infamous handcuffs scene.

2. What was their first impression of each other?

Pure, unrivaled loathing.

3. Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

Gaz said "kiss already" and throws things at them when they're getting too far away from "I want you dead" territory and well into "you want to fuck me so bad and it makes you look stupid" territory. Professor Membrane thinks they're adorable.

4. Who felt romantic feelings first?

Dib. Hormones get the best of us all. You can only be obsessed with someone so long before motivations get blurry.

5. Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

Zim would nearly break his PAK and commit accidental die trying to delete the emotions or install an emotional inhibitor. Dib would have a full mental breakdown trying to sort through it, which would manifest poorly in his behavior and negatively impact his ability to engage in their usual altercations. Pro tip: if you are painfully attracted to someone, being in a position where they pin you to the asphalt or lean over your desk to hiss insults at you is a bad idea.

6. If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think?

I stand by what I said on my ZAGR post in that Zim doesn't know what a soulmate is, or the concept of a soul, but given this is in regards to his arch-nemesis instead of a creature he's mostly indifferent too, he'd be pissed at the insinuation he was in any way bound to Dib. Dib's fragile psyche would not survive the revelation.

7. What would their lives be like if they had never met?

Really empty. Their rivalry and parallel situations regarding neglectful authority figures is what keeps them going for so many years.

GENERAL

1. Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?

As someone who thinks Zim doesn't understand even the concept of not being a possessive jackass, I think Zim just sort of concludes after awhile that, regardless of Dib's feelings, or even Zim's own feelings, whatever they have makes them wholly and entirely each other's. Just completely and hilariously misunderstanding the concept of a relationship, but still being incredibly presumptive in assuming they already have one. He also doesn't let Dib know of this revelation either, so eventually Dib explodes about his crush, and Zim's like "we are already together???? moron???" Dib could argue, and he kind of wants to, but he also never expected Zim to reciprocate, so he just sort of nods and is like "you know what, sure" and that's the end of it. They do not have an anniversary, but Dib's not really like that, and Zim doesn't know anniversaries are a thing anyways.

2. Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?

Again, stealing from my own ZAGR post, but I don't think Zim's really a 'date' person who would plan out that sort of thing. Dib is an awkward moron with arguably worse social skills than even Zim, and mentally comes to the conclusion that dragging Zim on investigations is basically like a date, and Zim doesn't bitch about it anymore than expected, therefore he is a master of romance, so it's fine.

3. What was their first kiss like?

Awkward, and quick. Dib is not a great communicator, nor is he great at explaining things like human demonstrations of affection, especially not when Zim's scowling impatiently at him through is fumbling and stuttering. He just goes for it, and it's quick and he misses his mouth almost. Zim is extremely surprised, especially when Dib makes terrible excuses about needing to be elsewhere and flees. Zim does his own research, and their second kiss is predated by a lecture about being better than Dib at everything/Dib being bad at everything. It is much more successful, even if afterwards Dib instigates a fight about Zim's tongue being weird.

4. Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?

First everything, except kiss. Gretchen kissed Dib in high school as a dare. Zim will never forgive her for it.

5. What’s their height difference? Age difference?

I'd die to make them the same height, but I think the image of Zim being average height while Dib is a gangly big boi is just too funny. Zim would be pissed, and Dib would be so smug but so uncoordinated.

6. What’s their relationship with each other’s families?

Gaz interacts with them as minimally as possible, because they are loud and gross and annoying, but she's okay with Zim overall. They have a mutual understanding that Dib is stupid, completely reckless, and requires constant supervision to keep him from getting eaten by a ghoul or something. Gaz does genuinely trust him to skewer anything that tries to kill her brother, but she also knows that Dib isn't the only one with 0 sense of self-preservation. Dib was initially wary of Professor Membrane's reaction, because his dad is sort of unpredictable when it comes to his only son, but the Professor's only commentary is that he is glad his son finally made it official with his 'little green friend.' Dib then realizes that the implication in that perpetual comment about Zim had air quotes around that "friend" part all along.

Dib thinks Gir's gross and loud and doesn't get him, but he likes to team up with him and/or use him as a means to annoy Zim. The Base hates him, because now there's two morons with no sense of self-preservation that it needs to keep track of. Minimoose and Dib are bros.

7. Who takes the lead in social situations?

Zim, if only because he is arguably more 'charming' than Dib's fumbling attempts at communication with non-paranormal parties.

8. Who gets jealous easier?

Zim. Dib I think would have his 'HTTYD Hiccup moment' as he gets older, but still has that ingrained low self-esteem from years of ridicule and abuse. He is completely oblivious to the new attention he gets. Zim, however, is not. Dib never really notices the cause of his weird snarling and clinginess, but he shrugs it off as Zim just being weird and continues with whatever he was doing.

9. Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear?

Zim is a slut, I will die on this hill.

LOVE

1. Who said “I love you” first?

Dib. He says it casually, in the dark, when they're on a stake-out to find some wood goblin or something. He says it like he's talking about something plane and unremarkable.

I think a ZADR relationship would need Zim to be a lot more independent in terms of researching how romantic relationships 'work,' since Dib's not a great communicator, and there's an ingrained rivalry that will never dissolve between them, no matter how many times they kiss, so Zim would be a lot more motivated to figure things out on his own. He would, in this circumstance, know the weight of Dib's way-too-casual admittance, and it would be a huge shock to him. He'd be pretty shaken about it for awhile, and Dib's not bothered when he doesn't reply. Dib would be pretty sure Zim would never admit it, but he does, eventually, because he refuses to be a coward about it.

2. What are their primary love languages?

Verbal affirmations. With their self-esteems firmly in the toilet in Zim's kitchen, being able to have someone validate them who they respect would mean a lot to them.

3. Who uses cheesy pick-up lines?

Dib. He uses it to start fights with Zim about linguistics and metaphors. Also, he's 99.9% positive Zim secretly is flattered by it, but hates that he is.

4. How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?

Zim is very clingy, but Dib's too on the move to really pin down for a good cuddle frequently. He's twitchy and his minds always racing, but every once in a while when Zim's completely fed up, or Dib's running on fumes but still forcing himself on, Zim will all but pin him to a cushioned surface and force him to sleep. Neither of them are PDA people.

5. Who initiates kisses?

Zim. Dib's really shy about it, and also normally too distracted to pay Zim the attention he so obviously deserves, and often misses Zim's 'signals.'

6. Who’s the big and little spoon?

PAK not comfy against sternum. It's also easier to force Dib to sleep if he's the big spoon, because he can pin his limbs.

7. What are their favorite things to do together?

Paranormal investigations, and morally ambiguous and/or largely dangerous experiments.

8. Who’s better at comforting the other?

Dib, which is hilarious, because he's about as smooth as a cheese grater, but he is very attuned to the person he's been obsessed with for years, and he can also relate to a lot of his issues. While Zim usually shrugs off the sentimentality and the empathy, dismissing it as 'pity,' the affirmation means a lot to him.

9. Who’s more protective?

Zim. He has to anticipate his lover's stupidity to make sure he stays alive to hunt ghosts another day.

10. Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?

Verbal. Hormones are real, but there's something that eases the sting of years of abusive in a crooning praise or a sincere compliment.

11. What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?

https://open.spotify.com/track/3IvUhEVbbA81QnEVhsFHiH?si=b3c5787c9ff14105

12. What kind of nicknames do they call each other?

It is primarily age-old insults that lack the bite and sincerity they once had.

13. Who remembers the little things?

Dib. Zim isn't inattentive by any means, cataloguing all of Dib's weird habits and nuances and what not, but for all the compensating Zim does to keep Dib safe and healthy, Dib reciprocates in meaningful gestures. He remembers to pack Zim-friendly snacks on their road trips and ways to keep Gir entertained, if they have to bring him. He always checks the weather and has an extra coat, just in case. Never makes Zim feel bad about needing to check, just one more time, to see if he got any incoming messages from home.

DOMESTIC LIFE

1. If they get married, who proposes?

Dib.

2. What’s the wedding like? Who attends?

It's just Gaz, Minimoose, and Gir. Membrane is too far away to attend, but that was deliberate. Dib didn't want his tendency to make things about 'the Membrane line' effect the intimacy and importance of the ceremony. Also, Zim insists on incorporating some Irken rituals into it, so it'd be hard to make excuses and explanations to why Zim wants Dib to fuck with his weird pink backpack during their wedding.

3. How many kids do they have, if any? What are they like?

No kiddos. Neither of them would be interested, even if it was biologically possible.

4. Do they have any pets?

Seriously, Gir counts, right?

5. Who’s the stricter parent?

Dib. Zim refuses to parent Gir when Dib is more inclined to do it, since he's more irritated by it.

6. Who worries the most?

Dib has perpetual anxiety. So does Zim, but he masks it better.

7. Who kills the bugs in the house?

Dib, to prevent the gooey grossness that is Gir's bug-breath.

8. How do they celebrate holidays?

Just with Gaz.

9. Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?

Zim will strap Dib to a bed himself to get him to go the fuck to sleep, because it's been over 48 hours you insufferable human, and--!

10. Who’s the better cook?

Dib's idea of cooking is a microwave, salt, and pepper. Zim is forced to learn the wonders of human food to keep his idiot from dying of malnutrition.

11. Who likes to dance?

Gir.

[welllpthisishappening]

21 for the kiss prompts. because I am me LOL

Alright, so, full disclosure, this is not CS fic. I was going to write CS fic for this. i was! I had this vaguely angsty Emma gets hurt and Killian loses his mind thing happening, but then—I didn’t write that. Instead, here’s Will Scarlet gets hurt and Belle French loses her mind and it’s hockey. It’s 2,000 words! I don’t know how that happened. Anyway, the prompt here was “bloody kiss” and I love Will Scarlet with the force of a thousand suns. If you guys want to send more kiss prompts, I’m still waiting for people to respond to my emails.

“You’re mad.”

“Your powers of deduction are truly unparalleled. What gave me away, exactly?”

Will bit his lower lip. Let his teeth dig down until he tasted blood and, well—more blood, he supposed. Six stitches later, though, and there wasn’t much blood left on his face, just a pair of narrow eyes doing their best to glare a hole through his cranium and he didn’t think that was entirely possible. 

Biology had never been his strong suit, really. Unless you counted hauling off and punching some rat-faced bastard on the Caps who couldn’t keep his goddamn mouth shut about a possible offsides that had maybe happened two periods before and they’d been winning and it was fine. Totally fine. This was his job. Punching and bruising up assholes. Just a little bit, to remind them who they were playing and what was on the line and��

It was entirely possible Belle’s eyes were not entirely human. 

His face flushed. Heat raced through either one of his cheeks, threatening what he could only assume was the structural integrity of his own eyes because Will couldn’t remember when he’d decided to widen them, exactly. Just that they were starting to dry out a little bit and Ariel was going to kill him. 

She’d made that very clear post-game. 

There might be a two-person line to wreak havoc, now. 

“You get this little pinch between your eyebrows,” Will said, leaning forward until the top of his head nearly hit the bottom of her chin, “makes it easy to tell.”

Belle huffed. Crossed her arms. Nearly punched him in the face, which would have been something close to the peak of irony at this point, and then maybe Ariel wouldn’t threaten to kill him again. No, that was wishful thinking. 

It’d be a miracle if they were allowed uptown later. Ariel had probably sent out an APB, or whatever the culinary equivalent of that was. No admittance until the blood had dried off his forehead and he laid prostrate at her feet, begging forgiveness for the error of his ways. 

Like hell, he would.

This was his job. He was the—

Fuck, maybe he was a goon. He hadn’t scored in a while. Not even a secondary assist, or anything. Skating at the edge of the blue line on a fledgling power play did not an All-Star make, and, well, now that he thought about it, maybe Will had started jawing first. There were mumbled insults, at least. 

From him, specifically. More than once, actually. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be back here, y’know.”

The pinch got—

Pinchier. Deeper. Like a tiny, little crevice between what Will was starting to realize were meticulously cared-for eyebrows and maybe he should get a CT scan or an MRI or something because it had taken him this long to notice she was also wearing his jersey. Too-long sleeves grazed the slight bend of her knuckles, looking as if she was actively stopping herself from fisting her hands at her side and that thought wasn’t supposed to make him smile. 

Still. 

Will’s lips tugged up. His eyes thinned. Nose crinkled ever so slightly. Something that had been growing increasingly familiar in the last few months of the season jumped between his ribs, like little flutters of wholly imaginary wings, and she kept wearing his jersey. Kept coming to games, and that was good because they’d gotten past the labels and expectations, all of which were sky-high on the NHL’s most romance-prone hockey team. 

God, maybe he wasn’t just a goon. Maybe he was a complete and total asshole. 

“This is Cap’s fault,” Will announced, and he’d been ready for the pinch. He was less prepared for those eyebrows he was starting to become a tad obsessed with to soar up Belle’s forehead, past the swoop of bangs that regularly messed with his cognizant reasoning. 

She scoffed. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, but maybe when we get back to—”

“I will kick you in the shins, Scarlet, I swear to every God you can think of.”

He tried not to deflate. Really, he did. But his name seemed to crack out of her, punching the bridge of his nose like Belle had actually pulled her right arm back and her scoff was more like an exhale that time. That had never happened. 

Even before. Before the labels and the attempts at setting up Killian and watching that entire season and how often he stared longing at Emma, before Regina and Locksley continued to be parents extraordinaire and the jealousy started to eat away at him. Slowly, but surely and he never talked about that, but he figured she knew because Belle knew everything and—

“Bet you twenty bucks you could name more gods than I could.”

Another sigh. A tilt of her head. It made her bangs shift. He wasn’t sure what was happening in his chest. Expanding and contracting, a painful rhythm that hurt way more than the stitches or the shitty metaphors and he was glad she’d snuck into the locker room. Will didn’t want her anywhere else. 

Naming conventions, aside. 

“I’m sorry—” “—I love you.”

He almost fell over. Impressive, since Will was still sitting down and his feet didn’t entirely reach the floor from that position. His jaw dropped. He hated that. Partially because it hurt and mostly because he should have been way cooler, wanted to be way cooler, but there were dots of red on his girlfriend’s cheeks and teeth digging into her lower lip, now, and he resolutely ignored the ache in his calves when he slid back to his feet. 

Curling an arm around her waist, he didn’t think much about the precise way he yanked her. Forward. Directly into his chest and that didn’t leave much room to bend his knees, but Will was less concerned with specifics and the staging of this than actually getting to the good part. 

The kissing part. 

Plus, Belle pushed up on her toes. So, that helped. 

He groaned. Loudly, like embarrassingly loud. As soon as her head tilted and he could get his mouth on hers and they were all hands and lips and whatever she was doing with her tongue, tracing the lip he’d been so intent on biting through just a few moments before. Bending his knees did give Will some more leverage. To pull her even closer, moving his arm and ignoring her soft protests. 

Most of them died when he managed to get a hand under her left thigh. 

She groaned. Something to be said about symmetry, Will assumed. Although he also didn’t really...care. About the saying, mostly. Not when he was melting and falling, dropping into the deep end of a pool that was a shock to his system and the best thing that had ever happened to him and she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Bar none. 

Especially when she did that tongue thing. 

Closing his eyes, he knew he had to tilt his head. Had to breathe and stay conscious and he didn’t want to think about the medical requirements of a professional hockey player at a time like that, but he knew consistent awareness of his surroundings was probably fairly important and the roar of triumph blaring through his brain made that a little difficult. Breathing would have to be enough for now. 

“I can’t—” Belle’s shoulders heaved. Fingers dragged across the back of Will’s neck and he had to admit he was fairly impressed with her balance. Her right foot wasn’t on the ground. “Shit, I—” He pulled her lip between his teeth, tried to memorize the next hitch of her breath and he was about five-point two-three seconds away from losing his mind. Rocking his hips up was a very bad idea. He did it anyway. “Babe, I can’t think when you do that.”

Everything was spinning. He was spinning. No, that wasn’t true. He wasn’t spinning. He was standing and touching and there was barely any color left in Belle’s eyes. 

Pride prickled at the back of Will’s brain. Until pain joined the fray, making a glorious and unwelcome return at the precise moment he realized there was moisture on his cheek again. Warm and red and Ariel was going to kill him. 

“Cap and Emma were making out in the hallway,” Will explained, “pre-game. Nothing they don’t normally do, and I don’t even think they knew I was there.”

“Is any of this supposed to make me feel better?”

He nodded. “I love you, too. Like it’s ridiculous how in love with you I am.”

Silence. As much as there could be in a locker room, at least. Water fell from shower heads a few hundred feet away, the low murmur of questions and Lucas-approved answers, squeaking sneakers and clacking heels, and the familiar sound of wheels rolling across linoleum as the equipment hampers moved down the hall. 

Will took a deep breath. 

Slowly, through his nose. Keeping the nerves off his face was harder than he expected, and even more ridiculous than whatever he’d just proclaimed because Belle had proclaimed first and it was entirely possible they were both colossal idiots. That put them on even ground, though. 

He appreciated that. 

“Why were you mad, ma moitié?”

There was the pinch, again. “Why do you think?” Will shook his head, brushing hair away from her eyes and he knew he didn’t imagine that sigh, either. Softer. More content. All that previous even ground. “Because I—” Belle started, and the color hadn’t left her face yet. “I know you think you’ve got to be this guy. Out there defending, not just the goal but the people and that’s...I’m super into that.”

“But?”

“But it makes me so nervous, I could spit.’

Will genuinely had no idea what noise he made. It might not have been human, really. Tearing out of his throat, his eyes bugged and he bent over without really meaning to, forehead finding Belle’s shoulder like that was the only reasonable landing place. He was still bleeding. Or bleeding again, whatever. 

“Say that again,” he mumbled. Into her jersey. His jersey. Whatever, part two. 

“Spit,” she repeated, making sure to enunciate every letter, “because I know you can hold your own in a fight, and that’s how you think you make a difference on this team, but—”

“It is that’s why.”

“Was my shin-kicking threat not threatening?”

He kissed exactly where his lips were. “Not really, no.”

“‘Cuz I’ll totally do it, I swear. To all those gods and goddesses and then they’ll descend from on high and tell you that they also think you’re an idiot who should know that letting some rat on the ice get under your skin is exactly what they’re trying to do. Plus, it’s way better when you check them, y’know?”

Lifting his head didn’t hurt. Made him a little nervous, anxiety churning his gut and this was not the way Will thought this would happen. Maybe he could get Belle to kick Killian too. For the making out. And the unspoken frustration. He was definitely an idiot. “Is it just?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Don’t have to. You’re very easy to read.”

Belle lifted her eyebrows. More. “That so?’

“You think it’s super attractive when I check another dude.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to. Also, I love you.”

“You mentioned that before, yeah.”

“And I am sorry for freaking you out.” Sigh number three wasn’t quite as resigned as the others, but it still left guilt rising in the back of Will’s throat and every single inch of him froze. As soon as Belle leaned around him, grabbed a far-too-large handful of gauze and started wiping blood off his cheek. “That’s way too much, babe.”

“Ariel can deal.”

“Ya gonna kick her too?”

“I’ll consider it,” Belle mumbled, back on both feet again. For, like, two seconds. Before she pushed back up on her toes, kissed the corner of Will's mouth, and added, “Don’t do that to me again, ok?”

“Aye, aye, Cap.”

He had much better reflexes than her. Pulling her back to his side before either one of her shoes could land a blow was easy and bordering almost close to joyful and that was a strange thing for him to be, but it was also easy and somehow even more simple and Ariel let them into the restaurant that night. They stayed for all of fifteen minutes. 

And Will told Belle he loved her once every five minutes on the cab ride back to his apartment. 

He timed it, and everything. Just to make sure the color stayed in her cheeks.

[iwillnotburnmyjournals]

What Are You Doing, Julie??

I made a decision that is vague and formless and without guarantee, and also requires attention, detail, self-awareness, and tirelessness.

I am not working for a month. No day job, no part-time. I am meditating, working through “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron, and writing music for a month. This may sound ideal to some, stupid or entitled or not a big deal to others. One of many motivations for this month was that I recently had a conversation with a friend who had decided to switch from being an actor to going back to school for social work and possibly an eventual law degree. When I asked her why the switch, she responded, “When I really sat down with myself, I just knew I didn’t actually want to spend my energy putting in the kind of work it would take to be an actor. But I’ll always be a performer at heart.”

And I thought, “Good lord, have I ever been that honest with myself about what I want to do?”

For me, this month is a small protest against my denial of past years as well as an experiment. For almost a decade, I have gone through a series of begrudging and slow admittances. At first, I pretended that I just couldn’t find the correct job or career path, I wasn’t sure of what I wanted to do. (This kept concerned adults off my back for a bit). And so I bought myself some time and meandered in a career-malaise for five years after college, working various and multiple jobs, none of them satisfying whatever I was craving. I had an ex tell me I was never going to find what I was looking for – which is laughable considering no one should ever say that to another person, and also considering that I was years away from saying out loud what I actually was looking for.

I wrote two songs in college. Stopped. Started again in 2016 and wrote most of the songs I have now, maybe 10 “finished” – (are they ever fucking finished?) – songs. Stopped. I didn’t write again for three years, but all the while was reading memoirs of artists and musicians, how-to-creativity books while deeply embarrassed that I needed a how-to at all. In 2019, I admitted that I at least wanted to move to New York City so I could be near music, so I could see live shows, so I could perform if I wanted to. I was inching myself closer to the edge, like a little kid who’s still in swimmies inching her way to dip her toes in the deep end. But I still wasn’t writing.

After having a conversation in April with a fellow musician about Charlie Parker locking himself in his apartment for two years to play music for 16 hours a day and do heroin, I said, “Fuck it. I’m tired of saying I want something and not doing anything to move toward it.” It’s easy to think that if you love something enough, you will magically just find a way to do it. This is not the case for me. It seems that I find every excuse I can not to write. When I told a friend a few years ago how writing for me was often like extracting an arrow lodged in my chest and that I ran away from it as much as possible, his response was, “Well, maybe you just shouldn’t write.” I’ve hated that response ever since he voiced it.

Annie Dillard was the one person who gave me permission to realize and admit that I was cripplingly afraid of writing, and rightly so. Her small masterpiece, The Writing Life, is a mortar and pestle to the ego if you’re stuck in the shadowlands of thinking you want to write when all you really want is attention (large neon blinking arrow to my head.) In representing the frustrating, often fruitless, painstaking process of writing, Annie uses the metaphor of an architect who has a sole worker who refuses to work on the architect’s building design, claiming it is faulty. She writes, “Acknowledge, first, that you cannot do nothing . . . Subject the next part, the part at which the worker balks, to harsh tests. It harbors an unexamined and wrong premise. Something completely necessary is false or fatal. Once you find it, and if you can accept the finding, of course it will mean starting again. This is why many experienced writers urge young men and women to learn a useful trade.” I’ve always hated when artistic types say, “If you can do without this [art], you should try.” It’s always seemed egotistical or pejorative to me. But now I get it. The thought of so much self-accountability, starting and failing and having to be one the one who declares you yourself have failed, terrifies me and seems so pointless.

But I really do have masochist in my bloodstream. Whatever terrifies me, I’m a bloodhound for. So, when I realized I kept saying I wanted to be a singer-songwriter while simultaneously sneaking out the backdoor of my brain and action to get away from just that, I figured I should test myself. At least I’ll know whether I’m a total fraud and attention-grabber, or whether this is what I need to do. Bob Dylan’s words that the world doesn’t need any more songs ring in my ears daily. But I guess that’s a good litmus test if I persist in writing songs while the greatest American songwriter repeats that mantra in my ear.

So, I am dedicating this month to meditation, working through “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron, and writing music. I will be giving updates, either written or video recorded, each day. Not for attention or because “this is so original” but because I read a book years ago called Show Your Work by Austin Kleon and one of his pieces of advice was to share your creative processes with others rather than wait to show a perfected result. That and I am so horribly cock-blocked when it comes to expressing what I truly think and feel that I’m forcing myself to put out processes/anything I’m working on where a roving eye could see it if it wanted. Seeing as how I’m pretty obsessed with people’s sketch books and rough drafts, watching people apply makeup on the subway, and existential crises in the midst of trying to get somewhere, I figured keeping some kind of public record was a good idea.

Good lord, here we fucking go.

[fictionalplagueproductions]

If The World Was Ending

Part 2 - It Didn’t Scare Me

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3

Story Summary:  Gavin is on the hunt for his missing android when the U.S. Government announces the end of the world. The end of his world. A world without his precious Nines.

Chapter Summary: Connor has managed to escape the clutches of android genocide, but Gavin isn't sure if the same can be said for Nines.

Pairing: Reed900 (Gavin Reed x RK900)

Rating: Explicit

Notes:

Based on the song “If the World Was Ending” by JP Saxe and Julia Michaels.

Short Three-Part Story (so I can channel this desire to make Reed900 come alive)

The progress of Gavin’s relationship with Nines was practically nonexistent. Between a man who refused to admit to his faults and an android built without social protocols, it was near impossible to get anything to happen. Not to mention, android prejudice was becoming a real threat for androids and their sympathizers.

Jim Crow laws had nothing on the division that androids were undergoing now, being collected and forced into the entire state of Michigan, that is. The government called it a “remedial period” in order to adjust to android integration and develop the proper rights specific to robotic sentients. Humans were allowed to stay if they elected to; some left, most begrudgingly stayed due to the inconvenience of moving.

There had been a few brave souls to come out about their relationships with the opposing species during this time. Gavin and Nines weren’t one of them. Rather, Gavin had not been. Although fresh into deviation, Nines was willfully blind to the hatred that people inflicted upon androids (despite the illegality of it). He had been prepared to tell the entire precinct the day they first kissed but didn’t per Gavin’s request.

He wasn’t ready.

Setting aside political excuses, Gavin was his own relationship inhibitor. Commencing these romantic interests with Nines was refuting the false exterior he had displayed for so long. Coming out to the world would create problems he was dead set on carrying with him to the grave. He had upkept a heterosexual reputation for so long, he wasn’t sure how to be anything else around his family and coworkers without embarrassing himself by mocking silly stereotypes. It didn’t help that Gavin was notorious for being against androids – what insults would he be subject to if they all knew?

As anyone might guess, there was hardly a “honeymoon phase” for the private couple. What they considered “dates” would have been any ordinary lunch break or sleepover for the typical person. It’s not that they didn’t enjoy the time they spent together, but it was always anti-climactic and never much contributed to the progression of their relationship.

For several months, doubt stacked against them.

It became second nature to squabble with one another when they crossed paths merely to maintain utmost confidentiality. They had both agreed the effectiveness of this plan; it was the safest preventative measure to anyone discovering the truth. And besides, the feelings of hate for each other would always subside by the end of the day. As soon as the pair stepped into Gavin’s rust-bucket-on-wheels, Nines’ attitude melted like nothing offensive had transpired from his mouth in the last twelve hours.

Gavin could forget for a while. Especially when Nines stared at him in that special way… that pleading, merciful stare which signified he was about to kiss him. Yes, he could forget entirely.

Until one day he couldn’t: a day in which he had found himself lying on Hank Anderson’s living room sofa.

“You don’t have to sit all the way over there, you know? They’ll be out of town for the entire weekend,” Nines had said. “I have their GPS locations, too, in case any plans have been changed.”

Gavin believed his android. That’s not why he distanced himself. “I know,” he mumbled, slaving his eyes to the television.

Nines was silent for several minutes. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” came his contingent response.

The heartbeat indicating Gavin’s pressing existence quickened under the flatline of words. He was sure Nines could and had picked up on it. “Do what?” he snapped back, though his misleading disruptive tone did not match the building fear within him.

“I don’t want to keep pretending.” The android pierced him with a sharp glare. “I don’t like hating you. I was programmed to be emotionless in spite of personifying assimilations. Do you know how difficult it is to override such programs and to express emotions anyway? To feel emotions? Wasting my energy on an action that I have no desire to perform is exhaustive and it confuses my ability to love you.”

Gavin sputtered, “Did you just say ‘lo-’.”

“Please Gavin,” interrupted Nines. He was undeniably aggravated. “It’s put distance between us. I know I have little knowledge and experiences with ‘dating’, but I know that it’s typical to have a common goal of becoming familiar with a chosen partner and sharing such feelings with one another. As far as we’re concerned, we’ve hardly done anything of the sort. I mean, look at you, you’re sitting all the way over there…” Despite the stolidity in his demeanors, his voice cracked for the very first time Gavin had ever witnessed. “…and I want you over here.”

Gavin was no sympathy-cryer, but it was becoming apparent how little credit he gave Nines. He swallowed the building tears down to speak. “I…uh…I didn’t know you were feeling all of this.”

Nines scowled. “I may not be well-versed in the ways of acting the part of ‘boyfriend’, but I thought it was an obvious concept that lovers should want to enjoy their time with each other. I had hoped that this weekend we might have the opportunity to overcome some barriers, that you might be able to tell me you’re ready. I….I… never thought I would be the one stupidly pining over an emotional skin-sack to make some sort of romantic gesture.” He was raising his voice now. “I felt closer to you when you actually hated me before any of this.”

Gavin sunk into the cushions, absorbing the uncertainty his android was exuding all of a sudden. How had he not realized? Nines had always appeared so self-assured about everything. How was he supposed to have realized? His voice relinquished an untrying defeat, “I-I’m sorry. Fuck, I don’t know what to do. I’ve always been so terrible…”

“At relationships or in general?” asked Nines, though his facial expression did not indicate a cynical undertone.

“Both,” he heaved. “Nines?”

“Hm?”

Gavin shifted uncomfortably under the burden of his thoughts. “Do you…ahem…uh, love me?”

“Of course, I do.” The android rolled his eyes as if the answer was an obvious one. “What’s this all been about if not for love?”

A growing pause erupted between them, then was broken by the anguished man. “H-How long?”

Nines, all of a sudden, seemed to comprehend the weight of his words and moved his lips apprehensively before speaking their contents.  “Some time ago, I suppose. It wasn’t a concept I understood well until Connor pressed me to study and indulge in human culture. For a long time, until then, you were just Detective Reed. And then…”

He slowed to a stop, now staring through Gavin as if recalling the memory. His menacing ring spun red and Gavin half-expected for the android to blow a gasket at the bunched skin forming along his forehead.  “…You told me to ‘go fuck myself’ for the one-hundred-and-twentieth time after I had informed you that patching my wounds with bandages and alcohol was futile. Your profane terms, I then realized, came from an endearing place… I found myself considering your actions, thereafter, studying you more than I typically would another human. It eventually led to my affections for you. Why do you ask?”

Gavin, himself, remembered that alarming day like it had happened just yesterday. It was the day he, too, realized he had grown to not regret the android’s presence. “The bullet didn’t hit a biocomponent, Detective Reed,” Nines had groaned. In that moment, the simulated pain erupting from his partner’s movements embodied that of a true human. It was more than convincing, so much so that Gavin was still very much convinced to this day that he was, in fact, human.

“That-That is a big word, Nines. It’s…not just ‘like’. It’s a complicated word.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it again. It was a word that burned his tongue every time it bugged up his throat; a humiliating form of gutting your innards and displaying them to the world.

His android considered this for a moment. “Love is described in several different ways, existing dependently on the perception of a person and what they value in another. I value your stubborn loyalty, Gavin, and the way you stupidly care for my wellbeing.” Another pause. “Do you love me, Gavin?”

That damned word roared through Gavin’s head, stirring in disbelief that someone had the ability to say it so confidently; and to have someone so perfect say it to him… Could he say it back? Could he even push the syllable through his lips? As bitter as it tasted, his response was not a matter of knowing the answer, but rather recognizing the consequences that accompanied his candor.

Could he say it?

“Yeah,” he exhaled, then corrected with a stronger “yes.” An immediate blush flushed from his ears to his toes. What an idiot, he had thought to himself immediately. Somehow, the admittance attracted more humility.

Nines smiled but made haste in his following words: “I’ve been an obedient android for most of my short life,” he spoke rigidly. “Now, I have to demand of you that things change if our relationship is to advance into more intimate parameters. You may have some time to figure out how you desire to go about it, but I require it to be within the next thirty days.” Regardless of his human’s wandering eyes, Nines coerced them to land safely on his own. “I love you, Gavin,” he said firmly, lulling into a softer tone. “I love you and I want more than this silly scheme you’re trying to conduct.”

“It’s not that eas-” Gavin tried, quickly cut off by his partner.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear a single word you say when you’re sitting all the way over there!”

The android smirked, knowing his partner was fully aware of his keen hearing abilities. Bullheadedly, Gavin remained glued to his spot. “Okay,” hummed Nines, shifting onto all fours and crawling overtop of his human’s sprawled body. He slipped a palm underneath the awaiting man’s chin and flickered a glance to his lips. “You know I always get my way, why do you beset me to this tactic every time?”

Gavin turned away, forcing himself not to fall for the android’s seductive touch.

“That’s never worked either.” Nines fixed the man’s gaze back onto him with a gentle press against his cheek. “Gavin? I’m not asking. I may be android, but my deviancy is as untame as your own human chaos. And you’re not alone. I will help you through this.”

Gavin bit at his lip, still attempting to avoid eye contact but ultimately unable to resist the reflective pools pouring infirmity into him. “All right,” he breathed. “I-I’ll do it.”

It was the right answer. Nines had never been the greatest at reading into signs, but he was sure now – without the aid of dubious internet forums – that he should kiss this man that he loved. And he reminded this man that he loved him as he planted his lips gently onto his taut skin. Afterwards, Nines leaned back, gazing at his boyfriend expectantly. “I love you, too,” said he finally, cracking a genuine smile for possibly the first time in days.

Clearly satisfied, Nines hooked around Gavin’s jawline and dove down to meet him hungrily, asking now for a more invigorating stimulation. He shivered when fingers snaked through his synthetic locks, returning the intimate gesture.

Making out was about as far as they had ever gone. Keeping things a secret on top of their natural boundaries made for uneventful cock-blocks. But after everything that had ensued, Gavin was ready to take it to the next level.

Everyone would know about them by the end of the week, anyway; he would tell them all. Nines, the “socially inept” android wanted to be his boyfriend publicly. How could Gavin say no to such requests when his partner had already overcome a great feat himself? It was his turn, now.

Shit, Nines loved him.

From below, he slipped a clutching hand beneath the android’s indigo turtleneck and sunk fingernails into plastic skin that felt so real. Nines copied the action from on top of him. They were mostly motionless save for their conjoined mouths, and the lack of bodily movement didn’t concern Gavin at first. But when his android let a grunt slip, there was no restraining the leg that mounted over Nines’ ass and the upward thrust that grew Gavin to the vastness of his length. He wasn’t sure if Nines knew how to properly reciprocate, though Gavin was more than happy to continue to oblige in the repetitive movements.

The body became stiff above him and it fell in response. Not quite what he was expecting.

Nines then dropped into dead weight altogether, halting Gavin’s accelerating speed. “I don’t know what you want.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gavin. He thought it had been more than obvious what he was trying to segue into. After the bathroom incident, Gavin had ignorantly assumed all androids were capable of “doing it”. Had he been wrong? “Can you not-?”

“I can perform sexual actions, if that’s what you mean. It’s just, I’m not yet equipped.”

“Oh.” His wonder did not end there, curious as to how the part would attach and what was in place of the regular male form. Gavin imagined a bare Ken Doll, nakedly plastic in all its glory, sporting a mere bulge with no real appendage to put on display. The fickle state his android appeared to be in, however, told him tonight wasn’t the night to pry about such curiosities. “That’s okay, I was feeling tired anyways. Let’s just finish this movie.”

The android hesitated before sliding off of him and positioning himself along the edge of the couch, allowing himself to be encompassed by Gavin’s smaller yet protective frame. Although Gavin had hoped for more after exchanging such heavy vows, having his boyfriend back in his arms was satisfying enough. He fastened himself tightly around Nines like he would dissipate into thin air and rested a chin neatly over his blue LED.

Moments passed, then it flickered red. “Gavin? I’m still aroused, you know? After all, endorphins – human and android – aren’t produced in the genitalia.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“I’m saying,” continued Nines with a growing devious grin, “that just because one of us doesn’t have the part, doesn’t mean we can’t still have a pleasing night.” The android looked over his shoulder at his human, feeling a lump beginning to swell against his backside.

Gavin felt his breath go hot as Nines shifted to face him, his expression spoiled with desire.

They had sex for the very first time on Hank Anderson’s couch.

A week later, Gavin was regretting the memory. Not because it wasn’t a pleasant one – in fact, it was so pleasant that, despite the harrowing circumstances, a warmth built in his groin when Connor invited him to take a seat in the exact spot that Nines had been bent over for him. But the feeling did not last long, soon replaced by a pang of melancholy.

Where was Nines now and why wasn’t he with Connor?

“I thought you knew?” asked the RK800. “He was with you last night when they broke the news…” He sat across from Gavin on the love seat.

“W-What? No he wasn’t-.”

Connor dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Nines isn’t that sneaky. Even in my stasis, I could hear him fumbling with the doorknob. ‘Faster, stronger, and more resilient’, sure, but not a single drop of stealth thirium in him,” he snickered as a side-note. “He also hates lying, so he had a shaky alibi at best when I questioned his whereabouts. I was able to eventually put two-and-two together when your bickering increased excessively, assisted by no considerable motive.” Through a heavy frown, the older android managed to yank a line into the end where his lips met and grinned at the reddening man. “Did I crack the case, Detective?”

Gavin moaned, “I didn’t come here to play games. Look, even if all that were true – which I’m not saying it is – I just want to know where he is.” Desperation edged into his voice. “O-Or to know that he’s safe.”

“I wish I could say that he is. He…He left a few hours ago.”

“What?” Gavin nearly jumped out of his seat. “Where did he go? It’s not safe for him out there right now!”

“I know that. He chose to leave on his own accord. We share many qualities, but while hiding out here, he came to this strange conclusion that androids weren’t meant to coexist with humans. He thinks androids are the reason the country has become divided.” After every word that fell from Connor’s mouth, Gavin’s hope strained like a game of Jenga; a slow removal, piece-by-piece, that would inevitably lead to a thundering tumble. “He said it was for the best that everything was happening the way it was…”

“Spit it out already, Tin Can. Where’d he go?”

Connor choked on his final sentence, somehow appearing shocked by the words ghosting in his throat. “Nines turned himself into the nearest camp.”

In all his years of detective work, Gavin would never have suspected an android such as Nines to act as a martyr for his entire race. No, scratch that; this wasn’t a martyr. How could that be so if Nines was against his own kind?

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Gavin entered into a growl, targeting Connor now. The android seemed torn up about it as much as he was, but his was the only face he could put forth blame.

“I tried, Gavin, but you know Nines as well as I do, if not better. When his mind is made up…well, I guess you guys really made quite the match.”

“Yeah…” was all he could manage in response. Images of a Nines stripped of all of his human clothing and skin pulsed afront the detective’s own eyes. Fear rung his heart like a punching bag. It was enough to cause him to lose his breath, enticing a sharp black movement across his sights, and suddenly the world was but a dream.

He woke up to Connor placing ice cubes over his wrists and speaking to him softly. “Nines loved you, you know? It was obvious to both Hank and I. Hank wasn’t too thrilled about it…but Nines seemed much happier for a long time after we figured it out. And really… how can we be mad when you showed him what makes deviation so remarkable? What makes… being human so remarkable?”

Gavin shot up from the floor, pushing the android’s helping hands out of the way. “Iye needta go find ‘im.” The older RK did not follow him out the door – he couldn’t have stopped him, anyway.

Nines was out there somewhere.

He wasn’t dead yet.

Gavin could feel it.

Even when he traversed the local camps that had already been put up in the last ten hours without any sign of the broad android, Gavin pushed on.

He pushed on, assuring himself that Nines was still present in this world.

Nines was here.

He had to be.

He had to be, didn’t he? After all, androids were built to endure for much longer than the fragile human life. It was humans that grew determinately, breaking back down into simple compounds and returning to the earth after just a few decades. Nines was supposed to watch him grow old.

No, Nines was not supposed to be the one to die.

Nines deserved to live more than any one of them, android or human.

It wasn’t supposed to be him.

It wasn’t supposed to be him.

When, finally, the sun was set far beyond its mantle, Gavin had to call it a night. And furthermore, painfully accept the mortality of his partner, of his boyfriend.

It wasn’t a fair conclusion. Androids were sentenced to death because the U.S. government couldn’t handle the thought of losing another source of enslavement. As selfish as Gavin was to journey only to save his android, his mind had developed change over just a few short months. It was hard to deny their sentience, since denying it would have meant that Gavin was falling for a toaster.

No, it was unfair and there was nothing he could do.

Nines was gone. The one good thing that had entered his life was gone.

And there was nothing he could do.

Anger boiled through his fingertips as he went to climb out of his car.

There was nothing he could do.

Gavin tossed his backpack onto the concrete ledge to retrieve later and faced the open car door. He clenched a fist around the handle and slammed it shut. Then he opened it again, shoving the damned metal with two hands now back into place. He did this several times, hastening his pace until he was sure the metal had forged a new crater.

Nines was gone.

Gavin thumped his head against the roof and angled an arm around himself protectively. That’s when the sobbing commenced. A few hot tears first burned in his sockets procured from the heat of the moment, then subsequently melted into a downpour of bitter release. Saltwater oozed past his cheeks, mingling with the slimy discharge that leaked from his nose, and adhering further down to the drool that he lacked even the simplest of strength to swallow.

With each internal repetition of his own mantra, he slammed his head harder into the rusted metal:

“He’s gone.”

Thump.

“He’s gone.”

Thump.

And there was nothing he could do.

Nothing.

Not a single goddamn thing.

Time was a mere subjective entity to the broken man. It wasn’t until the chilling air exhausted his exoskeleton of numbness that he realized his tears ducts were emptied and his feet ached for cushion. Gavin drudged up the staircase to his apartment, stumbling over every step and dragging his pack by the tips of two fingers. It reminded him of all the times he had needed Nines’ assistance through his drunken stupors. His now lost ability to climb during these muddled states came as a surprise to Gavin; he had become more dependent on the android than expected.

Eventually, Gavin achieved his minor plight, falling against his apartment door and gripping the handle for balance. It took several heaves to catch his breath and a few extra beats in between for courage before he could bind the lock with its respective key; a distinguishable challenge on its own through the bubble beginning to well from his bottom eyelids. When the door swung open, Gavin could do nothing more than to stumble inside and accept the turmoil his heart revved within him.

As he went to kick the door shut, however, a movement startled his quakes into stillness and he called out into the darkness. “Who’s there?”

Heavy stepping erupted from his room and Gavin was quick to reach for his concealed carry. Slowly, the light above him crawled along the body of a man with hands raised in surrender. A red circular blink raised high among the shadow identified him before the light could touch his face.

“Gavin,” lamented a voice, just above a whisper. Bright grey eyes reflected under the aged fluorescence, glimmering wistfully at him.

The bubbles swishing in Gavin’s sights finally popped, spilling over and singing his raw skin. His hands separated from each other and the gun went slack at his side, him ogling the floor while doing so – refusing to believe the illusion set in front of him. Then, without any preamble, he recoiled his arm and tossed the firearm recklessly into the wall beside of Nines.

The android did not move.

“You fuck-fucking shithead!”

[wicked-game-black-butler]

"Would you care to step out from behind the shade?" Sebastian asked, causing me to jump as I hadn't realized how close he had come.

My brow furrowed at his request, "Shouldn't I dress first?"

"Clothing would hinder my inspection of your wounds." he quickly replied.

My pulse quickened as I found my feet conveying me around the cover of the shade before my mind had an opportunity to agree. As I rounded the corner my gaze immediately fell on Sebastian, who looked as perfectly put together as he always did. I nervously clenched my hands, biting my lip as I found myself standing before the scrutinizing gaze of the butler. Though I tried to maintain an outward air of indifference, I fought against the urge to seek refuge behind the shade once more and I found myself wishing that I had taken another shot or two of Bard's whisky-lowered inhibitions would lessen the tension of this situation. No matter what I had fantasized about being with the butler, now that I was placed in a situation where, for all intents and purposes, I was practically naked, I wanted nothing more than to take my clothes and run. Standing before him in such a manner made me feel raw and exposed, every muscle in my body taut as I stood poised like prey before its predator. I hated it. I wanted to be suave and confident, matching his finesse in a tantalizing battle for dominance and perhaps a week ago I would have done so. However, this past week had shattered any sense of normalcy and security I had gained in my months of living here-a stark reminder of how powerless I was against the powers that lurked in the shadows, waiting patiently for an opportunity to claim me once more.

"Come now," Sebastian soothed, delicately curving his finger under my chin, tilting my head up to look at him. I tensed, inhaling sharply at his touch. His eyes softened before he continued in the same low, soothing voice, "There is no reason to fear. I shall not harm you."

As the comforting words left his lips, my shoulders relaxed, my pulse slowing to return to some semblance of normal as I gazed into his strangely hued eyes, my body realizing before my mind that I believed him. A gentle smile graced his lips as he lowered his hand.

"That's a good girl. Now," he paused, gesturing to a chair on my left, "would you please take a seat?"

I hesitantly nodded before obediently stepping over to the chair, maintaining a firm grip on the bottom of the towel, as it kept trying to part wider than I wanted as I sat. I did not want that much of my upper thigh to be exposed. Sebastian followed close behind, kneeling before me after I was seated and immediately set to work, rifling through the contents of the medical box he had brought. I watched with curiosity as I noticed this box was different than the one I was accustomed to using. It was much smaller and was not filled with many vials of medicine, rather it was mostly filled with bandages and only two larger bottles that contained curious looking darkly hued spherical objects which I assumed were pills of some sort.

"I will forewarn you that this medicine requires a slightly unorthodox oral application," he said, removing the lid of the bottle with a low pop, pouring a few of the pills into his gloved hand.

I quirked my brow questioningly, wondering what he meant. A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest when I opened my mouth as he brought the pills up to my face.

"No, no," he chided amusedly, "I will apply the salve orally."

My cheeks grew warm at his explanation, "What do you mean?" I asked nervously.

"Like so," he answered, before tossing the pills into his mouth.

As he chewed them, they crunched with a painfully loud noise and I wondered to myself how he did not break some teeth in the process. Though the greater curiosity I had was how he was planning on applying the salve. No sooner had the question formed in my mind, when Sebastian carefully took my wrist in his hand, rotating my forearm so the wounded skin of my underarm faced him before leaning in and grazing his tongue along the sensitive flesh.

I gasped, my eyes widening as I jerked my arm from his grasp, about to chastise him for being so forward when I looked down at my arm. My lips parted slightly in amazement as I ghosted my fingers over my skin, which was no longer tender or inflamed, but rather appeared its normal porcelain. Even the cuts the glass had made appeared to be smaller.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked innocently, gazing up at me with a subtly challenging look that was far from innocent.

"This is incredible!" I breathed with amazement, ignoring his question, "How did you..-?" I started to ask when Sebastian interrupted.

"The key is the saliva. It activates chemicals that accelerate the healing process," he explained, an irrepressible smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I applied the same salve to assist your healing before. Why else would you have recovered so quickly?"

My fingers subconsciously moved to my thigh to where, despite the severity of the wound I received, there was no scar to mar my skin.

"Wait!" I exclaimed as the realization struck me, "You mean you…-?!"

I paused mid-thought, the heat of embarrassment rushing to my cheeks and down my neck as my mind recalled once when I had awoken in a daze to find Sebastian in the room with me, remembering the strange yet soothing sensation along all of the injured parts of my body. I squirmed internally, both embarrassed and aroused in equal parts at the thought of all the places on my body his tongue had touched.

"I promise nothing unsavory occurred," he answered, attempting unsuccessfully to muffle an amused chuckle as he tried to placate my concern.

Before I could respond, he took the same wrist in his hand, turning it towards his lips before adding, "Now that you know what to expect, should we continue?"

I bit my lip, hesitating for a moment. What excuse could I give should one of the servants walk in on us? They already thought we were lovers. My eyes trailed down to my arm, my logical train of thought reminding me that, in light of the medical benefits, such activities were worth the risk. Then, a much darker portion of my mind drew my attention to the warmth that had subtly been growing within me, whispering seductively that I should do it just for the thrill of his tongue on my body.

"Yes," I whispered, my response rushed before I snapped my mouth shut before I could change my mind.

He smirked a darkly before he drew my wrist closer to his lips, his breath fluttering over my skin, closing his eyes before trailing his tongue along my wrist and palm of my hand. My stomach tensed as I watched as he delicately traced my skin, handling me as if I were something fragile and precious. Though, I noted as one by one his tongue cupped each of my slender fingers, his tongue flicking the end of each digit as he finished, that I wanted him to handle me in a much less delicate manner.

The sensuality of this moment didn't seem to be lost on Sebastian, either, given how meticulous he was in his ministrations as he finished with my right arm and moved to tend to the left one. With each second that passed, the ache and pain from my wounds abated, replaced by the forbidden burning of desire and arousal.

I froze and gripped the arms of the chair, a pang of want issuing from the aching need between my legs, as he adjusted slightly and flicked his tongue over the gash on my left shoulder. Not allowing me time to recover, he turned his attention to my cheek. A shiver of pleasure trickled down my spine and I closed my eyes as he gripped my knees gently, rubbing comforting circles on my skin as he eased my legs apart so he could settle between them, doing so providing him easier access to my face and neck.

A sigh of relief escaped my lips as the soreness from my cheek disappeared in an instant. At that noise, I felt Sebastian stiffen, his grip on my knees momentarily tightening. I relished in his reaction, pleased to know this was tempting him as much as it was me. I gripped the arms of the chair so tight my knuckles turned white as I resisted the urge to reach out and grab hold of him, though that resolve was quickly crumbling.

I stifled a groan of disappointment as he pulled away. My eyes fluttered open, my heart skipping a beat when I saw the raw intensity of desire smoldering in his eyes.

"Do you wish for me to continue?" he asked, he voice a little rough as he began speaking, though it returned to normal by the time he finished his question.

My brow furrowed in confusion at his question. In response, he reached and gingerly touched my throat, careful not to hurt me.

"The neck is a rather sensual area to be touched," he began, his gaze following the trail his fingers took along my skin, causing another shiver to go down my spine, "I wanted to ensure you were comfortable with me touching you in such an intimate manner before we proceeded."

I adjusted in my seat, surprised by the warm slickness that had collected between my legs. I briefly wondered is this was normal, as I had never experienced such a sensation before. However, any reservation was swept aside as my eyes met his, the desire that remained in his crimson pools mirroring my own.

"You would not be the first to do so," I answered, taken aback by the brief flicker of anger that appeared on Sebastian's face at that admittance, "And they were unable to move me to feeling. The experience was rather dull, actually."

A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he popped a couple more pills in his mouth, crunching them quickly before leaning in, accurately taking my subtle challenge as permission.

"Oh, I believe this will be anything but dull," he purred, titling my head back as he glided his tongue from the base of my throat to my chin, following along my esophagus.

I gasped when I felt something pop, realizing when I was able to breathe normally that something must have been damaged along my airway. The relief only lasted the briefest of moments, however, for as Sebastian continued, a ravenous hunger stronger than any I had felt before took the foremost place in my mind. Each inch of skin he touched tingled with electricity. My breath became shallow and my heart thundered within my chest as he worked his way down the left side of my neck.

As he reached the base, he flicked his tongue on a particularly sensitive spot. My back arched, causing my body to press against his, my hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt as the most sensual sound that I had ever uttered passed my parted lips.

"Sebastian!"

As soon as his name passed my lips, I was shoved forcefully back in the chair, Sebastian's fingers entangling in my damp hair while his other hand guided my right leg to hook behind him, his fingers causing gooseflesh to rise where they ghosted across the newly exposed skin. A low growl rumbled from his chest when he traced the back of my knee with his fingers as he moved to the right side of my neck, the sensation causing my leg to spasm, momentarily forcing his hips against mine, eliciting a soft moan from him. I gasped as a wave of pleasure washed over me, the towel beginning to slowly inch down my torso as our bodies pressed together again.

A moment later Sebastian froze and I could have sworn there was a flash of light, at least that is what it seemed like, but I couldn't be sure as my eyes had been closed. I slowly opened my eyes as Sebastian pulled away, huffing with frustration.

"Is everything all right?" I asked, my brow dipping in concern, worried it was something I had done.

"My lord is requesting my presence," he answered.

~Excerpt from Wicked Game-Chapter Thirteen: His Butler-Healing

[thedeviltohisangel]

The Clock Strikes//1//It Doesn’t Matter If You Love Him

Kylo and his new wife Tessala run into trouble when exploring a new planet.

mentions of attempted kidnapping

masterlist in bio!

send any requests for these two my way!

It wasn’t unusual for him to wake up without Tessala beside him. In fact, it was normal. Normally, she never even went to bed beside him. But last night she had. Last night had been different. Dare he say it. Say that it felt good.

Kylo had not felt good in a long time.

But his moment of good was fleeting as he began to wonder why she was no longer in bed with him. It had been months since she had been wed to him at the request of the Supreme Leader. Kylo had accepted that she would tolerate him at best. That seemed to be what everyone did. If that. He had promised himself he would return her feelings in kind. There was no way either of them could survive this union if actual emotions and feelings got involved. She was a princess from a wealthy planet with a large army and he was a powerful servant for an even more powerful lord. They had each been left little choice in the matter.

Last night she had been sad. She had been angry. There had been a fire inside of her and he was ashamed to admit that he had been drawn to it. The edge of self-destruction that lived within him was enamored by the sweet death her soul offered him.

He had told her that the stories of love and soulmates and happiness her caretakers had told her as a young girl were silly. That they were setting her up for disappointment. That he wished, for her sake, they hadn’t. That they told her the truth of the world. That monsters didn’t just lurk in the dark but in the light too. Monsters like him.

And for some reason it was his admittance that he viewed himself as a monster that made her stop. Her chest stopped heaving and her face went from anger to confusion to the softest thing he had seen since he last saw his mother. 

“You are scarred. It is not a sign of damage or monstrosity. It’s a sign of resilience.” Of course Tessala hated him even though the marriage and living arrangements were against his will as well. The Supreme Leader had been the only one to blatantly tell Kylo his worth. The young man had needed that so badly. So he went where he was able to find it. 

Kylo lifelessly pulled on his black robes, attached his saber to his belt and tucked his helmet under his arm. This was how his mornings always went. No sign of his wife. He had gotten used to it. Found comfort in it. And now that he knew there could be a different way, it felt unbalanced. Unfulfilling. Empty. It was a dangerous place for him to be.

“Good morning.” It was almost a whisper but not quite. It was a peep. Tessala was unsure of the words coming out of her mouth even though they were so incredibly simple. 

“Good morning.” He stopped in his tracks to look at her. She was in a light pink robe placing food onto the table.

“I was hoping you could sit and eat with me today but if you have things to do…” She now realized how silly her hope had been. How stupid she must sound to her husband. She should have just let things be. Let last night lie as the fluke that it was.

“I can stay for a little while.” Her smile almost made him crack his own, almost, before he placed his helmet down and walked to sit at the head of the table.

----

“I am taking a trip to Auturn today.” She paused her eating to look at him but he kept his head down towards his plate. It was rare that he share his plans with her. It wasn’t too long ago that she had she spent almost a month alone in their quarters thinking he was dead and she meant too little to have the news shared with her.

“I hear they have a wonderfully beautiful marketplace this time of year,” she mumbled as she pushed her food around her plate. Tessala had been to the famous marketplace of Auturn once before with her mother. It had been a magical day filled with sights and smells and fabrics and trinkets that she had never experienced. There was a pain in her chest she could never explain at the notion that she would most likely never experience it again.

“Maybe...maybe a trooper could accompany you there while I attend to business. The ship is headed in that direction anyways.”

“I would be very thankful.” She willed back the tears  of joy and happiness that wished to escape from her eyes. Perhaps it would be easier to survive than she had originally thought.

----

Kylo kept ten paces between the two of them as they marched through the center of town with their security detail in tow. He had instructed her to ditch the cream-colored-ruffled gown she had chosen for the day, though he was positive she would have been absolutely breathtaking in it, for all black and a hood that could cover her face. He didn’t need her turning into a liability during this outing.

“You stay within this vicinity. I will be back shortly.” Tessala wasn’t used to the distorted voice that replaced his as he spoke through the mask. She nodded her understanding and watched as a quarter of the troopers marched off with him. It was certainly true that his skills with a lightsaber and the Force meant he required less protection but she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. No longer did she wish to be in the role of the meek damsel in distress or the wife who sat at home just longingly waiting for her husband to return and task her with something to do. Maybe, with their newfound rapport, this was a topic she could broach with him. Ask him for more responsibility. Ask him for more knowledge on the role she was kidnapped to play in all this. And maybe she would then one day have to courage to talk to him about children.

The troopers made for poor company as she smelled every plant and powder and liquid that was on display with the vendors. Every time she smiled, she thought of the First Order and what their plans might be for this planet. Something so beautiful shouldn’t be snuffed out by the stiff men in suits that walked about her new home.

“Someone as fair as you certainly is not from Auturn.” Tessala looked up from the piece of jewelry she had been admiring to see a peculiar man looking at her. Not looking. Assessing. As if he was wondering what price she would fetch at this very market. Even if his eyes weren’t glowing red, she’d be scared.

“Excuse me.” She took one step passed him when his hand snapped out to grab her arm, the troopers raising their guns immediately but were taken down by the men who emerged from behind their stalls with their own weapons.

“There is a rumor going around that Ren purchased a new toy. Could that be you, my fair lady?”

“I am no one’s toy,” she said with a spit to his face. That earned her a tight grip around her jaw and his sneer turning sinister.

“Let’s test out his commitment to his purchase.” Tessala expected to be dragged somewhere. Maybe to wherever Kylo was so her captors could taunt him. Maybe to their base of operations should they could plot what to do next. When she had considered the hazards of the marriage proposal she was entering into, being kidnapped and used as a bargaining chip had not been one her mind had come up with. What a mistake that had been.

“I promise you that I mean nothing to him.” She thinks it was true. Even though it hurt. It was never a good feeling to believe you were worthless to someone. Particularly when that someone was your husband.

“Your womb is what really means something to him. Maybe that is what we should take first.” He produced a knife and angled it so it pointed just below her belly button. She squared her shoulders and searched for inner peace. There was no way she would let these men think they had succeeded in scaring her. Too much had been taken from her recently. It was her turn to claim something. She claimed herself.

“I wouldn’t recommend that.” It was hard to tell if there was any emotion behind his voice as it came out through the mask. Perhaps that would work in their favor for this situation. He wouldn’t give away to the men, or to her, if she actually did mean something to him.

“So glad you could join us, Ren. Now tell your men to lay down their weapons and you dispose of that saber and the Princess will not be hurt.” Tessala couldn’t tell but Kylo was looking at her behind his mask. He was trying to read her face. To see if she was in any real pain or discomfort. That would drastically change how he planned to carve up these men. He answered the man’s statement by igniting his saber and throwing it towards the armed combattants. The troopers behind him began to fire their blasters, Tessala pushing forward as her captors grip loosened in a moment of distraction.

“Get down!” She dropped as Kylo’s lightsaber flew above her head, back into his hands, and he began to deflect shots from the men in front of him. “Get behind me.” Keeping low to the ground, she quickly made her way behind her husband who was now slowly marching forward as each deflected shot found a new target.

“The bounty on her head is too much for me to give up without a fight!” The man who originally grabbed her, who presumably was the leader of the group, jumped towards Kylo from the side as he had turned to give orders to the troopers. Rarely caught off guard, he was in this moment and Kylo fell to the ground in a flurry of robes. Tessala watched in horror as his helmet and lightsaber skidded away. “I’ll keep you alive, Ren, long enough to watch me-” The smell of burning flesh reached Kylo before his eyes registered the sight before him.

His own lightsaber had been pierced through the man’s chest. He rolled to the side as the body fell forward and his wife stood there cast in a red glow.

“I don’t know how I…I just grabbed it and it…” Kylo approached her like he would a startled creature in the woods.

“Tessala, let me see it.” He took the leather glove off his hand in the hopes his bare skin would look less threatening to her. She looked down at the metal grip in her hand, the powerful weapon still burning brightly in her hands. Slowly, she closed the gap between their hands and placed the lightsaber into his palm. He clicked it off before gathering her into his arms and holding her against his chest.

“Kylo.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“What do we do now?” He didn’t know.

Tags:

@and-shes-not-even-pretty @ticklish-leafy-plant

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [7/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn’t expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: N/A

First Chapter

Author’s Note(s): Apologies for the wait. As you may know I had an adventure with my dropbox wherein I backed up all my files because I had to restore my laptop, and all of the files ended up mixed up in the wrong folders and I've been tracking down files one by one for the past week. I hate technology. I mean, I guess I should be happy the files didn't get deleted, but it's still a pain in the ass to re-organize manually.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

Tim stares at the business card in his hand long after Jason disappears, thumbing over the false name and phone number with a reverence once reserved for clandestinely captured photographs.

Victor Shelley, Paranormal Investigator.

He wonders if Jason was trying to be funny choosing that name. Given what Tim’s heard about him in the few instances where Dick or Alfred talk about him, and what he saw for himself in the past, he thinks it’s entirely likely.

God, Dick and Alfred.

He knows they’re going to be just as blindsided about this as Bruce when they find out.

If they find out.

Guilt flickers through him now at the promise he made to Jason.

Why the hell would he promise a man he doesn’t really know—a man he’s spent a grand total of an hour and twenty-three minutes in conversation with—that he won’t let his adopted father knows he’s not dead.

That he hasn’t been dead for years.

That he’s in Gotham right now.

Tim wishes he could say it was one hundred percent his shock at Jason being alive, but that would be lying to himself. His mind flashes back to Jason’s face, his slow smirk and the smooth, deep voice, and he swears, letting his head fall against the counter.

Apparently, I promised him because he’s pretty.

It’s a new feeling for Tim. He’s never been easily swayed by looks, but something about Jason is attractive enough to put him off-guard, or at least loosen his lips more than normal.

I thought I was over this…

“I know that face.”

Tim startles and glances up at the bartender—Trista—who he had forgotten was there. He’d forgotten he was sitting in a bar, to be honest.

“Judging by the ass on that man, I can guess what it’s about,” she continues in a wry tone. Then she’s sliding a shot of amber liquid toward him. “Here. To steady your nerves.”

Tim stares at the alcohol in numb confusion.

“That’s on the house, but only because he talked more with you tonight than I’ve seen him do with anyone since he got here,” she goes on. “We’ll both pretend I don’t know you’re underage.”

Tim is too flustered by everything she’s just said to do anything other than accept the shot under her knowing gaze. Then, he beats a hasty retreat from the bar as fast as humanly possible without it looking like he’s running away.

Distracted, he returns to his apartment in the Theater District, trying to parse the events of the night from an objective viewpoint. He’s not entirely sure he didn’t dream it all up, considering whatever that incubus did to him, and so he runs tox-screens on his blood and gives himself a full physical just to make sure.

Other than spikes in several hormone levels—adrenaline, dopamine, and serotonin—his results are normal. Nothing that would really alter his perceptions of reality, the way Scarecrow or Poison Ivy’s concoctions tend to do.

That confirmed, he should be able to leave the matter alone for now. There are more pressing matters to deal with—Dante’s continued disappearance being one of them.

But thoughts of Jason continue to assault Tim’s thoughts.

Something has been bothering him since his conversation with Jason, something he wondered before but couldn’t ask because Jason got skittish and made a run for it

How the hell did Constantine cross paths with Jason anyway?

Aside from his inexplicable presence in Gotham at some point in the past five years without attracting the attention of Batman, what would interest him in a teenaged John Doe with no identity or memory?

Sliding into the chair in front of the computer in the Nest, Tim calls up the autopsy report, even though he doesn’t really need to see it. He memorized it years ago. Still, if he’s going to investigate this, he needs concrete facts, not just his memory.

It’s not difficult to create a timeline of events, between Jason’s official death and now. Or to search a list of John Does at various hospitals in Gotham within the last five to ten years, whose condition upon admittance matches the description of Jason’s injuries at death.

He finds the information he’s looking for within twenty minutes.

As it turns out, things didn’t happen quite as neatly or quickly as Jason’s story suggested. His stay at Gotham General was a lot longer than he let on, and Tim’s stomach twists as he reads the medical reports.

Various physicians left their comments on the patient, a young man of about fifteen or sixteen, severely beaten and malnourished, picked up several miles from the hospital.

The file includes a mugshot of a heavily bandaged youth, head shaved from what records indicate were several procedures to repair brain bleeds, skull, and facial fractures. Bruises and swelling make his features almost unrecognizable, except to someone who has memorized pictures of that face since he was ten years old. Someone who knows the cut of that jaw and the color of those eyes, however bleary and vacant they are as they stare into the camera.

“God, Jason…”

Tim reads over the doctors’ notes that span the course of a year, cataloging how well the boy is healing considering the heavy damage he sustained, and how he would be considered a miracle patient but for the fact whatever happened to him caused significant brain damage.

Clear psychological damage, hearing voices, incapable of speech, easily upset.

On several occasions, the boy became unaccountably terrified, screaming and yelling and trying to claw out his own eyes. Sometimes it even became violent, and in his struggles, he put three doctors, a nurse and two orderlies in the emergency room.

I’m surprised it was only that many people. Considering his training, he could have done a lot more damage.

Eventually, he always had to be drugged and restrained.

Demonic possession, maybe?

It’s not the first thing Tim would think of, but if Constantine’s involved in all this, it would make sense. And coming back from the dead like Jason says he did, it had to have side effects.

Except, there’s no mention of anything superhuman or beyond the realm of possibility regarding Jason’s strength. Surely the doctors would have made note of anything beyond the abilities of a normal, scared teenager—especially in Gotham, where strange behavior was a sad norm.

No mention of anything resembling supernatural or metahuman abilities anywhere here.

Jason was eventually placed permanently in the psych ward and likely would have stayed there for the rest of his days, except the hospital’s budget was cut in his eighth month there. Space issues required moving patients to other hospitals, and—

“Oh, no. No-no-no, tell me they didn’t,” Tim murmurs, heart sinking as he scrolls down the page of the report, knowing exactly what he’s going to find.

They sent him to Arkham.

If Tim was horrified before by the notion of Jason’s resurrection and his condition afterward, it’s nothing to how sick he feels to learn that his predecessor was sent to the cesspool that is Arkham Asylum.

He needs to turn away from his computer for a few seconds and breathe, close his eyes and concentrate on not hearing the lilting, singsong voice and tinny voice in his head.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

Ever since his kidnapping, it’s the one place in Gotham Tim won’t venture���he’s not sure what would happen if he did. Whether he’d suffer a crippling attack of flashbacks, or march into the high security ward and slit the Joker’s throat with one of his birdarangs.

If Bruce realized Tim honestly can’t decide which would be the worse outcome, he knows he’d be benched for the rest of his life. He might not be Robin anymore, but the Family would find a way.

It’s fear of that more than anything else that helps him get a handle on his panic, tethers him back to reality better than anything else. Tim takes another series of deep, grounding breaths, before he feels confident enough to be able to get back to his research into Jason.

At least they didn’t put him anywhere near the Joker, it seems, he notices as he goes through the room assignments and Arkham floorplans. That’s about the only good thing about it, though.

Jason’s ward was for the non-communitive patients, the ones the experts considered untreatable. The ones that get forgotten about in the mayhem of the monthly outbreaks and pandemonium.

Tim’s stomach clenches tight again as he remembers incidents and dates over the years where Batman visited inmates at Arkham to interrogate them on the latest escapes or crimes happening in the city, or just to test the security there. Based on the location of Jason’s cell and Batman’s usual route, there are times when the two were only a floor apart

Tim’s heart aches for them both.

They were so close to each other! If only they’d known—!

And just as suddenly as Jason was transferred to Arkham, all records of him vanish. There’s no information about patient transfers or deaths or releases; instead, like many a nameless patient to be lost to the asylum over the years, he just vanishes.

People don’t just vanish. And in this case, I know he didn’t.

Tim goes on to cross-reference the potential dates of Jason’s disappearance with any visitors to the asylum. It doesn’t take much to identify the only visitor to the asylum for a span of weeks as a certain Chandler Ravenscar—names which another quick search link to aliases used by John Constantine in the past.

That brings Tim to a whole other avenue of research, refocusing him investigation on Constantine himself and his movements over the past years. He tends to keep to the UK, but every now and again travels to various mystical hotspots around the world.

There’s a backlog of security footage to weed through, occultist forums discussing the man and his exploits. Half of what’s written about him online is clearly conspiracy theories, a quarter of it related to some punk rock band called Mucous Membrane and something to do with the Reagan assassination. Those who have actually worked with him either seem too terrified or pissed off to say much about him.

Even harder is finding a video of the man; cameras and other surveillance devices appear to stop working around him. It’s even more of a challenge to catch a glimpse of the teenaged assistant that starts being mentioned several months after Jason’s disappearance from Arkham.

A chance freeze-frame from an airport in Beijing, however, is all Tim needs to confirm it’s Jason.

It’s hours later when Tim sits back, exhausted but now having at least a general timeline of what happened.

One thing is for damn sure—I can’t take this to Bruce.

The story is too painful, too unbelievable. If it doesn’t break him all over, it will have him lashing out at Tim for making up stories about a touchy subject. There’s enough tension between them both right now that he’s likely to question anything suspect Tim brings to him.

Or he would insist it was a trick, that someone had faked all of this. He wouldn’t take Tim’s word for it, would investigate himself, prepare himself for an interrogation when what Jason needs is to have a face to face with his adopted father and mentor.

And Jason’s story still has too many holes in it for Tim to tell it, begging more questions than answers.

Like why Constantine took you from Arkham in the first place. And also…there’s one other thing that doesn’t make sense.

Well, a lot of things don’t make sense, but this stands out.

Tim goes back to the hospital records, scanning for the section where he remembers reading the information.

John Doe’s injuries in the medical files are all consistent with those in Jason’s autopsy, with every scar and broken bone accounted for and described.

Except for an autopsy scar.

That would have been the first thing medical professionals remarked upon when Jason was admitted, but it’s not mentioned anywhere. Which must mean that somehow, Jason no longer has it.

So why did that heal and nothing else did? Could it have something to do with what brought him back?

There’s a sudden dull, clunk in the background and the slide of elevator doors, and Tim glances up to watch Stephanie Brown stride into his base of operations.

“I was on the way out and Babs sent me to check on you,” she tells him. “Apparently someone missed work today without calling in and isn’t answering their phone.”

Tim startles at that, glances at the clock in the corner of his screen and swears when he realizes she’s right. He was supposed to be at Wayne Enterprises an hour ago. When he glances at his cellphone, he sees twelve text messages and three missed calls from Lucius, Dick and Bruce.

“I didn’t even notice,” he groans. He was so caught up in finding out more about Jason that he lost track of time. He quickly taps out a group message reassuring them he’s fine and will be in soon.

“At least being flaky is characteristic of billionaire teenagers,” Steph says as she wanders over.

Tim quickly minimizes his search and swivels around in his seat to face her. “Why are you even awake this early?”

Given the way she spends her nights, Steph made a point of having all of her classes in the afternoon. She’s possibly less of a morning person than Tim is, to the point where even coffee doesn’t make her a little more human.

“Blame my new roommate,” she grumbles, and that earns a surprised look because it’s the first time he’s heard of this. “Right, I didn’t tell you, did I? So, a couple of weeks ago this cat shows up on the fire-escape outside my window. And I didn’t mean to feed it, but it looked so sad and pathetic and I had to, so now it won’t leave me alone. What am I supposed to do? I don’t have time to be a pet owner.”

“Cat’s don’t actually take that much care.”

“That’s what they want you to think. And then one cat becomes two, and two becomes three and the next thing I know, I’m going to be the crazy cat lady on the block,” Steph complains. “And not to cool, sexy, Selina kind of cat lady but the sad, single shut-in.”

“You could never be a shut-in. No four walls can keep your raw joie de vivre inside,” Tim says in a flat tone.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.” She frowns in confusion. “Are we in an on-again or an off-again right now? I forget.”

Tim remembers Jason’s cocky grin and muscular thighs and his mouth goes dry. “Off. Definitely off.”

Steph’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. “That was weirdly assertive. Am I sensing a pretty girl behind that sentiment? Do I need to give a shovel talk?” Something occurs to her and she scowls. “It’s not that Lynx chick, is it? Trust me when I say that would be a bad idea.”

“There’s no girl,” Tim mumbles. “Trust me.”

“Okay,” she allows, slow and still somewhat dubious. “But you’d tell me, right? If you were seeing someone? Only so I don’t go crossing lines or causing jealous rage or something.”

“There’s nothing going on, yes I would tell you, can we please move on?” Tim huffs. “Tell me about your cat.”

“He’s not my cat.”

“You fed him, he’s your cat.”

“Stop changing the subject. You’re being evasive—there so is a girl.”

“There’s no girl!” Tim groans, half tempted to tug at his hair. “Who could look at another woman after being with you?”

“I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or as an insinuation I was so horrible that I turned you off women for good,” Steph says, eyes narrowed in suspicion. A beat later, she tilts her head to one side as if something has occurred to her. “Wait. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s a guy. This someone’s a guy. You know you can tell me, right? That would totally be okay—would actually explain a lot, actually—you know, you liking guys—”

“One guy does not equate guys.”

“Oh my god! There is! There’s a guy!” Steph squeals. “Who is it? It’s that friend of yours, that went missing, isn’t it? Dante something? That’s why you’ve been so obsessed with finding him!”

“I’m determined to find him because he’s my friend,” Tim counters, a bit irritated. “The same way I’d be determined to find Ives or Bernard or anyone I cared about. And I’d be doing that right now if someone wasn’t distracting me.”

Two someones, but she doesn’t need to know about Jason’s role in it.

“And I’d believe that if you weren’t looking at me like you wanted to jump out of your skin. There’s something going on here, Ex-Boy Wonder.”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“Lies!”

“For something to be going on, you have to actually spend more than an hour with someone. You have to have known them for more than an hour.”

“Not if you have chemistry,” Steph points out. “Sometimes, it’s just like. Bang.” She grins. “And then you have to bang.”

Tim rolls his eyes.

“Do I need to give you the safe sex talk?” Steph asks with concern that’s only half teasing. “The gay-sex safe sex talk? Because to be honest, I don’t think I’d be able to do it with a straight face.”

“Steph, that was awful. As a former Robin, you should be ashamed.”

“And as a former Robin, you should be better at lying. So, spill. What’s going on?”

Tim studies her, chewing on his tongue; he knows she won’t let it go unless he gives her something. “Okay. Fine.”

“Hah! I knew it!”

“Not that. This is…something else,” he says. “Sort of.”

“Okay?”

“What would you do if…say you found out something really important to a person you care about. But you promised someone else you wouldn’t tell anyone about that something because of…reasons. Personal reasons.”

Steph crosses her arms. “Is this about me?”

“Not everything is about you.”

“Then it’s about Mystery Boy.”

“It’s not about—” Tim gives up, and then sighs, because it’s just easier to give her that one. “Fine. It’s Mystery Boy. He asked me not to say something that’s really important. I figure it’s because he wants to say himself in his own time. Except. Except it’s a huge thing.”

“Starbucks discontinuing pumpkin spice lattes’ huge, or ‘Hush trying to destroy B’ huge?”

“Closer to the second. Not dangerous like that,” he adds quickly when he sees her face. “It’s just…serious stuff that could hurt if it’s not handled the right way. Or if certain parties found out later and thought they were having stuff kept from them.”

“Well, now I’m curious…”

“I’m not telling you.”

“I know that. I’m just saying.” Steph sticks out her tongue at him, but then becomes contemplative. “I guess I’d keep my mouth shut. Or try to, at least. Stuff like that always tends to come out eventually. But if you’re worried it could hurt someone, maybe you can convince Mystery Boy it’s in his best interest to tell someone.”

“Yeah, that didn’t go over too well.”   

“Well, whatever you do, don’t get into your micromanaging, control-freak headspace,” she tells him. “That’s one of the things that torpedoed you and me, and if you want things to work out with this guy, you should respect his wishes.”

“I never said anything about wanting anything to work out with anyone,” Tim protests. “I just met the guy.”

“And somehow he got you to promise not to tell something that’s apparently really important. Which means you already value him somehow, and that only happens to you when you really like someone. Also, you might be able to straight-up bluff Batman or Ra’s al Ghul, but I know how you look when you like someone and don’t want anyone to know it.” There’s a beeping noise and Steph digs out her cellphone. “And with those pearls of wisdom, I have to get going. My mom found the cat and she’s having a conniption.”

She turns to leave, pauses once she enters the elevator and turns back around, jabbing a finger at him.

“Shower, eat, go to work, stop obsessing about stuff you can’t control—and don’t try to control stuff that’s not your business.”

Tim bristles. “Yes, Mother.”

“Oh, you did not just go there,” she growls as the elevator doors close and Tim grins until she’s gone.

He knows that Steph’s right, to a certain extent. This whole Jason thing isn’t his business—he was only ever an outside observer, a legacy after the fact. And even if it was his business, it’s not his predecessor’s sensibilities he should be protecting.

Ill-advised crush aside, he doesn’t have any connection loyalty to Jason Todd. He does owe Bruce—he should be going straight to him about this.

Except…

Except, Tim really doesn’t want to be added to the list of people who betrayed Jason’s trust. Especially given how fragile it is given their short acquaintance.

Tim groans and leans back against his chair, wishing for an easy solution. He’s usually able to figure out what to do, even when it comes down to the hard choices.

“Stop obsessing about stuff you can’t control—and don’t try to control stuff that’s not your business.”

Steph’s right.

He’ll do as Jason asked.

Or, at least he’ll give it a week.

If he hasn't figured out any other way to deal with the situation, he'll go to Bruce.

In the meantime—he has an investigation to get back to.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

[madefate-a]

some gren HCs bc why not! 

i’m redoing a little timeline stuff bc i absolutely hate compressed timelines, and this timeline is super compressed like c’mon guys. it’s an injustice that sarai got to be queen for like ,,, less than a year & it gives her no time to actually live up to her bio on and become the people’s queen. so i’m just going to go ahead & say that the magma titan thing was six or seven years ago to give everyone enough time to like ,, do their thing. 

i’m also probably ?? most likely ?? 98% ?? bumping gren’s age up a little bit because 24 is so young. it doesn’t give him a lot of time to work his way through the standing battalion, and not with any breathing room, nor does it give him enough time to earn amaya’s trust. so i’m going to hover around maybe 26, just so that he wasn’t immediately dumped on her at 16/17. 

then a quick & dirty timeline -- executive decision that the standing battalion operates in a less capacity than the crownsguard and position is determined by how well you perform within the army itself, rather than needing to gain access. it’s common practice to be sponsored as a squire / aide to a properly enlisted soldier from a young age, in the vein of a trade apprenticeship. gren was taken on by a family friend when he was fifteen. he worked and trained with her for three years before progressing far enough to be allowed admittance to the general corps at seventeen. then it was a matter of luck and great timing that he managed to cross amaya’s path within that year, and officially began working for her (and allowed to no longer carry arms) the next. 

initially, he only stayed by her side when they were in the ranks of the army, as most of the residents of the capital and castle were fluent enough in sign language to render his services unnecessary -- doubly so with sarai often stepping into that role if need be. when he did have any contact with the royal family outside of strictly interpreting, he often came across Mildly Terrified, even though it was just his own earnestness heightening his deference. unfortunately* this made him less capable than he was. 

*or, fortunately. he’s realized along the way that there’s more to the adage of catching flies with honey than he realized. being overlooked and underestimated has given him access to more information than he’d normally get. most frequently, though, he’ll either keep those secrets or merely share information with amaya -- he’s still an advocate of honesty and trust. 

he is not immune to cultural influences, and holds the same wariness of xadia that most humans do. he doesn’t forget the tragedies that have befallen the royals of the human kingdoms, but also readily acknowledges that the conflicts have been caused by wrongs committed on both sides of the border. at the end of the day, dealing with humans or xadians, his first recourse is always his words. 

when callum was younger, gren would very, very occasionally spar with him when he was in the capital and his services weren’t required. he always treats the boys with due respect, but between interpreting for amaya and his own dislike of physical combat, he feels a familial affinity for both of them. 

[aion-rsa]

Please Don’t Skip the Therapy Scenes on The Sopranos

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This article contains some spoilers for the six-season run of The Sopranos.

Classic HBO series The Sopranos is now old enough to find new fans who weren’t even alive when it originally aired. Zoomers, or kids born in the late 1990s and early 2000s are increasingly intrigued with the iconic drama for many of the same reasons folks were wrapped up in it back when it premiered in 1999. The show depicts violence in a very raw and realistic manner and shows a faction of organized crime that feels like a time capsule of a period that is now well in the past, while also touching upon a general sense of nihilism that modern viewers can appreciate.

Not coincidentally, The Sopranos also was one of the first programs to dig into human psychology via therapy on a level that wasn’t corny or cartoonish (nobody is lying on a couch in an office with a doctor taking notes in a pamphlet during the session here). The subjects of mental health and the mafia don’t exactly go hand-in-hand, and the shorter attention spans of the modern TV viewer have led to a lack of appreciation for the former topic. 

Caught up in the excitement of the dark, violent New Jersey underbelly, some newer fans report getting bored by Tony Soprano’s (James Gandolfini) psychotherapy appointments with Dr. Jennifer Melfi (Lorraine Bracco). Reddit threads are littered with discussions on the odd habit of completely skipping over these scenes throughout the series:

I’m watching for the first time and am on season 2 atm. I just find the scenes with Jennifer Melfi the psychiatrist totally irrelevant and annoying, to the point where I have skipped every scene with her in it. The scenes just feel like a recap, where she explains obvious things that just happened, as if the audience is so dumb we cannot keep up with what is going on in the show.

Other viewers completely understood what the objective of the sessions was, but found it redundant after the first few seasons:

For the first 2 or 3 seasons, I enjoyed the psychiatrist scenes. But after a while I feel they are more of a nuisance and not worth watching. I know it’s a way for the audience to peek into what Tony is thinking, but I don’t find it being worth it.

This is where the show runs the risk of losing an audience that is used to watching media that moves at lightning speed. TikToks, YouTube videos, and cliffhanger culture has zapped the brains of the younger generation to the point that it can be hard to revel in the minutiae of a character’s psychology. They know Tony Soprano is interesting, but they don’t want to figure out why they find him as such. 

The Sopranos proved that it was viable to put a murderous criminal in the protagonist role, show him execute his victims, and then go home to his wife and kids like any other American man of the 2000s would. Tony Soprano added obsessive infidelity, mommy issues, sexism, homophobia, and toxic masculinity to his list of deplorable traits, yet the audience still sympathized with him and wanted to understand where he was coming from. 

A lot of the audience’s sympathy for Tony can be attributed to his therapy sessions with Dr. Melfi. As has been famously discussed for the last two decades, the show was one of the first to depict a patriarchal man in a position vulnerable enough to seek out professional mental health advice. And those who skip these scenes are skipping one of TV’s best ever storytelling devices.

Tony starts visiting Dr. Melfi in the pilot after experiencing a panic attack while watching a family of ducks flying away from his backyard pool. He continues to visit Dr. Melfi throughout the series as the panic attacks recur and he looks for answers to all of the other predicaments and depressions that overwhelm his inner psyche. He also spills his guts on many matters that painted him in a bad light, but occasionally we get to see his explanations for those inadequacies.

One of the show’s big goals is to demystify and demythologize these mobsters, specifically Tony, depicting them as real people who have personality quirks, idiosyncrasies, and who endure emotional hardships. The whole thing can get very dense because there are multiple layers and subtexts exposed to the audience within a short period of time. Seeing Tony talk about what it all means to him makes it so much easier to contemplate what it means to us. 

There is a larger literary debate that extends out much further than just this show: if an author puts something in a text with a specific intent, but the reader gleans something in juxtaposition to that original conversation, is our understanding of the work valid? Is there room for analysis that contrasts with what the artist put out into the world? Without Dr. Melfi, creator David Chase’s work is rife with confusion and laden with concepts that can go awry if absorbed by the less thoughtful TV viewer. She is our Tony Soprano for Dummies handbook; she is the mediator between us and the complex anti-hero on the screen. Tony is relatively the same person at the beginning and end of his therapy, but the treatment is required viewing for us to understand why he performs the actions he does outside of the doctor’s office. 

Jennifer Melfi is her own fully formed character herself though, with thoughts, emotions, and opinions on the psychoanalytical treatment she is giving; this is a huge reason why we are able to live vicariously through her. She seeks guidance from her own therapist, Elliot (Peter Bogdanovich) about this criminal client, and in a way is asking the follow-up questions that we still want to know after listening to Tony. 

Through it all Melfi is capable of maintaining her own moral compass, passing up the opportunity to use Tony’s violent proclivities to her advantage when she is sexually assaulted in the third season and avoiding the temptation of sexual advances from him in the fifth season. Because she is so grounded, she serves as an effective conduit between us and Tony. If she were compromised in any way, she would run the risk of influencing or enabling Tony’s despicable behaviors more. 

If you skip over the therapy scenes, you are missing out on what Tony claims he feels about a lot of the issues that happen in his personal and professional life (his emotions can often cloud the reality of his situation, though.) He wears his emotions on his sleeve a lot more when in the chair than he does in the Bada Bing or sitting with Carmela, Meadow, and A.J. at the dinner table. The main reason for this is because those three people shape his outlook on life a tremendous amount, along with his mother, Livia, and Uncle Junior. His relationship with those five delves into a deeper discussion on how traditional masculinity connects with his Italian heritage and Catholic values. 

Melfi helps Tony realize that his mother’s cold child-rearing methods led to confidence issues and doubt over what it means to “be a man” (this is one of the only signs of progress he ever makes in the show). This epiphany becomes a crutch that Tony leans on heavily when compartmentalizing the differences between how his life turned out and the heavy contrast to his own son’s future. 

His narcissism creates a void for A.J., who struggles with suicidal thoughts and severe depression when he can’t live up to the depiction of masculinity that Tony exudes. Tony tells Melfi that A.J. is weak and shameful, an admittance that would never come from his mouth when around his family. With Dr. Melfi, we get these fascinating diatribes on the outdated tropes that shape Tony’s own view of himself as a Gary Cooper-esque man in American society. Fast-forwarding is literally skipping past Tony’s characterization. 

Additionally, a social issue comes into relevance in the first half of season 6 when one of Tony’s main capos is outed as gay. The majority of the mafia is made up of toxic men with incredibly fragile makeups of masculinity and they immediately want him whacked, or at least eliminated from the group in some way. Tony reveals to Melfi that he doesn’t share all of his associates’ homophobic tendencies, instead putting credence into what a valuable earner his capo is for the DiMeo family. While he’s still not capable of harboring evolved social values outside of the context of the business, he’s revealed as someone who has put thought into what is right and wrong. He’s a bad person, but he’s three-dimensional. Not every layer is evil. 

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That is why you are truly missing out on who Tony Soprano is if you skip his sessions in therapy. You will only get to see the violence, the hateful rhetoric, the devolved sexism, and the illegal day-to-day activities that make up a typical mobster. With psychiatry, you get to engage in the vibrant cesspool of personalities that create Tony Soprano, the legendary anti-hero archetype of TV lore.

The post Please Don’t Skip the Therapy Scenes on The Sopranos appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[thedailychalkboard]

Into the Unknown

Donald Rumsfeld, former United States Secretary of Defense made a statement on February 12th, 2002 during a news briefing. When asked a question about intelligence gathering he said; “… there are things we know we know. … there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns …if one looks throughout the history of our country and other free countries; it is the latter category that tend to be the difficult ones.”   No kidding.

As ridiculous as this statement may seem at first glance it bears contemplation, especially given the vitriolic and seething politically charged climate that I consider the world to be in at present. Let’s be honest here. We are influenced by the events and voices surrounding us at all times. We each have opinions that we either choose to keep to our self, share within our circle of influence or display on a visual, written or verbal pedestal in hopes that the whole world will see and marvel at it.

It’s never been easier in the history of mankind for an individual to share their thoughts, actions or personal experience with a worldwide audience. Social media makes this possible in absolutely unprecedented ways. Who could have imagined a mere handful of decades ago that one person with a device small enough to fit in their pocket could so easily influence the thoughts and incite to action tens of millions of other people?  Today truly is a brave new world down on the farm and the day has dawned on one of humanity’s greatest unknown unknowns. What we do know, and what is widely accepted, is that this ability to share with the rest of the world in an instant is a double edged sword that has begun to cut deeply into the fabric of society.

At the risk of losing some readers to boredom let me give you a short rundown on my perception of the root cause of the current problem.  Humanity is voyeuristic by nature. We are hard wired at birth to watch and listen to what our environment is doing. Our powers of observation are absorbed through our senses of hearing, sight, touch, taste and smell.  This sensory input is then analyzed by our on board computer we call a brain. Then, through the process of deduction and reason, we make decisions about how to think about and respond to what we hear, see, feel, smell and taste.  Of these five senses the two most basic and influential are our hearing and sight which control the most rudimentary of our survival instincts. Do we run away or stand and fight? It’s that simple.

Our immediate response to outside stimuli is first and foremost influenced by what we see and hear even if not supported by truth or fact. How we choose to initially approach this outside stimuli is often pretty basic. Are we faced with friend, foe, happiness, comfort, fear, love, acceptance, ignorance, hate, belonging or isolation? The problem is as the level of social sophistication has increased over the ages our fight or flight reflexes have not always kept pace. We often open ourselves up to situations where our first impressions and reactions are incorrect and based on incomplete or faulty facts.  Given our present day technological ability to tune in and turn on to nearly anything we wish, whenever and wherever, and a voyeuristic infatuation spurred on by powerful marketing forces pushing immediate gratification, we find ourselves willing participants in emotional manipulation and group think. But don’t take my word for it.

 Go to any sporting event and observe the actions and reactions of the spectators in the stands as much as what happens on the sporting field of battle.  It’s fight or flight. It’s either human nature at its finest or its worst depending upon how you choose to view it. Our views will always be skewed towards what we know, what we fear, what we like and what we are willing to accept. It’s what we don’t know, but think we do, that muddies the waters and creates the problem. This is the ultimate “unknown unknown”.

Remember the movie King Kong? Actually, you might remember quite a few King Kong movies if you’ve been around as long as I have. Regardless, the story remains the same. The big bad, misunderstood monster is perceived as a threat to mankind. The first instinct is to run away. The second instinct is to dominate and eliminate the threat. Finally, it takes cooler heads and keener observation to finally understand that the monster, with all its negative qualities, just wants to be left alone and has as much right to exist as anyone or anything else. Critical thinking finally kicks in but it’s too late. The misunderstood monster dies in the end, but at least the allegory in the movie has shown us the ugly errors of prejudice and intolerance and the importance of coming together to fight and right a common wrong, right? Thus, we walk out of the theater or turn off our smart viewing device and settle back to contemplate how this newfound information can make us more understanding and tolerant humans, right? Ah that this were so.

The reason most of our first impressions and reactions are wrong is because more often than not in today’s world we are relying on our less than perfect, faulty, hearing and sight. It’s less than perfect and faulty not by nature, but instead, due to being filtered through the selective sieve of those whose goal is to manipulate us into thinking and feeling in a way that is beneficial to their cause, purpose or agenda, and we love it! In fact we just cannot get enough of it! We eat it up, day in and day out, not thinking for our self, or of specific and calculated consequences to ourselves or others.  We choose instead to let someone else do the thinking for us. It’s just easier, and more entertaining, that way. We don’t know what’s going to happen next and, yes, we are truly into the unknown. In fact the more unknown and unreliable the more we appear to enjoy it! Let’s prod the monster with our digital electronic stick and see what happens next. Let’s not think about consequences or reactions or whether it’s a good, honorable, respectful or right thing to do. Let’s just do it and see what happens next. We are the “unknown unknown” that Donald Rumsfeld spoke of nearly two decades ago. Indeed it is our very nature to predictably act this way. However we don’t have to be. We simply choose to be.

My instinct tells me that often when confronted with things we find objectionable and not to our liking we are shining the light in the wrong direction. The monster of the dark isn’t under the bed, hiding in the closet, on some fictional island, or in another part of town or the world at all. The monster dwells within each of us. Like the pod people of a B rated science fiction flick we’ve been consumed by a pervasive veil of darkness and therefore don’t recognize it as such. We fail to see it for what it is even when it’s literally staring back at us in the mirror, force fed to us on the nightly news or in the palm of our hand as we tap out tiny messages to people, sight unseen, who we hope to influence in 140 characters or less. We are the unrelenting and unforgiving unknown.

I used to hear and believe that one of the primary reasons for attending college or university was to learn how to exercise critical thinking. I’m not sure this is the case any longer. There appears to be a lack of desire to accept understanding, critical thinking, free speech or diverse opinion within many of our hallowed halls of higher education. Critical thinking seems to have been replaced instead with an emotionally charged response to critically manipulate and codify special interests and pit one against the other like some great universal spectator sporting event. I don’t know about you but the way I see it if one side is unceremoniously eliminated from attending this engagement then we all eventually suffer by losing the whole ballgame.

The good news is there are ways through this mess. In order to do so it’s going to take honest effort, genuine acceptance and a willingness to put aside pet prejudices and perceptions and truly listen to one another. This means taking an intellectual stance of critical thinking and admittance that we will really not know a damned thing about one another until we are ready and willing to accept the fact that each of us, individually, not as some group ethnically, physically, socially or spiritually, is as genuinely different and unique from one another as the scientific and social truth and facts point out we are. Agreement to this one fact alone will go a long way to helping begin to put so many of these hot button issues on a level playing field of understanding. Personally I won’t allow myself to be categorized or placed in anyone’s restrictive hypothetical box and neither should you.

The next time you sit at or pick up your “smart device” realize that the “smart” in that device starts with you. Don’t get sucked into divisive or negative conversations and lines of reasoning. Use some judgment and exercise that individuality you’ve been telling everyone else you have ever since you were telling everyone about it back in junior high school. You’re not required to accept what you see and hear just because it comes from a so called trusted source, even if that source is one you’ve previously found to be trustworthy or that you’ve appreciated, looked up to and admired in the past. Think for yourself. You are the unknown that makes life for the rest of us a beautiful mystery. So, let the rest of us get to truly know who you are in a constructive and meaningful way. Stand up, stand out and when you let your voice be heard, let it be a voice of reason, acceptance and understanding. You don’t have to run and you don’t have to fight.  You just have to be known as someone who cares not just for them self but someone who truly cares for all others as well. It’s only a battle if you choose to make it one. I care. No kidding.

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©2017 Michael D. Davis   All Rights Reserved

Michael D. Davis is a communicator by vocation, a mentor by avocation and a social media maven by choice. His work can be found on popular channels on the web and on his blog at http://thedailychalkboard.tumblr.com/   Michael welcomes your comments and invites you to join him. Just Google #michaelddavis or #thedailychalkboard to find him and request to connect.

[medkltty-blog]

The Integrity of Medical School

I’ve been in medical school for a little over a semester and I have become very disillusioned with medical school as an institution. I’m glad I’m in medical school and I know how lucky I am to be in medical school, however, I’m struggling with the ethics of medical school as an institution.

It took me six years to get into medical school. In that time I got a bachelor’s degree, a graduate degree, I worked full-time and volunteered nearly 20 hours a week. I took the MCAT and went on interviews and paid for my applications. In that time, I also probably spent well over 30 thousand dollars trying to get into medical school, not including the student loans I had to take out to pay for my pre-med and graduate classes. The cost of my applications, alone, was 5 thousand dollars. And that was the second time I applied. The cost of my interviews were also easily 5 thousand dollars as well. 

When I got into medical school I was excited to become a doctor. I was proud of myself and felt vindicated that all of my hard work paid off. I was ready to start learning how to be a doctor. My first semester was absolutely miserable. The morale of my class was extremely low. We go to a school that heavily emphasizes wellness but a slew of new changes based on feedback from students ahead of us created a schedule that was unsustainable and didn’t leave time for any self-care practice or wellness at all. The idea of wellness became a running inside joke in our class where people would proudly state that they participated in self-care by taking a shower for the first time in two days or by sleeping in past 7am on a Saturday.

But we got through that first semester, propelled by second year students telling us that it would be all downhill after that and that once we started organ systems second semester, we’d be so much happier and have so much time to take care of ourselves and study (because our schedule was so jam-packed that it left very little time to study and our attendance in class is required). We had third year medical students telling us how they would rather repeat their entire third year of medical school and all the crazy rotations that go with it than repeat their first semester. And so we took all of our finals and set off for winter break looking forward to next semester.

Our second semester started a little over three weeks ago. News that we lost six of our classmates spread through the class. They chose to leave or weren’t allowed to come back by the administration. It was an elephant in the room that none of us can talk about because of privacy rules. Still, morale is higher when we start up our organs systems classes.

And that is when I realized what a money scam medical school is. I am required to go to class if I want my class rank to be high not because our classes actually teach us information but because your grade is connected to your attendance, so poor attendance = a poor grade = a lower class rank. I sit in class for up to 9 hours a day and have clinicians read powerpoint slides word-for-word to me, none of which are interesting or helpful to my actual learning and all of which I could have read to myself at home. I am told by our academic administrators to buy resources like First Aid to study for Step 1, they bought us a Q bank but we have to pay for everything else. $900 later, I have subscriptions to Pathoma, RX, Sketchy, and Firecracker. I wanted to buy a set of clinical case books recommended to us but the price on Amazon was $653. By the time I take Step 1 I will have taken out 150 THOUSAND dollars in student loans ON TOP OF the student loans I already have from two bachelor degrees and a master’s degree. 

I will need to pay the fees for the Step exams on my own. I am expected to join various professional societies and pay their yearly fees because it will make my residency application look better even though joining those professional societies has no impact on what kind of physician I will be, how much I care about others, or my Step 1 score. And, of course, those professional societies are so generous and give you a discount because you’re a medical student, so instead of paying $500 you’re asked to only pay $150. But isn’t it worth it to add some fake prestige to your residency application by saying you went to the AMA conference one year? The AMA that endorsed Tom Price for HHS secretary? The AMA that endorsed someone who wants to remove the ACA and condemn 43,000 additional people to death due to lack of insurance every year. Sign me the fuck up, right?

I am disgusted with the cost of medical school. I knew it would be expensive but I feel it is unethical to ask students to spend so much money applying to medical school and taking the MCAT and then asking them to pay EVEN MORE. Especially when there was so much hand-wringing from the AAMC and NBME about how to make medical school more affordable and how to increase the diversity among students and increase the number of first generation physicians (since studies show that children of doctors tend to be worse doctors than their first generation peers). I have an idea:

Get rid of the first two years of medical school. Make Step 1 the admissions exam for students. Get rid of application fees and the MCAT altogether. Start students up in January, give them a ten week course in gross anatomy, followed by a two week intensive clinical skills course and a first aid/CPR certification, and start them up on wards in April, a full 2 to 3 months earlier than most schools. This gives students 5 to 6 months to explore specialties after their required rotations instead of 2 to 3 which aren’t even really used for students to explore since those are the rotations they need to do in order to get the letters of rec they need for their residency applications (may be the lack of time to explore specialty options is why 60-90% of physicians hate their fucking jobs). 

And then, of course, you have to spend thousands of dollars on your residency applications and travel for interviews, which are not factored in to your student loan awards. 

This will never happen, though, because the AAMC makes billions of dollars in application fees, MCAT fees, and official test prep materials. The NBME makes billions of dollars off the backs of students paying for their exams and the LCME makes just as much. None of the organizations that could change the system have the incentive to do so because they are too busy milking medical students for all the money they have.

I know it sounds like I’m too money focused. The truth is, I’m not. I gave up hope of ever paying off my student loans years ago. I will never pay them back and I didn’t want to be a doctor because of the salary. My disillusionment with medical school as an institution is due to the ethics of it all. When I was applying to medical school there was a huge push to improve medical class diversity and encourage more minority and lower class students to apply. You can get fee waivers and financial assistance to cover the cost of your MCAT fees. But that doesn’t go far enough. Those application fee waivers don’t make booking flights for interviews any cheaper, they don’t lower the cost of having to rent a car or buy a suit for an interview. 

How can we expect students living in poverty to drop 5 grand on interview costs just to get in to medical school? How can we expect students living in underserved communities to afford the cost of Step 2 and the price of travel to and from the 6 locations in the country you can take it? Underserved communities NEED students who understand what living in those communities is like to go back and be their doctors. And, yes, there are scholarships and small-scale help, but I’m arguing that the entire system, right now, is designed to keep students who can’t afford to pay for medical school admittance out. Is a student whose family is on food stamps really going to have $150 to pay for the MCAT? No. 

I look around at the people in my class, which to my school’s credit is exceedingly diverse in race and religious background, however almost everyone in my class comes from a family that was middle class or above. Half of my classmates have parents who can afford to pay for their tuition and living expenses. I am part of the other class that has to take out loans. But when I was applying to medical school and there was a mix up with my teaching assistant stipend that lead to it being delayed, my dad was able to loan me the $2500 I needed to submit my AMCAS application on time. If I had not had a full-time job as a graduate student, though, I would not have been able to afford the cost of interviewing, and a third of the interviews I went on were local. 

In class, we are asked to think about treatment plans for patients and discuss them with each other. The girl sitting next to me says she thinks this ethics class is a waste of our time. The patient is an overweight child who we need to counsel, she lives in a run down part of a large city. We work together on her treatment plan and my partner comes up with a list of groceries to buy. I point out that the patient in question is a minor and likely not in charge of her food and that the education needs to be directed towards the parent and the patient. I also point out that due to the income level of the area they live in, the patient’s mother is likely relying on food stamps. I go over the grocery list and not a single thing is realistic. I point out that food stamps cannot be used to buy milk. My partner is shocked, her eyes widen; when I tell her how food stamps in my state can’t be used to buy rice, her entire world is turned upside down. I voice this in class when we are invited to share. A male classmate who is openly gay and voted for Trump comes up to me and asks me to explain why food stamps can’t be used to buy milk. I do and he doesn’t know what to say.

I look at my classmates who do not understand what poverty looks like in reality and I think about the people I know in rural towns who blew their entire savings trying to get into medical school only to be told when they didn’t get in that they needed to go take the MCAT again because the 29 they got wasn’t good enough, they needed a 30. The people suggesting this to my friend recommend taking an MCAT course not realizing the closest one would be two hours away and that the nearly 3 grand the course costs makes that impossible, not to mention the cost of taking the test again. It doesn’t matter, though, because she wouldn’t be able to afford all of the resources for Step 1 let alone the cost of THAT exam once she got into medical school. She works as a CNA in a nursing home.

How can we put such a financial burden on students applying to medical school? How can we ask medical students to pay so much money for residency applications, licensing exams, and tuition? How can we do that and then ask them to enter a profession that requires them to get permission from insurance providers and hospital administrators to order a damn chest CT? How can we ask them to pay so much money and then ignore the fact that there aren’t enough residency spots available for all of them to train in? How can we ask pre-med and medical students to pay so much money when the health care system is in shambles and the only people making money are hospital CEOs and insurance companies? How can we expect medical students to pay back their massive student loans in a system like that? Why are institutions like the AAMC so comfortable setting so many medical students up for failure?

Because my school emphasizes wellness, we have mandatory wellness classes we have to attend. Because, in medical school, giving students time to practice self-care isn’t as important as requiring them to attend a four hour class telling them they need to practice self-care and get lots of sleep, all while requiring them to be at school by 8am and making us sit in class until 5pm, giving us five hours of the day to study before we do it all again. And, of course, in those five hours of study time we also need to fit in time to exercise, feed ourselves, and maybe speak with our loved ones for five minutes to make sure they are still alive. Because self-care!

I wouldn’t say I’m jaded about medical school this early on but I am questioning why this system is in place. Why pay for two years of medical school when everyone just uses First Aid and Step resources to get a good score? I think medicine, as an institution, is really stuck in this idea of “well, I had to do it so you do, too” which I think is a really dangerous way of thinking. I think if medical students have extremely high rates of depression and anxiety (myself included, however mine was with me long before medical school) and it just gets worse through residency and becoming an attending there’s something wrong with the system. And if something isn’t working, why shouldn’t it be fixed? “Because I went through it and you should, too” isn’t a good enough answer for me. It’s also not accurate, right? The doctors who are saying that bullshit excuse went to medical school in a different time, where they could actually make decisions about patient care without having to call an insurance company for permission first. They went through medical school when it was actually affordable. They went through medical school when the idea of a woman being a doctor was either not allowed, unheard of, or looked down on, because who would take care of their kids at home while they went through residency if their wife was in medical school? 

So, yeah, they went through medical school and worked all of these hours and paid for medical school but the context was different, so I still want to know why such an archaic system that is already financially unattainable for people we NEED to be doctors and is quickly becoming financially unattainable for anyone who doesn’t have a trust fund is allowed to exist. I want to know why a 60-90% dissatisfaction rate is considered acceptable among physicians without any examination of the system that makes them into physicians.

[thederailedtrain]

The Mark of Oblivion: Loose Ends [Four]

“So I should probably ask where we’re headed, right?”

It was the first thing that came to Gus’s mind once they hit their second crosswalk and Cedric still hadn’t said anything. Gus hated silences that went on for too long as a general rule.

Plus, he was starting to get curious. All he had to go on was was what Cedric had said earlier, and Toni’s admittance that she knew who Cedric had been speaking about probably had cut off any explanation Cedric was about to give. Something about an enchanter and a woman named...it was Rashida, right? Whatever, the word ‘enchanter’ just made Gus think of Monty Python.

Cedric remained silent for another beat, and Gus worried he would have to embarrass himself by asking the question a second time. But then he sighed, seeming to come back to himself, and said, “It’s, um, it’s a shop called Shafir Jewelers.” He paused at the stoplight to straighten his scarf, and Gus thought he would go on. He didn’t.

The name sounded familiar, but Gus couldn’t say he’d ever been in. Not like he had much reason to visit jewelry stores. If it was as close as Cedric said, then chances were he’d passed it plenty.

“So we’re picking up...a necklace? For Kira?” Gus guessed. Somehow, it sounded sillier hearing it out loud.

“Potentially,” Cedric shrugged. “Or it could be a ring, a bracelet…”  He trailed off, turning to look at Gus. There was something of a laugh in his voice when he added, “Sometimes I forget that you aren’t a part of the magic lessons I’ve given Kira. Has Markas told you anything about enchanting?”

No, he certainly did not. Gus shook his head and refrained from making a “Some call me...Tim” reference. His alpha, Markas, had talked him through some things, but they were mostly werewolf-related. The rest of his Otherworld knowledge came from things he’d picked up by hanging out with Kira or Cedric.

“In simple terms, it’s the process of imbuing objects with magical power,” Cedric explained. He made sure to keep his voice low to not draw suspicion from other pedestrians. Thankfully, Gus’s hearing was sensitive enough that he could probably pick out a low whisper in a crowded street. “Technically, any witch is capable of it, but it takes a considerable effort. However, the Shafirs have the ability to weave just about any spell into objects as they craft them. Their gift has made them some of the most renowned enchanters in the world. Ravid is the next in line to take over the family name.”

Then, another thought came to mind. “Oh, did they make the pendants you gave me during the eclipse?” Gus blurted.

Cedric gave him one of those ‘proud teacher’ smiles. “A few of them, yes,” he replied. “Many of the talismans I own have been crafted by various members of the Shafir family over the years. I happen to be lucky enough to have been friends with the family for several generations now.”

Ah, right, Gus blinked. Sometimes he forgot that Cedric wasn’t, like, thirty. He was, in fact, older than America. Older than calculus. Now that was a weird thought. Then again, it made sense. There was one question he still had, however.

“Why a talisman, though?” Gus furrowed his brows. Magic itself was still mostly lost on him. “Couldn’t Kira just do a spell on herself or something? Make more potions?”

“Unfortunately, those potions are a temporary fix at best,” Cedric sighed. “Kira will need to sleep at some point and I doubt she’ll successfully learn to control the Mark before the lack of sleep becomes hazardous to her health. And for a spell that strong, Kira would need to continuously channel it, which she can’t do in her sleep either. Plus, the amount of neutral magic she’s using to control it right now would probably prevent someone else from casting the spell on her. A talisman, however, will alleviate the strain and let her rest peacefully.”

Channeling a spell constantly...Gus had done that during the battle at the Cloisters, hadn’t he? If it would be anything like that for Kira - well, he definitely understood the need for a talisman now. Picking up some kind of jewelry didn’t sound like such a crazy idea anymore.

“And you think she’ll have something powerful enough to stop Kira?” Gus asked. He was getting the feeling that Kira was no ordinary witch and this Mark added even more to her abilities. He saw what she did to the basement, after all.

They turned the corner and Cedric let out a long breath. “We can only hope. If not, I have faith that Ravid will be able to make something,” he replied. “The necklace Kira always wears - I don’t know if you know this, but it was originally an anti-magic talisman. That was able to keep her powers in check for over twenty years. This doesn’t seem such a gargantuan task in comparison.”

Wait, that necklace was a talisman? Gus felt like he was pages behind in the script and he was just finding out. Not that he wanted to admit that out loud. Instead, he looked up, searching for something else to comment on. “Is that it up ahead?” Gus asked, pointing to a blue awning on the other end of the block.

“That it is,” Cedric confirmed. He reached the door first, holding it open for Gus.

The shop itself wasn’t large - it was probably only half the size of his apartment. Thankfully, Gus and Cedric were the only two in there. But what it lacked in square footage, it made up for with volume. Glass cases filled most of the floor space, only leaving a small, winding path through the store. Not only were the cases filled to the brim, but all the available wall space was covered too. Gus had a feeling that if the walls weren’t such a dark color, there would’ve been enough sparkle in the room to blind someone. He still had to blink a few times to adjust.

A sudden gasp stopped Gus before he could get too distracted. On the other end of the shop stood a tall young woman whom Gus could only guess was Ravid. Her hair was freshly dyed blonde; Gus could still smell the peroxide on her. Her red-painted lips were open in surprise, but she shut them just as quickly.

“Cedric, I...I didn’t expect-” Ravid cut herself off, rushing over to the pair in a pair of low heels. “I could feel last night’s battle from here. I’m so glad you made it out alright.”

When Ravid reached Cedric, she made like she was leaning in for a hug. Before she could, however, Cedric suddenly stiffened. He took her hand between his quickly. A flash of realization crossed Ravid’s features and she took a small step back once her hand was free.

“How is everyone? Did you all make it through okay?” She asked after a beat had passed.

“More or less,” Cedric sighed, managing to sound both tired and tense at the same time. He turned to Gus and - oh, right, Gus was still in the room. “Ravid, have you met my assistant, Gus? Gus, Ravid.”

Gus hurried over to shake her hand before things got awkward. Maybe the running was awkward. “Nice to meet you,” he hurried out.

“Nice to meet you,” Ravid said at nearly the same time. “So what was it you were looking for? Something related to your lycanthropy or a more general use charm?”

How had she figured out he was a werewolf so quickly? “Oh, it’s not for me. It’s-” Gus floundered.

Thankfully, Cedric was there to cut him off. “It’s for my second-in-command, Kira.” He hesitated before adding, “Ravid...what do you know about the Mark of Mixba’al?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Ravid shook her head. “Is it some kind of curse or hex? I have a couple protection charms.” After getting a good look at Cedric’s face, she stopped. “I’m going to guess that it’s not that?”

“Not quite,” Cedric began.

From there, he launched into a rapid-fire description of the thing currently making his best friend’s life miserable. Gus only caught half of it, and he had the feeling this was a very simplified explanation. In Gus’s defense, he had no idea what a telluric current even was and that seemed to be about half of it.

“So what you’re saying is you want something that will cut her off from the telluric currents?” Ravid asked once Cedric had finished his explanation. He looked like he was considering for a second before giving a slow nod. “Well, I don’t have any pieces on hand that are equipped with that kind of magic, but I can certainly try my hand at crafting it. Before I begin, though, do you happen to know Kira’s ring size? Specifically for her little fingers.”

When Cedric only floundered, Gus spoke up. “Um, tiny?” He guessed. “She’s got creepy spider hands.” It was something he liked to tease her about frequently. “Her pinkies are, like, the size of a pencil.”

“The size of a pencil,” Ravid echoed, nodding to herself. “I can work with that.”

“And I don’t mean to be rude, but can I put a rush on this?” Cedric frowned. “I’ll need it inside of seventy-four hours.”

“I can do it in a day,” Ravid grinned back. Then, her expression turned a little more serious. “Just know that I’ll require reimbursement of some kind. I am a businesswoman after all. I’ll be pushing all my other projects aside to focus on this one.”

A kind of slow grin worked its way across Cedric’s face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said, sounding almost like his usual self. “But are you sure the last favor won’t cover it?”

“The enchantment was impossible to recover, but I still spent time and resources repairing the chain,” Ravid explained, crossing her arms. However, once she was done, she offered Cedric a smile. “Don’t worry, I already have something in mind. I won’t need you for a couple weeks, though.”

Gus thought that part sounded a little ominous, but Cedric didn’t seem to be of the same mind. “I’ll keep that in mind,” the incubus nodded, probably filing that information away for later.

“Now, before you go, is there anything else you’d like to look at?” Ravid asked, gesturing towards the back of her store. “I have a couple new pieces I’ve been working on.” She took a step or two backwards and Cedric started heading in the same direction. Gus took that as his cue to follow the pair. “There a few in particular I think you’d be quite interested in...”

When they reached the back door, Gus found himself blinking away surprise again. The back room wasn’t nearly as filled to the brim as the shop lobby, he was just impressed that there was even more. The major thing he noticed, however, was that the entirety of the back room reeked of magic. Well, maybe it wasn’t a smell, but some other elevated sense that Gus was still getting used to. The same kind of thing that raised his hackles around Harbingers and let him know the exact position of the moon in the sky without having to look.

While Ravid showed Cedric to her new pieces, Gus decided to do some looking around of his own. The pieces back here weren’t encased, but hung freely from the walls. Upon closer inspection, a few actually seemed pretty familiar. He had no idea what they were supposed to do, but at least they were pretty to look at. The thing he was most curious about was the workstation in the back corner, with its hand tools and raw materials. But that’s where Ravid and Cedric were, so he held back.

“So, how’ve you been?” Cedric asked as he fingered through the various pendants Ravid was holding up for him. “If you’ll forgive my rudeness for not asking earlier, of course.”

He’d dropped his voice in a way that let Gus know this was meant to be a personal conversation. So Gus did the polite thing and pretended he didn’t have superhuman hearing.

“No, it’s alright,” Ravid assured him. “After that battle...You probably have a lot to deal with right now.” There was a pause where Gus imagined Cedric giving her a sympathetic grin. “Oh, but I have good news. I was finally able to get my gender marker changed on my driver’s license.”

“Oh, Ravid, that’s great! Congratulations!” Cedric perked up. A quick peek over his shoulder told Gus that the pause came from Cedric wrapping a hand around hers like before. “Sorry again,” Cedric added by the time Gus had turned back around.

“Stop apologizing,” Ravid warned, sounding entirely like a cool teacher. Gus could hear her swallow, perhaps nervously, before adding, “Is this about lack of sleep? Do you need something for that?”

Cedric assured her that he was fine, that he would get to sleep soon enough, but Gus could hear the slight waver in his voice. The way his heartbeat sped up just then. What had Toni called him that one time? A living lie detector? Well, Cedric wasn’t exactly lying just then, but he hadn’t been telling the whole truth either. Seemed like a weird thing to lie about.

It was a question Gus kept coming back to. All throughout the rest of the buying process and their goodbyes, he found himself sending looks over at Cedric. Yeah, he looked a little worn out, but they all did. And Gus only noticed that because he was so familiar with Cedric. If he were still human, he hypothesized, he would probably be too busy being distracted by just how pretty Cedric was to notice.

But how the hell was he supposed to bring it up? There wasn’t exactly a polite way to say “Oh, hey, you look tired!”

Thankfully, he didn’t have to figure it out himself. Cedric turned to him at the street corner and said, “I’m jealous. You don’t seem to be doing so bad for thirty-six hours awake.”

All Gus could think to do at first was shrug. Yeah, he was tired, but he’d been tired before. And the way he saw it, he had several advantages. There were the magical explanations - being a werewolf meant he could not only heal fast as well as making him nocturnal - but Gus had a feeling it went deeper than that.

“I’m a science student,” Gus said eventually. “All-nighters are nothing.”

Oh, shit, wait- He’d meant to turn the question back around on Cedric. Find some way to ask him what was up with that interaction earlier. Think, MacConnal, think.

“You’re, um, not a fan I’m guessing?” Gus asked. He kept an eye on his boss. There was no way he was getting out of the question so easily. When Cedric didn’t answer, Gus pressed on. “You dodged the question when Ravid asked about sleep earlier.”

If Cedric was surprised Gus had been listening in, he said nothing. Then again, he probably wasn’t all that surprised. “Hopefully, it’s something you’ll never have to find out.”

Hmm, okay, maybe he shouldn’t have underestimated Cedric’s ability to wriggle out of a question. No way Gus could ask a follow up now. Touché, he thought, but said nothing.

They walked the rest of the way to the shop mostly in silence. When they exited the shop, it was officially morning in the city. Walking down the street side-by-side was much more difficult than it had been less than an hour ago. Or maybe Cedric was just using that as an excuse.

Whichever the case, there was a customer hanging around outside the shop when they got back. They didn’t appear to be magical - at least, they smelled human - and Cedric had to turn them away. Politely, of course. They left with a smile on their face. Gus wondered if that was what he used to look like when talked with Cedric.

The bells jingled overhead as the pair walked inside. Once they’d finished ringing, Gus could hear something else. Two people talking at a normal volume. Both were probably women. It was too faint to be sure, but he would’ve bet anything that it was Kira and Toni. Good, looked like Toni had kept her word and stuck around.

Actually, as Gus got closer, he was fairly certain he could hear laughter. No, that’s definitely what it was. Outside the basement door, Gus turned to Cedric curiously. Judging by the look on his face, he could hear the laughter too. Cedric gave a quick knock and the sound on the other side of the door faded.

Both Kira and Toni were already looking their way when they opened the door. They were at the bottom of the steps, Kira sitting against the wall with Toni positioned across from her. However, they shared a look and went right back to holding back laughter. Judging by the way both sets of eyes kept flickering in his direction, he could guess what they were probably laughing about.

“Oh, no,” Gus muttered, walking down the stairs. He raised his eyebrows at Kira.  “What horrible lies did you tell her about me?”

Were it anyone else, in any other situation, Gus probably wouldn’t have been so happy with the realization he was the butt of a joke. But this was Kira. She wouldn’t have said anything too bad. Besides, he was just happy to see her smile. In fact, she looked the most awake out of anyone there. Guess Cedric’s potion really did the trick.

“They weren’t lies,” Kira began.

“Did you really dress up as sexy Albert Einstein one year for Halloween?” Toni cut in.

Gus’s jaw dropped open. “Excuse you, that was an excellent costume. It was very popular with the other science majors. And the ladies.” Unfortunately, his explanation only had the effect of bringing Kira and Toni back to laughter. Whatever, Gus had been very proud of that costume.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to hear more about this,” Cedric spoke up, finally joining everyone else at the bottom of the stairs. He shot Gus a look that implied he really was curious about his sophomore year Halloween escapades. “There are more serious matters to discuss.”

“Anything I need to be here for?” Toni asked. Everyone shared glances, but seemed to reach the same consensus. “Well, alright,” she said, standing up and brushing off her pants. “It’s been, um, pretty shitty to be honest. Better luck next time.”

And she was gone in a cloud of black smoke before anyone could wish her goodbye. Gus stared at the empty space Toni used to occupy with a blank expression. “Alright,” he deadpanned.

But the more Gus thought about it, the more it made sense. Toni still had a direct link to the Harbingers. It was probably better they keep her in the dark about these kinds of things. That way the rest of her former coven wouldn’t know what weaknesses to exploit during their next run-in. It was actually...kind of nice of her.

“How are you feeling?” Cedric asked. “No ill effects from the potion?”

“Not really,” Kira shook her head. “It’s weird. I don’t feel tired, but I don’t feel well-rested either. And I just know that if I tried to take a nap right now, I literally couldn’t. Like chugging an energy drink before an exam, but without the shakes.”

“And the, um, the Mark?” Gus hesitated. He remembered what happened - or, rather, nearly happened - last time he brought it up.

The wince on Kira’s face wasn’t one of physical pain, but that didn’t mean they were in the clear just yet. “There were a couple close calls, but nothing serious,” she sighed, before looking back up at the guys. “I’m guessing whatever you got me is in there?” Kira said a moment later. She had pulled herself to a standing position and was eagerly looking into the bag in Cedric’s hands.

“Not quite,” Cedric replied, holding open the bag to give her a better look. “This is mostly just items Ravid asked me to sell on consignment. The jewelry case was looking a little empty.” Ah, so that’s why the charms looked so familiar earlier, Gus thought. “The rest are for my personal collection, or if I need to loan anything out.”

“Ravid’s making rings for you,” Gus spoke up. He had to say something. He felt so useless standing there.

However, that was all he had to offer. When Kira looked up from the bag of jewelry, waiting for an explanation, Gus found he had none to give her. At least someone was there who understood the magic of it better.

“She’ll have them ready sometime tomorrow,” Cedric told her. The breath Kira let out was somewhere between a sigh of relief and a frustrated cry. “I know.” Cedric leaned in to place a hand on her shoulder, but seemed to think better of it halfway there. “Do you think you’re okay enough to leave or…?”

The small shake of Kira’s head broke Gus’s heart. “Guess I better get used to basement living, huh?”

“Do you need anything from your apartment?” Gus asked. Now this was something he could do. “You computer, clothes - Oh, I could grab you a sandwich from that deli you like on the corner!”

“Aw, Gus…” Kira began.

Gus had a feeling the next words out of her mouth would be you don’t have to, so he stared hard at her to let her know; yes, he did. In fact, he wasn’t letting Kira get out of it so easily. He literally handed his phone to her and made her write down a list of anything she could possibly want.

It didn’t turn out to be a very long list, so Gus took creative liberties. He definitely got her that sandwich and one of those complicated coffees she liked alongside the books and change of clothes she’d asked for. (Apparently not the computer; she was afraid it would share the same fate as her phone.)

Only a few months ago, Gus remembered wishing he could be part of the Otherworld. He was always so useless whenever he wound up on missions with Kira and Cedric, like all he was doing was slowing them down with his mortal lack of magic. Be careful what you wish for, Gus rolled his eyes at himself. Here he was, magical and still useless.

But at least he could do this. It brought Kira comfort, made her smile. It was something.

And it was something to focus on. If he was running around gathering things, then he really didn’t have time to look at his phone. And if he didn’t look at his phone, then he wouldn’t have to read the last text Sophie had sent him.

[wenextdaddy-blog]

How the FCC's plot to execute net neutrality affects you

Federal Communications Commission chairman Ajit Pai just put a omnipresent item on the order of his holiday determination list: having the FCC make mixed the net-neutrality rules that it adopted two years ago. As Pai said in a publication in financial credit to the FCCs site, he will have the commission vote at its Dec. 14 meeting vis--vis his Restoring Internet Freedom Order. The order would repeal what Pai called oppressive-handed, further-style regulations that ban internet providers from blocking or slowing valid sites or charging them for faster delivery of their data. One of Pais colleagues responded concerning immediately behind a contrary, Thanksgiving-themed pay for a complimentary recognition. In a pronouncement, officer Mignon Clyburn called Pais plot a cornucopia full of rotten fruit, stale grains and wilted flowers topped off taking into consideration a plate full of burnt turkey. But as Clyburns pithy badly anxiety noted, a 3-2 Republican majority now controls the FCC. Pais repeal scheme, due to be released in detail Wednesday, will on the order of enormously appendix. The savings account altogether wont decrease there, and there will be profusion of lawsuits act the changes. In the meantime, Pais concern could outcome in an internet of asterisks and dollar signs, where some sites are slower because they dont pay your provider for priority delivery. Other sites will have to pay added fees, which they will later pass going regarding for to the consumer. Whats Title II to you? Pai, who President Trump picked to head the FCC, has never hidden his feelings toward net-neutrality rules championed by his Obama-appointed predecessor Tom Wheeler. He hates them, from their regulatory launch re happening. In his verification, Pai said the current rules sad investment in building and expanding broadband networks and deterred part taking place front. But what hes in want of fact talking very more or less is less the truth of these rules  even out cold Wheeler, the FCC didnt profit detached than asking some internet providers to rule by some zero-rating exemptions to their own data caps  than how they could be enforced out cold a cold FCC. Thats because along in the midst of the FCC adopted the current regulations, it built them upon a definite inauguration dating to the 1934 touch an dispute that created the agency. Title II of that perform lets the commission fine-impression common carrier facilities  meaning ones anybody can sign occurring for  to ensure they treat everybodys traffic equally. So though Wheelers FCC voted to consent to Title II provisions allowing it to fiddle considering prices, in theory a merged president could count going on going on a added commission that would bring the length of the unventilated hand of the regulatory confirm. Why would the FCC quarrel amalgamated to this ancient Title II strategy? Because telecommunications firms emphasis the commission in court all era it tried crafting net-neutrality rules upon laws written after the internets foundation. The last such offensive was filed by Verizon (VZ), which now owns Yahoo Finances corporate parent. Pai suggests that by scrapping Title II, well reward to the invincible primeval days of Clinton-times well-ventilated be adjoining regulation. But thats not real: In the 1990s, the FCC not on your own regulated internet admission out cold that provision but even required phone companies to admittance their digital-subscriber-stock broadband to competitors. This is in fact just very virtually abnormal and competition In place of Title II, Pai would happening for-classify internet providers deadened a exchange branch of telecom do its stuff. That Title I affords the FCC much less authority but does, Pai said, consent to it require Internet benefits providers to be transparent very approximately their practices consequently that consumers can buy the assist plan thats best for them. In the best-warfare relation of what comes adjacent, Internet providers would spend maintenance now spent upon complying when net-neutrality regulations upon expanding their networks. But the head of one of the few firms independently building out gigabit fiber-optic relief assessed his net-neutrality costs at zero. Title II is not a shackle in any mannerism, emailed Dane Jasper, CEO of the Bay Area regulate Sonic. In theory, some might mass auxiliary revenue by charging sites as soon as Netflix (NFLX) and Amazon (AMZN) for priority delivery. But though those two firms can afford to pay occurring, they now have such deafening realize in the sky around that media mogul Barry Diller scoffed at the idea any telecom resolute could shove them when quotation to in an manner at a conference in San Francisco last week. pai and abnormal opponents of net-neutrality rules moreover mitigation to data showing demean telecom investment. But major individual firms subsequently Comcast (CMCSA) and AT&T (T) have either kept upon spending maintenance or have unpleasant to lower expenses to construct out their networks. Read the full article

[mandibierly]

Why Morgan Freeman's globe-spanning series 'The Story of Us' hits home

Morgan Freeman meets with Megan Phelps-Roper, former Westboro Baptist Church social media manager, who explains how she turned her back on the church (Photo: Justin Lubin/National Geographic)

Morgan Freeman has never shied away from asking the big questions, whether it be ending his long-running, Emmy-nominated Science Channel series Through the Wormhole with “Is gun crime a virus?” or launching the Emmy-nominated National Geographic series The Story of God with “What happens when we die?” He’s at it again with the Oct. 11 premiere of Nat Geo’s The Story of Us — a six-part global journey that, at time when the world is so divided, explores the forces at the core of our common humanity: freedom, peace, love, social division, power, and rebellion.

Among his 36 interviewees are three presidents (the current leaders of Rwanda and Bolivia, Paul Kagame and Evo Morales, as well as Bill Clinton), two Nobel Peace Prize winners (Rigoberta Menchu Tum, an advocate for the rights of indigenous peoples, and Mohamed ElBaradei, former director general of the International Atomic Energy Agency), and individuals including Megan Phelps-Roper, who left the Westboro Baptist Church founded by her grandfather; Daryl Davis, a black blues musician who tries to befriend members of the Ku Klux Klan; and Victoria Khan, a transgender Afghani woman who first felt free when, as an orphaned boy, she was liberated from a jihadist camp and asked to wear a burka to cross the border so she wouldn’t be separated from her younger sister.

Yahoo Entertainment spoke with Freeman and fellow Story of Us executive producers Lori McCreary and James Younger for a preview.

Yahoo Entertainment: You tell 36 different stories this season. How did you decide on the six themes they would fall into?

Lori McCreary: They morphed during the process.

James Younger: We thought about all these basic human drives, emotions, feelings. So we had love, this idea of peace, freedom, power, and we’re like, “We should do a film about happiness,” but then we couldn’t really find enough drama in happiness. So we dropped that, and we ended up making a film that we were very happy we did, which ended up being called “Us and Them” [premiering Nov. 8], which is about where tribalism comes from and how we can get around tribalism.

I don’t know that there’s going to be a more timely hour on TV when that episode airs. What did you learn from those conversations with Megan Phelps-Roper and Daryl Davis, in particular?

Younger: Daryl Davis has spent time trying to connect with people who are KKK members and get them to change their ways. Racism in America is actually a form of culture war, isn’t it?

Morgan Freeman: I would say yes. Because I always sort of questioned the separation when people talk about culture. There’s “black culture” in America. What exactly is that? And is it in opposition to “white culture” in America? Well again, this is that tribalism thing.

Younger: In some ways, part of culture is real. A big part of culture, though, is an invention of “the other.” So if one group says, “You’re not our culture” — be you black or white, be you a Muslim in Bosnia or a Serb in Bosnia, be you a member of this Christian group or not — a lot of it is an invention. There are things we’re connected by genuinely in culture that are meaningful, but they tend to be just additive. Whereas when we talk about culture wars, you’re assigning negative stereotypes with people who are not like you. And that’s something that has always been happening in human history, but it seems like it’s getting worse today.

McCreary: Let’s just take Rwanda, for example. There wasn’t just a stopping of the genocide, there was a reconciliation of the two sides [Tutsi and Hutu], so to speak. And they came together in a way that seems like it’s going to be lasting. It’s interesting to me that in America we did have kind of a coming together —  there were laws put into place like now there’s no segregation and all those kind of things — but I’m not sure there’s ever been this kind of healing process on a national level like there was in Rwanda, from the leadership on down. And I have been thinking just recently how I wonder what it would take in America to have like [President] Paul Kagame in Rwanda, who basically forced entirely communities to come together. Like what would it take in America to actually have real connection between people who right now seem like they’re so far apart?

Younger: But there are examples of that so in the “Us and Them” episode. Social media is the reason Megan Phelps-Roper left the Westboro Baptist Church that she’d grown up in and grown up indoctrinated with this idea that you hated homosexuals, hated —

McCreary: Anyone that wasn’t in her church, even, other Christians.

Younger: We now probably associate social media more with an increase of animosity and vitriol, but she was able to connect with a Jewish man in Israel. His name is David Abitbol [founder of the blog Jewlicious]. He engaged with her in a very calm, fulsome way and started a conversation, and through social media they were able to share pictures with each other and they began to humanize one another. She was able to see him as a human being, he saw her as a human being. And that was a conduit to get over this culture war that we’re in.

McCreary: We need millions of those conversations to happen.

Younger: Daryl Davis and Megan Phelps-Roper are two of the pioneers of that, I would say. We need to follow their example.

Freeman: I think we would have had a reconciliation period here in this country, but they shot him before we had time to work on the healing aspects of it. It just worsened the situation, if you ask me. Because I live in the South, and boy…

Are there any stories that, even after you heard them from the people who lived them, you’re still trying to process in your own mind?

Freeman: Rwanda.

Younger: Rwanda. Mariya and Filbert.

Freeman: Holy cow.

McCreary: This Hutu man, [Filbert], was responsible for killing [Tutsi] Mariya’s [husband and brother-in-law, and two of her sons]. It took her a couple years [to forgive him], but now they work and live right near each other [in a reconciliation village] and they’re friends. That is still — I can’t imagine being her and being able to look at him every day and know that he’s the reason that your family’s not around.

Younger: We’re not that good at forgiveness. And I know that there’s a recent story that’s been going around in the news about the woman [Michelle Jones] who had been convicted of killing her child. She was 14, and had an unwanted pregnancy, and ended up abandoning her child [when he was 4], and it was killed. She went to jail for 20 years, remade her life, got out, and got a place at Harvard [in a doctoral program]. And then [her admittance was overturned]. When [some] people found out what she’d done, they couldn’t forgive her for it. Even though she atoned and she realized what she did was terrible, we can’t forgive. And I’m not saying that we should forgive that, but I’m just saying that as an example of forgiveness comes hard to us.

One of the stories I’m struggling to process is that of the Hamar Tribe in Ethiopia. [Before a young man runs over the backs of standing bulls in a coming-of-age ceremony, women are whipped with sticks to show their love and support for him.] I appreciated that you, Morgan, wanted to hear from the women themselves that this was their choice, that they were encouraging the men to whip them. The translated answer was basically, it’s what’s always been done — it’s necessary. [“So it’s the culture. When your brother leaps, or when your uncle leaps, then you have to get whipped. For them to feel like he’s jumping, you have to be whipped.”] We’re being told it’s empowering for those women, but that’s not the most empowering response. Why did you want to include that ceremony in “The Power of Love” episode [airing Oct. 25], and what do you hope people take away from it?

Freeman: I’d like to know, what got you started on this line of demonstration?

McCreary: Who was the first?

Freeman: Yeah. I will decide to accept pain, just to show you that I appreciate the danger that you’re putting yourself in in order for us all to survive…

Younger: It was very difficult to watch. To us, it completely seems abusive, and maybe it is abusive.

Freeman: But [to them], it’s what they require.

McCreary: And it’s also a badge of honor. The women who have the most scars on their backs are lifted up, basically, in that culture. When were talking about it, we were like, “Really? We’re going to show this?” But we really were trying to show the different types of how people show love. They’re really there to support the boys as they’re moving into their manhood. And it would be interesting to find out where it started. And also, everyone from the outside is judging what they’re doing.

Younger: Yeah, the Ethiopian government tried to stop it. “This is bad advertising!” But they’re like, “We’ve always done this, and we want to do it.” The women really were in charge that day.

Freeman: Yes.

Younger: They’re singing, and they’re dancing — hours and hours and hours. They are driving the agenda that day. So it’s confusing to our Western eyes to see it. But what I thought was powerful about it was it is a really clear manifestation of “you sacrifice for love.” We all do that. Parents do that for their kids. You do it for your brother, your sister, whoever. You do things for your family that are not in your own interest. And if we only lived by our own self interest, what would we be? We would be what we call animals — we’d just be crocodiles in the Nile. So that’s the root of something which is really fascinating about human society: we choose to do things that are not good for us, but they keep our group together. It’s that “take one for the team” idea, so it’s really important to human society. That’s just a very shocking manifestation of it.

The episode includes a warning for “cultural nudity” for that segment, but I was surprised there wasn’t one for “cultural violence.”

McCreary: It’s odd to me. I don’t know if it has to do in terms of the FCC. But there is a lot more violence in American television than there is nudity. Nudity is looked at as “ugh,” but you can chop somebody’s head off and you don’t have to have a warning. So I think it has to do more with what is more normally accepted here versus what might be offensive to your kids. They’re used to seeing CSI, unfortunately.

Another discussion that is incredibly timely is with Mohamed ElBaradei, who in Oct. 18’s “The Fight For Peace” says nuclear weapons are, in the long run, not a deterrent from war, but rather increase the likelihood of it.

Freeman: We’ve created and are continuing to create weapons that have the capacity to eliminate us from the planet… so as not to eliminate ourselves from the planet?

McCreary: To protect ourselves from being eliminated by somebody else. When is it going to stop?

Younger: He’s very pessimistic about it, right?* He says we’re here by good luck [rather than by good management, quoting former Defense Secretary William J. Perry]. I don’t think our luck is getting any better.

Freeman: Well that’s why earlier [today] I spoke about [how] the machinery that will control us will decide: “You people are emotional. This can’t happen. If you want to stay here, this is the way we have to do it. I will clamp down on your ass.” [Laughs]

McCreary: “I’m not gonna let you push that button.”

Morgan Freeman meets with Victoria Khan, a transgender Afghani woman, who discusses her harrowing childhood and her journey to personal freedom (Photo: Justin Lubin/National Geographic)

Some of the stories you’re hearing in the series, Morgan, are very emotional. In the Oct. 11 premiere, “The March of Freedom,” I think I saw tears in your eyes when you were speaking with Shin Dong-Hyuk [believed to be the only prisoner to escape from a North Korean labor camp]. After sharing how little attachment he felt to his parents from being born in the camp, he started talking about his wife being pregnant now, and seeing for the first time a parent who’s able to show love by clothing and feeding her child. What was the most emotional you got speaking with someone?

Freeman: What got to me most in those kind of interviews was the fact that I was talking about someone’s childhood. Shin’s childhood. Victoria Kahn’s childhood.

Younger: Izidor [Ruckel], the Romanian orphan [turned activist], was another example of that [in “The Power of Love”].

Freeman: Oh, gosh. Yes.

McCreary: It’s so inspiring that they decided to turn around their experiences and help other people in their later years.

Younger: Where do you get that when you don’t have a parent to show you how to do that, yet you somehow find within yourself that power, the strength to overcome what Shin did, what Victoria did, what Izidor did? It’s really a testament to the human spirit, the fact that people can find that within themselves.

The Story of Us with Morgan Freeman premieres Oct. 11 at 9 p.m. on National Geographic.

*Mohamed ElBaradei does also tell Freeman in the show that looking at young people gives him hope: “They are color-blind, religious-blind, ethnic-blind. The day we treat each other as part of the same human family, that if somebody dies in Darfur I will react the same way if somebody dies in LA, the same day we will end nuclear weapons.”

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