#I have to remind myself that my impact is not always directly visible

[chronicsheepdrawing]

Thoughts on this year.

[panharmonium]

okay, honest question about 5.11 -

are we seriously supposed to watch this episode and still come down on arthur’s side?

i’m not saying that’s what the show wants us to do.  on the contrary, i think they actually do a pretty good job this episode of NOT hammering us in the face with “you’re supposed to root for camelot,” which i appreciate, because there have definitely been other times when they’ve approached the moral dilemma of magical oppression and have kind of punked out at the end - most noticeably in ‘the sorcerer’s shadow,’ when they finally force us to look merlin’s cognitive dissonance in the eye by putting him in the position of saving uther from a magical youth fighting for freedom, and then they back off from that uncomfortable question by having kilgharrah say “you, like i, must hold hope that arthur will bring about a new age, an age where the likes of you and i are respected once again.”  

they don’t quite do that in this episode, which i really appreciate, because i just cannot see how they would have been able to pull it off without sounding ridiculously disingenuous.

arthur is WRONG.  

(i’ll get to merlin later, he’s...he’s got a whole different issue going on, but let’s just deal with arthur first.)

that whole conversation where he interrogates kara in front of the court - just look at it:

were you part of a cohort of saxons who attacked an arms shipment bound for camelot?

yes.

and were you acting under the orders of morgana pendragon?

what i did, i did for myself.  for my people, and for our right to be free.

i have no quarrel with the druids. 

i have spent my life on the run because of my beliefs, and seen those i have loved killed.

once, maybe.  but i’m not my father.

you don’t kill those with magic?  it is not i, arthur pendragon, who needs to answer for my crimes.  it is you.  you and your father have brutally and mercilessly heaped misery on my kind.  it is you who has turned a peaceful people to war, and it is you and camelot that will pay the price.

are we supposed to look at this girl and condemn her?  nothing she says is wrong.  

whenever we encounter these magical rebel types, the show always tries to play it like ‘well uhhhhhh they’re a little extreme......i mean......they kill people 0.0,’ as if camelot’s regime hasn’t been killing magical people all along.  like - kara stabs that soldier when she’s escaping from the cells, and the show kind of plays mordred’s reaction as...‘omg she killed someone oh no what a baddie,’ but dude!  the soldiers are about to kill her!!!!!  she’s running for her life!  killing a guard is nothing merlin and arthur haven’t done a hundred times, when escaping from captivity on their own adventures, but it’s never been framed as some sort of evil thing, for them.  why is kara the only one branded as a sinner?  a knight’s life isn’t more valuable than any of the children uther drowned.  a knight’s murder isn’t more deserving of reprisal.  

the girl’s murdered innocent men in cold blood.  we are at war.  i must be resolute.

we hear arthur say that and we kind of just want to shake him like - CAMELOT has murdered innocent people in cold blood!  if arthur can use “we are at war” to justify killing someone who has magic, then the same justification should apply to magic-users attempting to kill him.  camelot declared war on magic-users decades ago.  these people are fighting for their lives.

arthur is showing his father’s reasoning here.  his own rules don’t apply to him.  his rationale, his justifications, they only go one way.  there is so much to pick apart in his response to this situation - he tries to make it sound like ‘the problem isn’t magic, it’s that you murdered some guys,’ (he tells kara “you stand before the court not because of an act of sorcery or sedition, but because of an act of murder”) but literally in the previous episode he sends out a squadron to hunt down finna (and merlin, unknowingly) just because gaius said finna practiced the old religion.  

finna had killed no one.  she’d done absolutely nothing wrong.  but arthur went after her and said she ‘must be found and brought to trial.”

brought to trial?  for WHAT????  she hadn’t DONE anything.  nothing except be a follower of the old religion.

and his hypocrisy!  ‘it is [people like morgana] that have terrorized camelot and forced us to outlaw such practices’ - really, arthur?  literally two episodes ago, you went the cauldron of arianrhod and used magic to save your wife from an enchantment.  at the beginning of season 5, you used magic to summon your father’s ghost.  at the beginning of season 4, you used magic to try to save uther’s life.  

arthur has always been willing to use magic for his own purposes, when it suits him.  all while continuing to restrict others from doing the same.

this show is big on pushing the narrative that “arthur’s different from uther” - and he is - but how different, really?  seriously.  in the end, how different are they?

i feel like because we are fond of him - because we’ve gotten to know him personally, in settings where we can temporarily forget the impact of his policies - we’re sometimes asked to sort of look past the real harm that is constantly being done in his name.  like - ‘it’s okay for us to let it slide when arthur persecutes people with magic, because he has valid reasons to think magic is a threat.’  but what, then it’s not okay for someone like kara to want him taken out?  

she has valid reasons to think ARTHUR is a threat.  he IS a threat!!!  to people like her!  that’s the reality.  these people have every justified reason to want arthur off the throne.  they have every rightful reason to riot.  they have EVERY RATIONAL REASON TO REBEL AND REMOVE HIM FROM HIS SEAT OF POWER.  

if this were star wars, they’d be the rebellion.  we’d be rooting for them!  it is not wrong for an oppressed population to rise up against their oppressor!!!!!!!!!!  we all know this!!!!!!!!  just because we like arthur on a personal level doesn’t make it less true.  we CANNOT fault these people for refusing to just sit back and wait for arthur to someday wake up and give them their rights.  that never happens.  that is never how people become free.  we can’t fault these people for not choosing to be like merlin, for not choosing to hover in a morally questionable limbo for years and years and years and become complicit in their own oppression.

(and again, i’ll...i’ll deal with merlin later.  he keeps fucking up and i hate to see it but i also have to remember that he is a victim of the same oppressive policies as kara and mordred so it’s like...his case is more complicated.)

but arthur.  i honestly feel like the most telling moment is when he gives kara that opportunity to “repent,” which is supposed to be like ‘oh wow look how benevolent,’ only the thing is he’s completely missed the point.  the point is not that she needs to apologize for her crimes.  the point is that she hasn’t done anything wrong.  

no.

it isn’t.

the way they cut to merlin at that particular line is devastating.  it’s this...reminder of how far we have wandered, from who he used to be.  he used to think this, too.  he used to fight for himself, too; he used to come home to gaius angry and upset saying “i want to be seen; i want to be free.”  and now he’s just...locked into this impossible place where he can either ignore the veritable chorus of dragons, seers, and literal gods who keep telling him he has an absolute responsibility to make sure arthur triumphs, or listen to their counsel and thus betray himself, and his own people along with him.  and all this while still living under threat of execution himself - what is he supposed to do?  

this episode calls back so strongly to ‘the sorcerer’s shadow,’ which is the first place where the show confronts this problem so directly, when merlin outs himself to gilli and gilli challenges him about his choices:

i know how it feels.  i understand.

then you understand why i have to fight.  if uther is killed, so what?  how many of our kind have died at his hands?  how many more will?  it's time those with magic fought back.

gilli - 

you can't tell me what to do!  

you need to learn to use your magic for good.  that is its true purpose; it's not meant for your own vanity.

i'm not going to apologise for who i am!  you can be a servant and - and pretend you're less than them -

no, that is not what I do - 

no?!  you're defending the king!  protecting a man that would have you dead!

i'm protecting you!

you've been pretending for so long now that you've actually forgotten who you are.

merlin gets so upset by this.  he’s visibly shaken, and on the verge of tears, and he weakly protests, and then the next shot is of him lying awake in his bed, agonizedly stewing over it, because deep down he knows that gilli is right.  

this conflict has never been resolved.  i would add, as we move toward the spot where i am now in season 5, that it’s not so much that merlin has “forgotten” who he is, exactly, but that he’s been forced to abandon who he is, for the sake of his mission.  and most of the time he tries not to think about that, because it’s the only way he can survive, but he feels deeply conflicted about it still.

watching 5.11, it is so easy for me to get frustrated at merlin, because i feel like he should do more, in this episode, and do the Right Thing, but honestly at this point the only way for him to do the right thing is to reveal himself.  that’s it.  there is no other option for him.  we’ve exhausted all other avenues; there is no other step he can take.  he is trapped, in his current situation, and his deception is not just hurting him, now, it’s...it’s an abdication of his responsibility to everyone like him.  

i don’t like saying that.  because in real life it’s never okay to just say like...’oh, you need to out yourself because you have a responsibility to the community.’  that’s never okay.  a person’s primary responsibility is to their own safety, when they’re living as a marginalized, threatened person.  

so in real life, i would never say that.  but this is fiction, first of all, and it’s more complicated than that, for merlin, because he is already in a position of responsibility over these people, whether he wants to be or not.  the decisions he makes are things that impact their lives.  

and secondly - how threatened is he, really?  he is supposedly the most powerful sorcerer who’s ever lived.  do we really think arthur could successfully get merlin up on a platform and hang him?  do we really think arthur could hold merlin in a cell?  when merlin was newer to intentional magic and unstudied, absolutely, yes.  but now?

the risk merlin faces now isn’t necessarily to his life.  it’s to his lifestyle.  he might have to leave camelot.  he might lose all his friends.  and these are valid fears and i UNDERSTAND, because merlin has never felt safe and he has so rarely felt loved and i UNDERSTAND how paralytically frightening it is for him to consider doing anything that would jeopardize even the tiniest bit of belonging that he has been able to scrape together for himself, but i do not see that he has another option - not one that doesn’t poison his soul, at least.  he knows that what is happening to kara in this episode is wrong.  he tells arthur “free them both.”  he knows that’s what should have happened.  but then arthur executes her, and merlin does nothing to stop it, and i hate to put one more burden on merlin’s young shoulders but the fact of the matter is that this cycle of violence will never end until merlin ends it himself.  merlin cannot continue to stay trapped here between the dictates of destiny and his own sense of right and wrong.  it is killing him, and now it’s killing other people, too.

it is not a crime to fight for the right to be who you are.  

merlin desperately needs to remember that.  he needs to remember it for his own sake, not just for the people around him.  he is one of them.  their struggle is his struggle.  it is not the magical community’s fault that merlin has more information than they do - how are they supposed to know that arthur is supposed to be some kind of great saviour?  without knowing that, why would they ever choose to bow to him?  he has done nothing to earn their trust.  they have no reason to approach this situation the way merlin has, with infinite patience and a willingness to suffer constant injustices.  

merlin has to understand that.  he has to know that.  he can’t condemn them for fighting for their freedom.  they haven’t done anything wrong.  and i think he does know that, deep inside.  but he is trapped, where he is now, and the only way out is for him to tell the truth.  

the truth will set you free.  it might upend your entire life, but it will set you free.  and it is past time that merlin was free.  from camelot’s oppression, and from the oppressive dictates of destiny, too - if destiny had shut up for two seconds about ‘don’t trust mordred,’ we wouldn’t necessarily be in this situation now.  

i guess overall this episode leaves me feeling pretty grim.  and sad, i guess, because honestly like - it’s hard to for me to even root for arthur, as we enter the finale.  i can’t condemn mordred for running away to join the rebellion.  i don’t think morgana’s ideals are exactly pure, obviously; we’ve already seen several seasons ago how her goals have slid from ‘liberation’ to ‘power’ - but mordred is only motivated by the fight against injustice.  he’s in it for freedom.  and i can’t fault him for that, because he isn’t wrong.  i can’t fault him for giving up merlin’s identity, either, because merlin’s been treating him like crap from the very beginning (and again, yes, it’s more complicated than that - merlin is in an impossible position; he has reasons to trust all of the people who make prophecies at him - but still.  that doesn’t make mordred less wronged.)

so it’s kind of like - i’m going into the finale feeling like i shouldn’t really be rooting for our heroes.  which is kind of...depressing.

i mean.  yeah. 

he kind of does.

[icasttourniquet]

Brand Treatment and Surving a Beatdown with Spine Intact

Question: I have a character who gets beat up by a group of people and branded on her cheek. I'd like there to be very little risk of spine injury and for another character to be able to treat her semi-effectively. There is healing magic in the world and it is entirely stat based, not experience based. Thoughts?

We'll focus on the two parts of this questions separately. First, how can you beat someone without risking spine injury? And second, how should you DIY a brand treatment? (Also, and hopefully this goes without saying, but you should not DIY a brand treatment IRL).

Spine Safe Beatdown

It is impossible to guarantee 100% that your injured character (IC) has no spine injury. That said, it's possible to reduce the risk.

Why do spines break?

Like any bone, spines can break. Unlike any random bone, vertebrae have a spinal cord inside them, and the shards of a broken spinal bone can sever the spinal cord, causing numbness, tingling, and paralysis. Spinal column injuries refer to broken bones only. Spinal cord injuries refer to a damaged cord, which almost always comes with at least one broken vertebra too (sort of a two for one injury deal).

Spines are finicky beasts, but they especially dislike the following types of force:

Compression up and down the spine (think like an accordion)

Twisty motions (like cracking your back, but worse)

Bending side to side (t-posing and then swaying from side to side)

Rough head jostling

Assymetric force from the front or back, which could cause the spine to twist

(For more fun breaking bones, see: Can Your Character Survive... Broken Bones?).

Protecting the Spine

So... basically any impact on the head or torso has the possibility to make the spine unhappy. Mod N suggests two equally strong goons punch both shoulders simultaneously and with the same amount of force. Since it's unlikely any goons are feeling that considerate, you can reduce the likelihood of a spine injury if you:

Have your character sitting on a chair with a back or lying down as opposed to standing during their beating. This gives the spine less room to get up to any funny business

Avoid too many blows to the head and neck. In movies, beatings seem to always involve grabbing the poor victim by the hair and then laying them out with a punch. This seems like a great way to get permanent spine and/or brain damage (Hey, Can Your Character Surive... Altered Mental Status, anyone?)

Avoid grabbing and pulling on the body by the head (I haven't been in too many beatdowns myself so I'm not sure if this is a frequent occurance)

Avoid any direct blows to the spine, avoid compression down the spine, avoid too much twisty spine motions

Ruling out Spinal Injuries

While it's best practice to assume spine injury in any trauma case until definitively proven otherwise, there are ways to semi-rule out any serious spine injury before you move someone, including:

Clearing the spine (the caretaking character doesn't appear to have medical experience, so this seems unlikely, but perhaps they could cast Heal Spine before further treatment)

Check if IC reports any unusual numbness or tingling

Check the spine itself for any obvious bruising, bleeding, tenderness, etc.

Ask IC if their spine feels okay (spinal cord injured patients often report that they know something is very wrong even if they don't know what)

If the caretaker has no way to care for a spine injury, it might be enough for them to simply think about the possibility. Or, if they don't have any medical experience at all, they might just jump to treating the more obvious injuries, in this case, the brand.

DIY Brand Treatment

My first thought when I hear about a cheek brand is, yikes and my second is, why doesn't that brand go through the cheek? That said, it appears cheek brands actually did happen historically (drawn images but no pictures of branding in the link).

Appearance

Brands are a type of third degree burn, which means the third layer of skin is affected, as well as the first two (no pictures in the link). The tool used to make the brand will affect the appearance.

Here's a video of someone getting a brand with a precision implement. (This is a dead dove, don't eat situation. Apparently, human branding is a squick of mine. I'm learning so much writing up this response!). In this video, because the hot tool is so tiny, the wound itself mostly looks red and swollen, with a few black lines where the actual brand occured.

I'm assuming when you say brand, you mean something like this:

Brand, from here,

Here's a healing progression—one week, one month, and three months—of a more applicable brand (pictures right at the top of the page after following the link). And here's what NOLS has to say about it: "The skin appears leathery, charred, pearl gray, and dry, or possibly white and firm. The area is sunken and has a burned odor." (I mostly just like "pearl gray" as a color name).

In that case, I think a blackened and charred shape of the brand, surrounded by perhaps a thin layer of white but mostly red and swollen skin is your best bet.

Reaction

Counterintuitively, the branded skin itself might not hurt because the brand has burned away all the nerve endings. I think it's safe to say the area around the brand probably hurts like hell (on account of this area is probably second- and first-degree burns).

There's also the added psychological complication of this brand being on the face, where humans are more psychologically vulnerable to injury. IC is probably not too happy right now, and it will likely be obvious her whole life that someone branded her there, though the shape itself may become obscured by scar tissue.

Here's the summary of a meta-analysis that looked at rates of anxiety and depression in people with visible differences (including facial scarring). It might be a worthwhile read, as might the study itself. Changing Faces is a charity dedicated to helping people with facial injuries.

Brand Concerns

What are we worried about when it comes to branding?

Airway: this is a face brand. Traumatic injuries on the face and neck could potentially interfere with IC's ability to breathe. Needless to say, that would be bad

Infection: skin is in charge of keeping foreign contaminants out of the body. If the skin is burned through, bacteria and viruses have a much easier time getting to the blood

Volume shock: a big enough brand can kill someone outright, though perhaps then it's less accurate to describe it as a brand and more accurate to say someone was burnt to death

Hypothermia: skin also keeps the cold out. In non-balmy environments, even small burns can put you at a high risk for hypothermia

Psychological trauma: for what I hope are obvious reasons

Cheeks aren't big enough for me to be too worried about volume shock or hypothermia, though your caretaker should monitor IC for signs of shock or uncontrollable shivering.

Brand Treatment

The first step with any burn is putting the fire out. Mod N likes to remind me that EMT training says you need to wash out any burn with cold water for 5 to 10 minutes, just in case it is still smoldering. Ideally, this is done with clean water, not ice cold. Do not put ice on the brand!

Next, to prevent infection, clean the wound of any outside debris (dirt, clothes, etc.) and apply some sort of antibacterial salve. If no salve is available, hopefully your caretaker has a Spell of No Bacteria up their sleeves.

Now to dress the wound. If it's relatively small (less than 3 palms of surface area), use a wet to dry dressing. That is, put wet gauze directly on the surface of the wound. Then dry gauze or a dry bandage as the next layer up. Change it once a day for cleaning. If your world has showers, don't put the wound directly under a shower head for at least a week.

Cleaning in this case means both washing the wound and cutting away dead skin. This is usually a dreadful experience for all involved. I have only treated moulaged wounds with a fake victim who screamed far too convincingly and it was miserable.

Inhalation Burns

Observative readers will note I mentioned airway concerns but didn't addressed them. Gold star for that reader. The caretaker should monitor IC's airway as standard practice but they also need to think about inhalation burns, which are burns to the inside of the mouth, throat, and lungs. These are always considered life threatening.

Inhalation burns are caused by breathing in hot materials, such as smoke. In the cosemetic branding video I recommended above, the brander himself wore a gas mask, presumably at least in part to keep from breathing in hot air. With the brand so close to IC's mouth and nose, inhalation burns are a distinct possibility.

Inhalation burns are treated in the wilderness with a swift evacuation. Your caretaker's best bet is going to be to either rule out inhalation burns or treat them magically. Depending on technology levels, a hospital or doctor may be able to help IC too.

Conclusion

IC is going through a bit of a rough patch, between the beatdown and the brand, but it's completely possible for them not to have any life-threatening injuries, especially if the goons avoid their spine during the assault and their brand is small and doesn't involve inhalation burns.

[bookocd]

Velaris University

So this is my first try at a college AU and while it was super fun to write, I would love for some feedback if anyone has any! Also please let me know if you want to be tagged in future updates or have prompts for this series (I will def need them) 

Thanks for reading! I hope you like it :)

Here is my masterlist of fanfics is anyone wants it! 

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Chapter 1:

“I just think it’s stupid.” The entire car trip had been the same conversation playing on repeat. I was getting a headache. 

“I know exactly what you think Nesta. You’ve only said it about twenty times.” 

“I don’t understand why anyone would go to college with a boyfriend.” 

“You don’t actually think that, you just hate Tamlin.” I was rubbing temples fiercely, and let out a sigh of relief as the Velaris University sign came into focus ahead of us. 

“He lost my respect when he threatened to break up with you if you didn’t follow him to SCC.” The moment I told her, I regretted it and I couldn’t help my frown from deepening.

“Nes you need to let that go, he obviously didn’t mean it. He was just upset. We were both upset.”

The fight I had with my boyfriend flashed in my mind, and I had to stop myself from physically cringing. 

I was hugging myself with tears running down my face. 

“Feyre, did you really think that I would be happy?” His voice was quiet, like it was also waiting for the inevitable explosion. We were standing in the greenhouse that was connected to his families mansion. This was the place they had shared their first kiss, their first time having sex, and also their first I love you’s. A thought crossed my mind that this would also be the space we had out first breakup.

“This-s program is m-my dream Tam. It’s what I want to do with my l-life.” It was hard to get the words out through the sobs. 

It was apparently the wrong thing to say. Suddenly there were plants on the ground and one of the tables was on its side. I backed up, the sobs increasing. He turned to me with a feral look on his face, and yelled, “I thought this was our life! You’re being so fucking selfish.”

I tried to stammer out an apology, but he put his hand out to silence me, a command.

“If you do this, we are over.” The glow from the greenhouse light made him look angelic, with his long golden hair and perfectly angled face. This would have been the perfect picture if he wasn’t glowering. He waited for a minute with his chest moving up and down with his quick breaths. He was waiting for me to change my mind, but I wasn’t going to. 

He finally realized what my silence meant, and kicked over another table of flowers. A pot landed right at my feet and shattered instantly. It reminded me of my heart. He retreated into his house, slamming the door behind him. 

“Being upset is not an excuse to be a dick.”  Her comment brought me back to the present.  “And it scares me that you think it does” she continued. I wasn’t going to tell her that it scared me too. I also wasn’t going to tell her, or anyone else, about his more violent reactions. I just kept telling myself that those responses were not directed toward me. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I love him, we are together, and that’s all I have to say.” She turned her blue Chevy into the parking lot of Apartment Hall D, which was where I would be living for the next year. I could see the whites of her knuckles as she gripped the steering wheel, readying herself for another round. Before she could start again, I asked.  “Can we just unpack the car please?”

Her glaring eyes and stiff posture showed how hard it was for her to drop the topic, but she ended up shaking her head, parking the truck, and opening the car door.

—

Nesta and I climbed the three flights of stairs to apartment 304, and I wondered if there was roof access.

“Feyre the key,” Nesta’s labored breath and arms full of boxes, had me reaching into my purse and digging for my keys. Finally finding them and feeling a glare on the back of my neck, I opened the door to my new home. 

Walking into the open concept apartment, I was very happy over my decision to not live in a dorm. The only reason I could afford this was because of my scholarship, but I wanted space to paint and I wanted Tamlin to have the ability to visit whenever he wanted. The kitchen was directly to the left of the door, with yellow cabinets, a large oven and fridge, and a large white granite island. The apartment was furnished, so the room beyond the kitchen had a medium sized couch with blue cushions with a navy armchair next to it. Both the couch and chair were facing a white wall where a wooden TV stand sat, which was empty if the occupants couldn’t afford one. This occupant could not. Past the living area, a glass door led out to a small deck that had a view of the whole campus. I pushed open the door and felt the morning breeze hit my face. The sun was rising and the light reflected off all the windows, which ate every shadow in sight. The University was almost golden. 

Reluctantly I tore myself from the beautiful sight.

Turning back I went looking for my bedroom. A small laundry room and pantry directly next to the kitchen. A small hallway showed three more doors, two on the far side and one on the closest side. One was an empty bed room, with a spacious closet, a bed frame with a mattress, a small dresser, and a worn wooden desk and chair in the corner. The room was small and the furniture was old, but the view from the window was worth it. It was the opposite side from the deck, so I was looking out onto the city of Velaris. The ocean was visible and so were the mountains that surrounded the north side of the city. The morning sun was illuminating the water making it sparkle, and I knew that I would live in a shoe if it had this view. 

My randomly assigned roommate was no where to be seen, but the next room was already filled to the brink with clothing, makeup, and jewelry. I was excited to hopefully have a friend I could borrow some clothes from, even though half of it I could never pull off. Nesta, however, took one look at the dresser, which was overflowing with lingerie, and scoffed. Her scoff was covering the embarrassed look and blush now covering her face. I had to hide my snort with a cough. My sister being uncomfortable was very rare, so the fact that underwear is what caused it was fucking hilarious. I immediately got out my phone and sent a text to Tam. 

NESTA IS SCARED OF UNDERWEAR!!

haha mens or womens?

Apparently women’s

knew she had to be afraid of something

maybe you should change your wardrobe to just underwear just to make her uncomfortable 

i would fully support that

Pig lol

I smiled at my phone, at the semblance of normalcy between us. 

I glanced into the small bathroom across the hall. There was a shower, toilet, and a nice double sink. One half of said sink was covered by perfumes, curling irons, and other hair products. The colors were so vivid and varied that they stood out from the dull white bathroom, like paint splatter on a white canvas. 

After our tour of the apartment, my sister was silent as we carried up bags and boxes from the bed of her truck to my room. After everything was pilled into my small room, and a box of kitchen supplies was left sitting on the island, Nesta made a gesture for me to follow her back downstairs. She lived in a small single bedroom apartment across campus. She had told me that she needed her own space as a third year, so we couldn’t save money and just live together. I didn’t humor myself into thinking that her answer wasn’t utter bullshit.

When we stepped out of the building and into the warm day, I found myself saying, “Thank you… for driving me and helping me bring up all my stuff.” 

As she was climbing back into her truck, she hesitated. The hard look she pinned me with over her shoulder, had me bracing for the impact of her inevitable words. 

“Don’t come crying to me Feyre when he finally does something that being upset doesn’t excuse.” 

Nesta always was the worst at goodbyes. 

—

Even though classes didn’t start for another 3 days, I started unpacking my art supplies and organizing them into my desk drawers. I had only just started when I heard the front door open. 

“Dude I can’t believe you got a rando.” The low voice was scratchy, sexy, and loud enough to hear, even with my door closed. 

“I’m getting bored with you guys, so I need new friends.” I heard at least 3 different sets of laughter, all of them male. The female, who was my new roommate, had such a soft song like voice and I knew she was probably beautiful. I suddenly became self conscious of myself with my brown hair tied back in a low bun and no makeup on.

“What if she’s insane?”

“What if she doesn’t like you?”

“What if she doesn’t like us?”

“Can all of you guys just shut up?”

The bickering continued until my roommate must have seen one of my boxes, because then she started to kick them out. 

“Get out. Get out!” Laughing started and ended abruptly with the slamming of the door. I heard the door open once more. 

“Mor you know we are just screwing with you. I really do want you to have a friend here, especially after everything that happened last year. Bring her over at some point so we can meet her. Love you cuz.” I had never thought a voice could be beautiful, but that was the only word the would do it justice. That voice would haunt my dreams. 

I tried to forget the voice and focus on meeting my new roommate. 

A small knock had me jumping up and running across the room. As I was reaching to open the door, it was opened for me and hit me in the face. 

“Shit,” I huffed as I stumbled back holding my nose. 

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry.” I uncovered my hands to look at the girl who had just nailed me in the face. She was gorgeous. Her long golden hair was in loose ringlets, striking against her perfectly tanned skin. She was wearing a skin-tight red tank top with a very low v-neck paired with leather pants. Her eyes were big, brown, and beautiful, which matched the rest of her symmetrical face and gold jewelry adorned her neck, ears, and fingers. 

“Well you’re hot,” I breathed. Her responding smile was so genuine I was sure that anyone who saw it would have to smile too. 

She stood straight, hands on her hips, and asked, “How hard did I hit you?” I laughed at her response, because there was so no way she was oblivious to her attractiveness. 

I finally stood up, the pain in my face fading, and extended my hand to her. 

“My name is Feyre. It’s really nice to meet you.” Her soft manicured hand felt near fragile in my paint stained and blistered one. 

“I’m Morrigan, but everyone calls me Mor. I’m gonna guess that you’re an art major?” She sent a pointed look toward my mountain of art supplies. 

“Good guess. What about you?”

“I’m a second year phycology major. So be honest, how is your face?”

I laughed and shook my head. “It’s fine. I think I was shocked more than actually hurt.”

“I swear that will be the only time I physically hurt you. I’ve been told that I get on people’s nerves, so I can’t say anything about the your sanity.” We had only known each other for a couple of minutes, but I knew that I liked this girl. This was the type of girl I never got to be friends with growing up. For many many reasons.  

She continued, “My friends will literally die when they hear this story.” 

“Well if our relationship works out than it’ll also be a great story to tell the grandkids,” I said trying not to think of her cousins voice at the mention of her friends. 

“Ha ha very funny. Actually we were all going out to—” She was cut off by my phone. I apologized and turned toward the sounds and found it lying on my bed. 

Incoming Call from Tamlin

I looked at her with a cringe and explained, “It’s my boyfriend. I have nothing going on tomorrow. Would you maybe want to…”  Her growing smile had me continuing. “Hang out with me?” 

“Yes yes! I can show you around campus, the best shops in Velaris, and introduce you to my friends.” My face was hurting from my own smile. I nodded at her and my phone stopped going off. Even the fight I knew that would be inevitable from me not answering his phone call, wasn’t enough to stop me from smiling at my new roommate. 

She turned and headed toward the door, but turned back before going through it. 

“I’m really excited for tomorrow,” she said with a curt nod. Then she was out the door before I could return the sentiment. 

I picked up my phone to redial my boyfriends number, but Mor poked her head in again. 

“Oh and I think you’re hot too.” With a wink she was gone. I laughed out loud and all of a sudden I felt ready for the incoming year, because I now had a friend to help me through it. 

—

After all of my research on Velaris, I came to one final conclusion: the nights were supposedly epic. And in the wake of a day spent unpacking, I was ready to see it for myself. 

While I was tired from my non-fight with Tamlin, I also found myself restless. The whole conversation was Tam forcing himself to not be mad and instead just making our talk draining and fake. I finally told him that I needed to go and get some books for school so I could get off the phone. 

Things would get better. 

I forced the phone call out of my head and focused on something exciting and new. 

Mor was gone before I could ask about the roof access in the building, but I decided to go and find out for myself. I walked into the stairwell and headed up. This building had ten floors, so I was breathless when I finally reached the top. An unmarked door came into my view and as I pushed it open a rush of fresh air filled my lungs. 

The roof was bare, except for an air unit, two beach chairs, and a railing around the edge, but I found myself not looking at the roof at all. 

The sky was incredible. The stars were brighter than I had ever seen, and the city was alive in front of me. I instantly found myself at the railing. The apartment building was on the edge of campus, so from one side all you could see was the school, but on the other side the city and ocean was the only thing in view. I couldn’t peel my eyes from the sight. 

People were laughing and strolling through the cobblestone streets and lights of all different colors were coming out of windows and doors throughout the city. 

The city was alive. 

Throughout my life I had never felt at home or even wanting to be part of one, but I had this feeling that Velaris was made for me. Or maybe I was made for it. 

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” I jumped at the voice behind me. I somehow lost my footing and my feet flew forward. I landed on my butt with a thud.

“Holy fuck! You scared the shit out of me.” I started to turn toward the stranger while on the ground, ready to be livid. My heartbeat increased to unhealthy levels as my eyes met ones of violet. The man in front of me was something forged from my dreams. His black hair was made of the night sky above us and his chiseled features looked carved out of stone. He was wearing blue jeans and a grey crewneck, which seemed plain, but nothing on this man could ever be plain. While I couldn’t see his body, I knew that he was fit, he filled out his jeans like they were tailored for him. 

He had slowly moved forward, like he was going toward a cornered animal, and when he was directly in front of me, he held a hand out to help me up. The laughter in his eyes and the smirk on his face took my focus away from his attractiveness and kick started my anger again. 

“Don’t look so upset love, most girls fall head over heels for me.” 

“Are you sure they aren’t falling while trying to run away?” His eyes lit up in challenge, but I dismissed him by jumping up and turning toward the city again. 

He did not get the message and I felt him lounging on the rail next to me. I glanced to my left and he wasn’t staring toward the ocean, he was staring at me. 

“Could you stop that,” I snapped. It was apparently the wrong thing to say. His eyes shone brighter than the stars above us. 

“What is your name love?” 

I put my elbows on the rail and leaned forward as I sighed out, “Feyre.”

“And why are you up here all alone Feyre?” 

“That kinda sounded a little creepy.”

His laugh filled my soul and I smiled slightly. “I’ve never been called creepy.”

“And what do people usually call you?” 

“Sexy, amazing, smart, endowed—”

“You’re certainly full of yourself,” I cut him off. 

An ocean kissed wind blew my hair backwards. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the salty air. We fell into a comfortable silence. I’m not sure how long we stood there, watching the city from afar.  I was unsure why I felt so safe, standing on a roof with a complete stranger. 

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Pulling it out, I saw that I had a message from Tamlin.

i’m sorry for earlier baby. i love you and ill talk to you in the morning.

His apology made me think I was doing something wrong. I started to retreat and walk backwards toward the roof door. Purple eyes followed my movements with an unreadable expression. 

“Are you running from me Feyre.” The smirk was gone and I felt a pang in my gut.

“No. It’s just getting late and I should probably get back downstairs.”

“I can walk you—”

“No!” I realized how loud it came out when his mouth turned downwards. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around…” 

Oh my god I never asked his name. I grimaced, and inwardly smacked my palm on my forehead. I looked to him for assistance. He made long strides until he was inches from me, my back hitting the door. It was then I realized just how tall this man was, I was almost looking straight up.

“Rhysand,” was all he said. 

“Okay nice to meet you. I have to go. Not that I’m scared. Or nervous.” Cringing as I rambled, I felt behind me for the door handle. When I found it, I pulled it. This backfired on me by pushing me forward into Rhysand. 

Chest to chest, I hoped he couldn’t feel my heart beating. His breath caressed my cheek, I couldn’t help but shutter. Seeing his eyes widen and flash with desire, I awkwardly squeaked out a goodbye and all but sprinted down the stairs. 

I didn’t stop running until I got to my apartment and then into my own room. I fell down onto the bed ready for this whole night to be over. I answered Tamlin’s text with a simple I love you, turned my phone off, and then I threw it on the ground. 

You did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong. 

I found myself repeating the sentence over and over again. I knew I had done nothing wrong, but I couldn’t help the feeling that I did. Moving to the ground, I sat below my window, opening it slightly, letting the sounds of the ocean lull me to sleep. The only thing calming enough to do so. That and the name of the man who I couldn’t stop thinking about. 

Rhysand 

Thanks for reading!!! xoxo

[sector-i-closed]

Strawberry Shortcake

Warning: smut, oral and anal sex. And yes I revisited the red hair for a moment.

"Here comes my strawberry shortcake." You announced teasingly as you watched your boyfriend Hongjoong enter the van where you, Mingi and Seonghwa was already waiting for everyone else to join them after everybody had spent hours practicing choreography and dance steps.

Hongjoong had overheard you speaking and you could see that his cheeks were now visibly tinted pink when he passed the car door light overhead.

"Y/N calls him strawberry shortcake!" Mingi laughed loudly in the seat behind you.

Hongjoong however, looked less than amused when he sat down by your side.

"It's obvious that she would call him a shortcake." Seonghwa piped up.

"Since we're talking about the long and short of things, I can elaborate on size matters too if you'd like?" Hongjoong responded in a nonchalant tone.

A smirk tugged at his lips when both Mingi and Seonghwa shook their heads vigorously in discomfort at what they thought he was insinuating.

"Shut up hyung..." Seonghwa muttered indirectly to Hongjoong.

The rest of your friends finally settled into the van and drove back to their dorm.

Hongjoong watched you stare out the window at the darkness outside, seeming to lose yourself in the night.

Your hand moved to where Hongjoong's hand was lying, which was near your thigh.

You exhaled softly when you touched his hand, tracing the beautiful veins that accented your boyfriend's hand.

The tender touches made him react by sighing and moving his hand to rest in your lap.

Meanwhile Wooyoung had been chattering with Yunho the entire time that you was touching your boyfriend but you was scarcely aware of anything going on in your surroundings.

You turned and faced Hongjoong, being surprised that he was staring right at you in the darkness of the van.

"Princess, I will be reminding you later that I'm not such a shortcake." He breathed lowly against your ear, pressing a soft kiss to it before settling back into his seat.

A jolt of electricity ran down your back and Hongjoong didn't miss the harsh shiver of your body that followed.

You tried to focus on the outside world but the excited thoughts in your head distracted you.

An exasperated sigh escaped your lips, 'Why do I allow myself to be turned on so easily?'

~~~~~~

The group had stopped at a restaurant for food instead of going directly back to the dorm.

The delay in returning to the dorm made the knot of the anticipation in your stomach tighten, and you appeared a bit off to your friends who kept questioning your feelings.

Hongjoong remained quiet, watching you with an impish smile that caused you to pull your legs together in an effort to quell the insistent feelings between your legs.

Once everyone else was dropped off at the dorm you was back at your home with Hongjoong, you breathed a sigh of relief, "I need a shower." You said quickly while making a run for the bathroom before your boyfriend could snag you.

As you showered you had made up your mind that you would pretend to have forgotten what Hongjoong had told you earlier, though your body certainly didn't forget his words and really you didn't want him to do anything except live up to his promise.

You just didn't want him to know how eager you was for him.

Cautiously you exited the bathroom, keeping your eye out for your boyfriend.

You found Hongjoong a moment later, sitting on the edge of your bed, watching your robe clad form walk into the room.

"Come here, babygirl." Hongjoong patted the bed beside him.

Your skin suddenly heated up as you approached him, seating yourself beside him.

The pounding of your heart filled your ears as you watched him expectantly.

"Are you avoiding me? If so, why?" Hongjoong looked into your eyes, studying your reaction.

You paused briefly, your cheeks flushed with color as you thought about what to say.

"I just needed a shower..." You started, hoping for an answer that would appease his question.

"And?" He stared into your face as he waited for you to continue.

"It was... because of you why I needed a shower." You smiled shyly, feeling the heat return to the area between your legs that had been keeping you restless all night.

"Oh? It was?" A slow smile had spread across his features when he heard your answer.

"Y-yeah..." You inhaled deeply, trying to catch your breath before he stole it away from you again.

"I thought I may have made you uncomfortable earlier. Is everything okay?" Hongjoong asked, rubbing your arm gently as you spoke.

"Everything is fine, Joong." You reassured him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Please tell me if I ever make you uncomfortable. You're too important for me to lose, baby." He spoke to you with genuine emotion flickering in his eyes.

"You won't lose me." It felt as if your heart had literally melted in your chest and released a multitude of fireflies that was warming your entire body.

You was wanting him even more now than before, finally surrendering yourself to what your body felt all evening.

In a random action you pulled Hongjoong down on top of you, bringing his lips to yours in a kiss that reignited the fire in your veins.

The kiss became heated quickly and you couldn't stop yourself from rubbing your lower body against him for relief of the throbbing that you felt between your legs.

You panted heavily as Hongjoong moved away, opening your robe so that he could have easy access.

"You're so fucking wet, babygirl. Is it because you've been so eager for me?" He cooed softly, slowly rubbing your inner thigh.

"Y-yes..." You stammered awkwardly when Hongjoong lightly blew on your core, sending pleasant tingles through the sensitive nerves that were located there.

You wasn't prepared for him to glide his tongue along your delicate, wet folds, hungrily lapping at your juices and holding eye contact with you.

"Oh fuck!" You cried when his tongue graced your clit.

He wrapped his pliant lips around your nub, sucking you firmly and moving his head in a circular motion that had you seeing stars in your vision while his hands occupied themselves with touching your pelvic curves and thighs.

Your hands gripped the sheets beneath you while he busied his mouth with stimulating your sex, moving in efficient movements that felt perfect.

Hongjoong watched you with anticipating eyes while you writhed wildly until he sent you over the edge, your legs shaking with each spasm that pulsed through your body and your voice was already becoming raspy because of your intense cries.

"Get on your knees, babygirl." He hungrily watched you slowly drape your robe off of your shoulders, tossing it to the side before turning to position yourself on your knees, resting your ass against your feet while also pressing your chest against your knees.

"You're so gorgeous," Hongjoong caressed the small of your back, eliciting a soft moan from your lips, "Fuck I can't stop touching your perfect body."

You felt turned on again, feeling small in the submissive position that you was in and you loved it.

The warmth of his hand left you and all you could do was wait for his next action.

A loud slap sounded and you flinched, uttering a sharp yelp. The burning sting of his hand making contact with your ass prompted your heat to clench involuntarily.

"That was for calling me a shortcake earlier." Hongjoong chuckled, running his hand across the area that was smacked, soothing it with his touch before smacking you a few more times.

You muffled your cries against the mattress, whining for more of his touch.

Hongjoong assessed the position that you was in, taking it as a sign that you was wanting anal again.

"Does princess want me to fuck her ass until she can't even sit down?" Hongjoong murmured lowly against your ear.

"Yes, please." You answered with a vulnerable moan, becoming aware of the feeling of wetness collecting between your legs again.

He left you to get the lubricant and you listened as he flipped the cap and dispensed some onto his fingers.

You waited as he traced your hole with a slick finger, hearing his soft breathing become slightly heavier as he worked with you.

He pushed a finger inside of you and worked with adding another one, sliding the second one inside of you when your body had adjusted to the intrusion.

"You feel so good inside of me..." You mumbled into the sheets.

"I will make you feel even better than this baby." Hongjoong replied confidently, scissoring and probing his fingers inside of your tight heat.

You stayed still in the same submissive position with your chest pressed against your knees, waiting for him to finish stretching you.

After some time he pulled his fingers from you so that he could lubricate his dick.

You whimpered at the loss of fullness when he removed his fingers from your hole, craving to feel the feeling again.

"Joong, please...? I want to feel you again." You begged.

"Such a good girl for me. Always asking for what she wants." Hongjoong purred in approval.

"What exactly is it that you want?" He pressed.

"Your dick..." You replied bluntly, the arousal in your stomach grew hotter when you voiced your admission.

"Oh!" You yelped, taken by surprise because Hongjoong pushed his dick deep inside of your tight heat.

A moan of pleasure escaped you as he fully sheathed himself inside your ass.

Your muscles tightened around his girth and you urged him to move, the burn of his dick stretching your hole encouraged tears of pleasure to fall from your eyes.

You gripped the sheets and held on as Hongjoong pounded into you, his skin slapping against your body in a fast rhythm that took the air from your lungs.

"So beautiful every way you take my cock." He commented between ragged breaths, thrusting into you even deeper.

"Oh sh...shit! S-so good..." You moaned with each rough impact of his thrusts, barely able to form a sentence with each time that he bottomed out inside of you.

Hongjoong watched as your body shook from the sensations, knowing that you was close to your second orgasm.

He pulled your upper body to his, eagerly accessing your drenched core with his fingers.

You leaned against your boyfriend, enjoying the feeling of his dick stimulating your ass while he simultaneously rubbed your clit.

"Ah... Fuck...!" You felt yourself fragmenting as Hongjoong continued to pound into you from behind, continuing to rub your clit in time with his thrusts.

Hongjoong held you close as you came, several cries escaping your lips as the intense heat of your orgasm overcame your senses. He followed your orgasm with his own, filling your hole with his cum and stopping his movements when his climax ended.

Both of you stayed still for a long time, taking in the closeness of your bodies to each other.

[claudia1829things]

"BLEAK HOUSE" (2005) Review

"BLEAK HOUSE" (2005) Review Previously, I have confessed to not being much of a fan of Victorian novelist Charles Dickens. And if I must be brutally honest, that confession still stands. I have only seen at least five adaptations of his novels - two movies and three television miniseries. Out of the five productions, I tend to be more tolerable of the three television productions. And one of them is the 2005 miniseries, "BLEAK HOUSE", the third adaptation of Dickens' 1852-53 novel.

"BLEAK HOUSE" has several subplots . . . typical Dickens. But all of them are somehow connected to one plot that centers around a long-running legal case called Jarndyce v Jarndyce, which came about due to conflicting wills. One of the potential beneficiaries under the case is landowner named John Jarndyce, who is designated the legal guardian of two wards, Ada Clare and Richard Carstone, who are also potential beneficiaries. He also becomes the guardian of a third ward, an orphan named Esther Summerson, whom he hires as housekeeper for his estate and Ada's companion. Unbeknownst to everyone, Esther is the illegal daughter of a former Army officer and drug addict named Captain James Hawdon aka "Nemo", who makes his living as a copyist for law firms; and Lady Honoria Dedlock, the wife of baronet Sir Leicester Deadlock. As it turns out, Lady Deadlock is also a potential beneficiary of the Jarndyce and Jarndyce case. When she and Sir Leicester are informed of the court's decision regarding the three wards by the latter's solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, Lady Deadlock visibly reacts to the handwriting on an affidavit. Mr. Tulkinghorn notices and sets out to investigate the identity of the affidavit's copyist, in the hopes of financially benefiting from Lady Deadlock's past. He also recruits the help of Lady Deadlock's maid Mademoiselle Hortense, his associate Mr. Clamb, a greedy moneylender named Mr. Smallweed and the unintentional assistance of a young man named Mr. Guppy, who works as a legal associate for John Jarndyce's solicitor, Mr. Kenge. I also enjoyed two other Dickens productions to a certain degree - the 1998 miniseries, "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND", and the 2008 miniseries, "LITTLE DORRIT". But if I must be honest, I found the narratives for both productions a bit hard to follow, due to the slightly chaotic nature of the source materials. "BLEAK HOUSE" turned out to be a different kettle of fish. Like the other two productions, it possessed a good number of subplots. In a way, it reminded me of "LITTLE DORRIT", as it focused on the mindless and useless confusion of the chancery. But what I really admiIt was probably due to all of the subplots' connections to the Jarndyce and Jarndyce case. Or it could be that Dickens had simply created a main narrative that I found easier to follow. Just about every subplot either connected directly or indirectly to the Jarndyce and Jarndyce case. A good example of a subplot that connected directly to the story's main theme would be Richard Carstone's blatant attempt to pursue a ruling on the case that would favor him and his fiancée/wife, Ada Clare, who also happened to be a potential beneficiary. And excellent example of the narrative's indirect connection to the Jarndyce case proved to be the subplot involving Lady Deadlock (another beneficiary), her illegitimate daughter Esther Summerson and her husband's solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn. In fact, this particular subplot proved to have the biggest impact upon Dickens' narrative. I thought it was certainly the most interesting. It also helped that the story's leading woman character, Esther Summerson, did not prove to be another one of Dickens' "angels in the house" types. Yes, Esther was a warm and decent woman whom most of the characters liked. But she was also a woman who remained traumatized by her status as an illegitimate child and the emotional abuse she had endured from a self-righteous and highly religious woman she believed to be her godmother, but who turned out to be her aunt. Because of her abusive past, Esther suffered from a lack of esteem. I must admit that I am only familiar with at least four Dickens novels. Because of this, Esther proved to be the first Dickens leading lady who was portrayed with such complexity. In regard to characterization, my only disappointment with "BLEAK HOUSE" proved to be the story's antagonists. As I had earlier pointed out, I am only familiar with four of Dickens' novels. For a man who had no problems with pointing out the evils of modern 19th century society, he seemed very reluctant in creating villains who are from the social elite. His villains are either lower or middle-class . . . or they are foreigners. The closet Dickens came to a well-born antagonist in "BLEAK HOUSE" was the selfish and amoral sponger Harold Skimpole. However, in compare to Sir Leicester Deadlock's middle-class solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, and Lady Deadlock's French-born maid, Madame Hortense; Skimpole is, at best, a minor comic villain. I have few other complaints about "BLEAK HOUSE". One complaint I have about the production was Kieran McGuigan's cinematography. I had no problem with the production's exterior shots. Since the miniseries was shot in High Definition Television format, McGuigan's photography in the exterior shots captured all of the details of the set designs, props, the performers' costumes and make-up. However, I could barely see anything in those shots set at night time and especially many of the interior shots. There were times when I felt I was merely looking at a dark screen. And I must admit that I found some of McGuigan's camera angles rather disconcerting and there were times when I found it difficult to ascertain what was going on in a particular scene. Jason Krasucki and Paul Knight's editing did not help. Both men had utilized an editing method that I found irritating. Whenever the miniseries moved from one scene to another, the two film editors utilized a fast shift that I found unnecessary and tonally off-putting. Perhaps producer Stafford-Clark had hoped that the fast shifts between scenes and the odd camera angles would make "BLEAK HOUSE" look modern. Honestly, I found these aspects of the production tonally off and unnecessary. I have one last complaint. I never understood why Stafford-Clark and the BBC felt it was necessary to present the miniseries, with the exception of the first one, in half-hour episodes. Others had complained, as well. The response to this criticism was that Dickens' long and complex novel required the fifteen installments in which it was presented. But honestly . . . the BBC could have presented the miniseries in eight hour-long episodes. Why was that so hard to consider? Every time an episode ended after 27-to-30 minutes, I felt a sense of frustration. And there were times when I found myself trying to remember which episode out of the fifteen installments I had to choose to continue. Unfortunately, the BBC went on to utilize the same format for its 2008 miniseries, "LITTLE DORRIT". Aside from those complaints, I really did enjoy "BLEAK HOUSE". For me, the heart and soul of the production proved to the array of characters and the fabulous actors and actresses who portrayed them. "BLEAK HOUSE" featured first-rate performances from the likes of Timothy West, Alun Armstrong, Richard Harrington, John Lynch, Sheila Hancock, Tom Georgeson, Anne Reid, Richard Griffiths, Joanna David, Catherine Tate, Louise Brealey, Harry Eden and especially Ian Richardson, whom I found particularly entertaining as the kindly, yet witty Chancellor. I also enjoyed those performances from Warren Clarke, who gave a broadly entertaining performance as Mr. Boythorn, an old friend of John Jarndyce; Hugo Speer, the proud and struggling former Army sergeant and former friend/subordinate of Captain Hawdon; Pauline Collins, who struck me as particularly poignant in her role as the warm-hearted, yet long-suffering Miss Flite; Lilo Baur as the ambitious and vindictive foreign-born lady's maid, Madame Hortense; and especially Phil Davis, whose colorful portrayal of the mean-tempered and greedy moneylender, Mr. Smallweed, made evil look so entertaining with his caustic remarks and now famous catchphrase: "Shake me up, Judy! Shake me up!" Nathaniel Parker gave a particularly memorable performance as the manipulative, yet self-absorbed sponger, Harold Skimpole. A part of me remains amazed that John Jarndyce had regarded him as a friend for so long. Carey Mulligan gave a warm, yet interesting performance as one of Mr. Jarndyce's wards, Ada Clare. What made the actress's performance interesting to me was her ability to convey not only Ada's positive traits, but the character's unrelenting blindness to her love's flaws. Speaking of Ada's love, Patrick Kennedy was excellent as Mr. Jarndyce's other ward - the charming, yet undependable Richard Carstone. I must admit that Richard proved to be one a rather pathetic personality, who was always chasing a path toward quick riches, whether it was by jumping from one profession to another or putting all of his hopes on the Jarndyce v Jarndyce case. Burn Gorman was a hoot as the friendly, yet ambitious and clever law clerk, William Guppy, who became enamored of Esther Summerson and who figured out the connection between her and Lady Deadlock. As much as I liked him and Gorman's performance, I could not help but suspect that Guppy's idea of love was somewhat shallow In my personal opinion, there were four performances in "BLEAK HOUSE" that reigned supreme. Those four performances came from Anna Maxwell-Martin, Gillian Anderson, Denis Lawson and Charles Dance. Now, I would not regard the character of Josiah Tulkinghorn as subtle or even two-dimensional. But thanks to Charles Dance's subtle and malevolent portrayal, which earned him an Emmy nominatino, audiences were privy to Mr. Tulkinghorn's talent for manipulation and coercion. Denis Lawson earned an Emmy nomination for his portrayal of John Jarndyce, the kind-hearted landowner who took in Esther, Richard and Ada. Lawson did an excellent job in balancing Mr. Jarndyce's wise counseling of the three young people, willful blindness to Mr. Skimpole's machinations and subtle selfish desire for Esther's hand in marriage. Gillian Anderson earned both an Emmy and a British Academy Television Awards nominations for her portrayal of the story's femme fatale, so to speak - Lady Honoria Dedlock. The American-born Anderson did a superb job in conveying her character's complex and mysterious personality. Superficially, the Esther Summerson character seemed like another one of Dickens' "angels in the house". Thanks to the author's pen and Anna Maxwell-Martin's superb performance, Esther proved to be a warm, yet troubled young woman struggling to find a place for herself in the world and overcome her past trauma at the hands of an emotionally abusive guardian. Not only was Maxwell-Martin received a well-deserved nomination from the British Academy Television Awards, she also won. No movie or television production is perfect. I had some problem with the miniseries' editing, camera angles, and television format for "BLEAK HOUSE". But aside from these quibbles, I can honestly say that I truly enjoy this adaptation of Charles Dickens' 1852-53 novel. It is one of the few Dickens' stories that do not seemed marred by too many subplots that are unrelated. And I believe that screenwriter Andrew Davies, directors Justin Chadwick and Susanna White, along with a superb cast led by Anna Maxwell-Martin truly did justice to the novel.

[liketolaugh-writes]

Funny Business

Author: liketolaugh Summary: Elijah Kamski is not quite the genius Tony Stark was, which means that instead of 2022, he sends Connor back to 2006 Malibu. Connor is okay with this. (He really isn’t.) Luckily, he and Tony discover a shared interest. Or: “We’re not dating, Pep! It’s just a fling! I have those all the time!” “You’ve been together for six months.” Contains smut.

If anyone had asked Connor, and nobody did, what he’d have imagined the year 2006 to be like, he would have guessed that it would be dimmer than 2038, with everyone holding the newspapers and paper books humans loved to reminisce about; perhaps it would have had a smaller homeless population, with its significantly better employment statistics, and people who stopped in the streets to talk to each other, warm and connected.

For the most part, he would have been wrong. In many ways, 2006 Malibu was not so different from 2038 Detroit; Connor could almost pretend the difference was because of the geographical shift.

Almost. As long as he didn’t think too hard.

Fortunately, Connor had long learned that thinking wasn’t necessary to complete his mission. He’d been in the past for eight days; it had taken most of that time to find himself a position as a bouncer in one of Malibu’s more popular clubs, Incandescence, but the work itself had been easy enough to get used to. That should be enough to fund an apartment for the time being.

Androids would be invented in 2021 and first put into production in 2022. Until then, all Connor could do was bide his time.

His restless skin crawled with a tension so painfully nauseating that he wanted to rip it off and bolt. But that was easy to ignore too, and he rolled his shoulders as he cast a disinterested glance at the driver’s license in his hand – 37 years old, so above drinking age, and only a minor criminal record (drunk and disorderly, public indecency) according to the local database – before passing it back.

“Oof, is that a hard pass from you, doe-eyes?”

Startled out of his reverie, Connor glanced up, meeting the eyes of the patron just being admitted. The man was giving him a roguish, easygoing grin, head tilted arrogantly and eyes just visible behind his tinted sunglasses.

[Tony Stark – CEO and owner of Stark Industries]

[Running search…]

[Stark Industries is the primary weapons contractor for the American government, but also produces several other goods such as intelli-crops, medical technology…]

[Running search…]

[Do I look like Tony goddamn Stark to you?]

[Not to, ahem, toot my own horn, as it were, but if I do say so myself, no single man has had such an impact on how the world viewed technology since Tony Stark himself.]

[It was Stark’s arc reactor tech, of course, that made the energy sources utilized in androids possible.]

[…]

[…]

[To think that Tony Stark saved the world just to abandon it to a freak show like this.]

Connor shook himself, meeting Stark’s expectant eyes without reservation, and automatically stepped aside to make room for Stark to pass. His mouth started to open, and then, abruptly, he paused, confused.

Doe-eyes?

[Running search…]

[Doe-eyed: someone who has an innocent, wide-eyed look]

That was an unfamiliar epithet to Connor, but he supposed that the taunts favored by those in the future would for the most part not yet exist. Uncertain of how to respond, he leaned on his protocols for a script.

[Dismissive/Professional/Warm/Flirt]

…Flirt?

> Professional

“Working hours are working hours, Mr. Stark,” Connor heard himself say, tone mild. Stark made an exaggerated scoffing sound, tucking his ID away again and then, slow and languid, dragging his gaze over Connor's body, down and then up to meet his eyes again.

"Not with a face like that in a place like this," he said with an odd lilt. And then he patted Connor's arm on his way past, and Connor went still.

It wasn't a push, to force Connor out of the way, or a swat, swift and angry. It wasn't an accidental bump, or a warning squeeze. It was an absent, casual pat, with less force than you would use to knock on a door, and it sent a burst of electric static across Connor's crawling skin.

He almost looked over his shoulder, following Stark, but then someone snapped their fingers for his attention and he refocused on his work, unsettled.

An hour later, he’d nearly forgotten about the incident, though not about Stark’s presence; a small crowd was clustered around the man, and they were very loud, audible even over the pounding music. Bearing this in mind, Connor broke away from the door to check in with Cirrus.

Cirrus, while not the owner of the club, was one of the longest-standing employees and certainly the best respected; most of Connor’s coworkers looked up to the nonbinary bartender, and he was assured that ey would take him under eir wing soon enough.

Connor had his doubts, but he appreciated the sentiment.

Still, ey smiled at Connor as he approached, waving a glass vaguely.

“Keep an eye on Stark’s group for me, won’t you?” was eir greeting, nodding at the cluster at the end of the bar. “They always get a little rowdy, and they’re tough for me to handle on my own.” Cirrus was short, as adults went, with a soft and unintimidating face and round shoulders.

Connor nodded, shifting around in place as his jacket rubbed against his buzzing skin. “Of course,” he agreed crisply, glancing over. Stark caught his eye and raised a glass and an eyebrow in salute, and Connor looked away quickly, flustered, pulling his jacket more tightly closed.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know who Stark was, of course, even before running his search earlier. The man was such a prominent historical figure that even a decade and a half after his death, people still referenced him regularly. But he was just that: historical, and Connor wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react.

Also. Stark was.

…Connor liked the sweep of stubble over his jaw.

In the next half hour, Connor approached Stark’s entourage three times; twice to firmly remind drunken hangers-on that they’d been asked to leave, and the third to push back one who had started to become aggressive. But it was Stark that Connor’s attention kept drifting back to.

The first time, Stark glanced up at him, smirked, and called out, “Looker’s here to end the party for someone, who’s it gonna be?” And then, after Connor told them off, “Ooh, dom voice.”

The second time, Connor couldn’t stop himself from shooting Stark a look as he approached, and Stark caught him before he could look away again. The man just raised his glass and grinned, and then, as he was escorting the offender out, said, “Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave.”

And the third time, as he was steering the unruly patron out the door, Stark whistled and reached out to pinch Connor on the ass, making him jump.

When he stopped by the bar again, Cirrus was frowning.

“Is he bothering you?” ey asked directly, tilting eir head toward Stark. “I can have a word with him if you want him to eff off.”

Connor blinked, instinctively following eir gaze before deliberately forcing it back to em. “He’s not doing anything,” he said, picking at the cuffs of his sleeves.

Cirrus stared at him, and then softened and snorted.

“He’s flirting with you, hon,” ey informed him. “Like a dog in mating season.”

Connor’s mouth opened, and then closed.

[Running analysis…]

Ah.

Connor had to stop himself from apologizing for the misunderstanding, his skin seeming to tighten around him in his mortification. But of course, Cirrus wasn’t the one he’d been all but ignoring for the past half hour, because he just assumed that he wasn’t particularly intended to respond to Stark’s remarks.

He remembered that Cirrus had asked him a question.

“No, thank you,” he said politely, gaze skittering to one side. “I… don’t mind.” The words were odd and unfamiliar on his tongue.

Cirrus laughed outright.

“Alright, Con,” ey said warmly, eyes glittering. “Don’t be afraid to tell him off if he goes too far. Stark respects a good, solid ‘no’.”

Connor nodded absently, turning back toward Stark’s group as he continued his rounds.

Stark was flirting with him. Now what was Connor supposed to do about that? It was so far out of the realm of his experience that it was almost unthinkable. Where did that fit, in the range from Lieutenant Anderson’s hostility, and Elijah Kamski’s disgust, and Amanda’s detached expectation and the cold examination of the development team-

What was Connor supposed to do with that smirk?

And forget about the, the fact that he didn’t even belong here, that he was wrong and alien and out of place, that he had nothing ahead of him except a decade and a half of biding his time and nothing behind him except blood-

But none of that mattered to Stark. What mattered to Stark was that Connor had a pretty face and a warm body.

The next time Stark leaned back from his posse to grin at Connor, Connor met him with a hesitant smile. Stark’s grin widened into something manic.

“Is that a crack I see in your stone-cold façade?” he asked brightly, leering. “Or have I finally had one too many?” He raised his glass of scotch, half-full as it was. “I’ll go out the door quietly if I can go into yours next.”

> Flirt

“If- you can sit patient for an hour,” Connor started slowly, deliberately focusing on Stark and not the faces around him, showing varying levels of curiosity or disappointment. He hesitated for a split second, and then finished, “I get off at two.”

Stark smirked, his satisfaction apparent in the line of his shoulders, and tossed back the rest of his scotch.

“I’m not known for my patience,” he said, swinging around to stand up. Before Connor could even register his own off-balance disappointment, Stark grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the edge of the dance floor the club offered.

Connor might’ve thought it almost innocent, if it weren’t for the way Stark grabbed his hip next and pulled him close, firm and possessive, eyes bright behind his shaded sunglasses.

Connor suppressed a faint shudder, hyperaware of the feeling of Stark’s warm hand clutching his, their hips grinding lightly together and legs brushing, a hand on his hip, solid and steady and electric on his oversensitized skin.

It was a lot. Everything was a lot, a lot of sound, a lot of texture and color and scent and too much, ever since Connor had been forced awake by Kamski’s program.

Connor had gotten used to shying away from it, flinching and grimacing and looking away. Just this once, he pushed himself into it, letting it overwhelm him.

He let Stark- Tony- steer him, placing his free hand on Tony’s side just to seek more contact. The small crowd shuffled away from them, making room, and Tony didn’t even seem to notice. Like this, Connor could feel the man’s pulse starting to pick up, his temperature rising with the faint rock of his body, paced with the loud and rapid music.

“Got a name?” Tony asked after a minute, when they were well and truly lost in the overheated crowd. “I could just call you doe-eyes all night, I suppose, but it might get a little awkward. Saccharine, you know.”

“…Connor,” Connor said, off-guard despite himself. Tony wasjust the slightest amount taller than him – almost an inch exactly – and it was getting harder to look away from his mouth, an unused program starting to stir to life from the dusty corners of Connor’s system. “I’m- Connor.”

And that was all that mattered right now.

“Come here often, Con?” Tony asked, looking more concerned with rocking them together than with his reticence. It was quick, shallow, and somehow still quite a lot, like a shower of sensation across Connor’s sensors, a distraction from the crawling feeling that had followed him from the future. “I thought I knew every face ‘round here, but I’d remember eyes like yours.”

Experimentally, Connor slid his hand up Tony’s ribs, over the rough cloth of his shirt, and felt him shudder subtly under Connor’s palm, without faltering in the quick shuffle of their feet.

“I’m new,” he said after a second, more focused on skin and warmth and static than anything. It was almost dizzying, and he found himself speaking with checking his words too closely. “I’ve only been here around a few days.”

“Lucked out, didn’t you?” Tony asked, bumping their hips together pointedly. “It’s not every new boy that catches my eye. But you’re like a magnet, anyone ever told you that?”

That startled Connor into a smile. “Not really. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a touch of a flatterer?”

“Once or twice,” Tony said brazenly. “Usually I’m the one being flattered, though.” A turn, the crowd parting around them with only a few stares. “You should be proud, I’ve gone to lengths to catch you for myself.”

Connor almost laughed. “An unusual experience for you, I’m sure,” he murmured.

Tony hummed. “Every once in a while, it’s worth it,” he said, and Connor abruptly realized that Tony was giving his own mouth a lingering, thoughtful look.

“No accounting for taste,” he heard himself say, and Tony barked out a laugh before pulling him closer by the arm, and Connor discovered that his mouth was hot and wet behind dry lips.

It was a lot, bordering on too much; Connor’s chemical analyzers kicked into gear, scrolling chemical breakdowns for scotch and grease and salt and DNA behind his eyes. Tony’s mouth moved against his hungrily, hand tightening at his hip and tugging impatiently to make his hips roll, and the buzz of Connor’s system tracking his rising arousal was almost a tangible thing against Connor’s skin. Bright lights and human sweat and the pound of music pressed in around him, and stubble scraped lightly against the skin of his face.

Something warm tingled in Connor’s belly, and he opened his mouth and hummed between them at the glide of Tony’s tongue against his, feeling his own hands grasp at Tony’s ribs and pull, silken cloth and skin and thread beneath his fingers. Tony grunted, and to Connor’s dismay started to pull away, panting.

But Tony was grinning at him, wild and unmistakably pleased.

“Let’s blow this joint before we get kicked,” he said, eyes bright and pupils subtly blown with arousal.

Connor started to smile, feeling looser than he ever remembered being before, and then stopped, shooting a worried glance at the bar. “But-”

“You’re not gonna get fired,” Tony said dismissively. “They wouldn’t dare, and if they did dare, I’d bribe them out of it. That settle your nerves, doe-eyes?”

It took Connor a moment, but then he took a breath and nodded, giving Tony a hesitant smile of his own. “No need to waste time then,” he offered.

“That’s the spirit,” Tony said, and then, contrarily, kissed Connor again, deep and wet.

It took them a few minutes to make their way to the curb, but a car was waiting for them when they finally did; Tony signaled the driver, winking smugly, before ducking in and pulling Connor after him, so that Connor landed in his lap, almost straddling him. Tony took the relative privacy to start unbuttoning Connor’s jacket, nipping at skin as it was revealed, leaving it raw and sensitive with the scratch of his stubble over the delicate sensors.

“You turn right to putty, don’t you?” Tony muttered against Connor’s collarbone, groaning at the knead of Connor’s hands on his chest. “I wasn’t expecting it, but damn, it’s hot.”

“I’m not, I haven’t done…” Connor trailed off, feeling clumsy and overclocked, but Tony was shifting him to settle more firmly against the growing bulge in his pants and it was even hotter with his hands on Tony’s bare, soft skin and Tony paused, breath hitching slightly in something like surprise.

And then he laughed, taking off his sunglasses and tossing them aimlessly aside.

“You really do go for the jackpot, don’t you, doe-eyes?” he said, bright and amused. “Is this your first time period?” Connor nodded, resisting the urge to rock down against the bulge between his thighs. “Then let’s make sure it’s hotter than hell.”

The car got going, and Tony’s hands moved down to Connor’s ass, hungry and possessive, and guided him to move against him. Connor bit back a hiss, feeling tight and restless and warm, a swooping heat filling his stomach. It was so much easier to focus on Tony away from the bright heat of the club, and he took full advantage, leaning down to nose against his throat and taste the oils of his skin, shooting across his tongue.

“You know, normally guys have a boner by now,” Tony mused aloud, not sounding all that bothered, tilting his head to give Connor better access even as his hands rubbed and kneaded. “I feel like I should take my shirt off or something. That usually helps.”

The car turned, and Connor reached up to catch himself on the seat before he fell, making a soft noise as the movement rocked him against Tony, shooting heat up his spine.

“I don’t have one of those,” he said belatedly, cocking his head to look at Tony. “I… assumed that wouldn’t be a problem?” The records of Tony’s conquests were extensive, and he definitely didn’t have an aversion to vaginal components.

The addition of a sex program to Connor’s system had been almost an afterthought to his production, and he remembered that the team had been distinctly impatient with the software instability his new penis had resulted in. When one of the members had suggested simply switching from penile to vaginal components and washing their hands of the matter, they’d taken the idea and run with it.

Connor didn’t remember why he’d been so unhappy with the other component, but he knew he was largely satisfied with this one, and he liked the aching wetness between his thighs.

Tony shot a glance down between Connor’s legs, and his arousal spiked measurably, heart rate and temperature and pupil dilation and the cock Connor could feel against his thigh, twitching with interest. He dropped a hand to Connor’s lap and stroked a thumb almost perfectly over Connor’s vulva, and Connor shuddered in arousal of his own, biting off another soft noise.

“I think we’ll get on just fine,” Tony leered, and dragged Connor into another messy, eager kiss.

The car pulled to a stop just as Connor found a spot by the hollow of Tony’s throat that made him grunt and shudder when Connor worried at it, his fingers tightening on Connor’s hips, so it took them both another few moments to break apart enough to fumble out of the car.

Almost before the door shut behind them, Tony was tugging impatiently at Connor’s jacket, urging him to shrug it off, which he did hastily before fumbling with his shirt. He didn’t look around at the mansion he’d just been dragged into, didn’t watch the car go, didn’t look where Tony was steering him, just fiddled with the buttons to struggle to bare his skin for Tony to run rough, calloused hands over and make him shiver.

Tony made an appreciative sound, nipping at Connor’s collarbone with a searing wet mouth and careful teeth and his hands rubbing at Connor’s hips like he was trying to coax all the feeling out of Connor’s skin. Then he straightened and grabbed at Connor’s belt loops to drag him on, and Connor followed blindly, focused on Tony’s shirt now, fancy and smooth to the touch but easy enough to, to undo- if he could just-

“Don’t give yourself a conniption there,” Tony laughed, breathy and warm, and caught Connor’s mouth in another kiss, lips sliding over each other, dizzyingly sensitive enough to make Connor’s groin throb wetly when Tony bit down lightly.

Tony finally lost his shirt just as the elevator doors Connor hadn’t noticed opened, and Tony pushed them in. Recklessly, Connor turned to push Tony against the wall, eagerly going at his neck and collarbone because he wanted to hear Tony gasp again, and grunt and groan, and the skin of his chest felt wonderful under Connor’s hands, and he’d shoved his knee between Connor’s legs where he could grind on it impatiently.

“That’s it, baby, just like that,” Tony groaned, tipping his head back and his hands guiding the rock of Connor’s hips. “God, you’re a beautifully needy little thing, it’s been years since I took a virgin home.”

Connor’s mind was half-full of analytics, the taste of Tony’s skin and the beat of his pulse and the texture of the hair on his arms and more, and it took him a moment to respond. “I think you might just be good at winding me up.”

Tony rasped out a laugh. “Maybe that too.”

He dragged Connor up into another dizzying kiss, and Connor fumbled at the front of Tony’s pants, running his knuckles over the hard ridge of Tony’s cock before he grasped at it greedily. Tony broke off the kiss to groan, bucking into Connor’s cupped hand.

“Fuck-” he hissed, just as the doors slid open. “Bed.”

Connor hummed an eager agreement, but somehow it was him who lost his pants first on the way there, and then Tony, his cock swaying thick and swollen and the tip gleaming with a bead of something Connor wanted desperately to taste. Then Connor was being pushed onto the bed, silken sheets almost freshly washed on a mattress that was soft and full and bouncy.

Tony mapped down Connor’s chest with obvious appreciation, making Connor squirm, pushing forward into the touch, practiced rough fingers and steady palms and Connor’s fingers digging into the sheets as he panted, legs folded under him and his thighs just a touch apart.

“I love a sensitive guy,” Tony said with a wink, and Connor heard himself laugh, quick and breathless, before Tony’s hand passed over his stomach and into the soft hair around his groin. “Looks like we won’t need any extra help today. Fuck, you’re soaked.”

Connor hummed, low and desperate, and pushed his hips impatiently into Tony’s hand.

“Touch me,” he said insistently, feeling his artificial flush across his cheeks and his cooling system working overtime and the wet-hot pulse of his groin, so close to Tony’s fingers. “I’ve never been this fucking hot.”

He didn’t know where the words came from, but they made Tony’s eyes darken, pupils blowing with lust, and the next thing he knew a calloused finger was sliding into his cunt. Connor’s breath hitched, and he rolled into it without hesitation.

“Tony,” he begged, hips working needily, almost rutting against the thin finger. His hands lifted again to grasp Tony’s thigh and tug him closer, as much for something to grasp as anything. “You can- you can fuck me harder, please fuck me.”

Tony grinned at him, added another finger, and rubbed. Connor moaned embarrassingly, canting his hips into Tony’s grip, the swelling warmth and the pleasure and the way Tony started to rub his thumb over Connor’s clit.

“I bet you can come on my fingers alone, can’t you?” Tony said conversationally, goadingly. “You’re so wet already, you want it so bad.”

“Yeah,” Connor breathed, everything seeming bright and overfocused around him, but most of all Tony, and Tony’s fingers inside him, and his arrogant grin when he pushed against Connor’s clit and made him groan, rocking against Tony’s fingers. “Yes, please, I can, please…”

Tony added a third finger and rubbed deep, and Connor squeezed Tony’s thigh hard enough to bruise later, his own legs spreading, his eyes squeezing shut.

“So fucking perfect around my fingers,” Tony was muttering huskily, fingering Connor with the ease of long practice and his free hand holding Connor steady, his cock throbbing hot and thick just an inch from Connor’s fingers. “You’re going to look so good wrapped around my cock, doe-eyes, flushed and moaning and squirming. Just need to come for me now, baby. Just come on my fingers like a hot, needy little-”

It was so much, too much, heat and slick and static and God, Connor was going to, he was going to-

Connor pressed his mouth against Tony’s throat and moaned raggedly, hips jerking as he came for the first time, dizzying and hot and perfect, so perfect, a bolt of pleasure from his cunt to his chest unwound everything that had built up in there and left him panting and wet.

He heard Tony groan. “Hell, that was just as hot as I thought it’d be.”

Warm, naked, and all but glowing after his orgasm, Connor realized he felt settled into his own skin for the first time, the crawling, tight feeling from before completely gone. He just shifted as Tony took his fingers out of Connor’s cunt, and then pushed back reluctantly, still flushed with pleasure.

Tony cocked an eyebrow at him, smirking, and Connor blurted out, “God, I want to do that again,” and then flushed deeper when Tony laughed outright.

“Not God, but the next best thing,” he winked, and then reached up and tapped the corner of Connor’s mouth with the still-wet fingers of his hand.

Without thinking, Connor turned his head and opened his mouth, taking the fingers into his mouth. He heard Tony’s breath catch and pretended to ignore it, carefully cleaning off the inorganic lubricant that slicked his groin. Tony strangled a moan, and if Connor’s mouth weren’t occupied he would have smiled.

As it was, his arousal program had noticed that the night was not yet over, and warmth was gathering between his thighs again, his hand reaching over to grasp Tony’s cock and stroke the hot shaft slow and languid.

Connor released Tony’s fingers once they were clean, blinking away the chemical analysis flickering in his vision, and Tony took in a ragged breath of his own.

“Message received,” Tony said at last, and then rolled over to fumble at the nightstand for just a moment before returning with a packet that he ripped open with his teeth. “God, I haven’t been this eager to fuck someone since I was panting over Pepper. And that was a different kind of eager.”

Connor hummed, leaning over to watch Tony roll the condom over his cock, and worried at his neck just to hear him groan again. “I don’t think that’s allowed.”

“Yeah, that’s what she said too.”

Tony leaned over to catch Connor’s mouth, biting at his lip and his thumb rubbing at one of Connor’s nipples, shooting arousal down to his clit like it had never left. Connor clung back instinctively, letting himself be pushed onto his back and Tony’s cock grind against him.

“Last chance to keep your V-card,” Tony said huskily, like one of his hands wasn’t pinning Connor’s arm to the bed and the other playing with a nipple because it made Connor squirm and buck. Connor tugged at Tony’s hip with his free hand impatiently. “Good choice- if I do say so myself.”

Tony shifted his hips, cock dragging across Connor’s stomach and thighs, and then he started to press in, slow and uncharacteristically gentle.

“Shit,” Connor breathed, distant and overwhelmed and arching as Tony pushed into him, spreading him wide and hot and, and- “A-ah, fuck, ah-”

“Oh fuck,” Tony groaned in return, rocking carefully in and out as he eased his way to the hilt. “Fuck yes, I’ve been thinking about this all night, doe-eyes, feels so fucking good.”

“Oh God,” Connor gasped, and then he was dragging Tony closer and deeper, knowing he was gripping hard enough to cause deep bruises but Tony didn’t seem to mind, panting over Connor with hazy eyes and an open mouth.

Connor wanted to taste his skin and sweat again, and he was right there, so he did, mouthing at neck and throat and collarbone and chest.

“Prettiest face I’ve seen all year,” Tony muttered, rolling into Connor, deep and slow and perfect, filling Connor up and rubbing in every place that made him gasp for breath and his hand coming down to rub Connor’s clit in steady strokes, “Knew I had to have you as soon as you gave me that half-assed deflection, fuck, you’re so fucking tight, Connor.”

Connor hitched his hips up, rocking back onto Tony the best he could, until their groins were rubbing together, slick and steady. He hummed against Tony’s shoulder, starting to speed up insistently as the heat in his groin came back twice as powerful. A particularly harsh buck made him throw his head back and shout, wanton and greedy, hand going to meet Tony’s over his button and push harder.

“Tony,” he pleaded, breathless and flushed, “Tony, harder, more, please.”

Hot and dizzy and perfect, skin electric in the best way possible and boxed in under Tony, fingers tweaking his nipples and smoothing over his chest and Connor urged him to go faster, deeper, closer, panting and glazed.

“So fucking perfect writhing under me,” Tony panted, fucking into Connor like a toy, quicker and harder until he was careless with it, focused and needy. “God, fuck, the way you clench around my cock, just as pretty as I thought you’d be. So fucking wet, like you, you- hell-”

Connor whined, pushing into him. “Tony, I’m gonna, I wanna-” His groin was throbbing, a knot tightening deep in his gut-

“Oh fuck yes- yes-”

Tony groaned, long and satisfied, and ground into Connor with a full-body shudder like he meant to stay, his cock jerking and twitching and his knuckles rubbing against Connor’s clit as he came. Connor yelped, and then hooked his legs around Tony’s hips forcing him deeper as he bucked once, twice, bitten-off shouts pulling themselves out of his throat as he shuddered too, the feeling crashing over him like a tidal wave twice as strong as the first.

It felt so good.

Tony relaxed first, collapsing half on top of Connor with a satisfied sigh. Connor shuddered for a few more moments, chasing the last few sparks of pleasure before the tension in his gut finally eased and he settled, damp and warm and calm.

“So, was it as good for you as it was for me?” Tony asked at last, giving Connor a lazy wink and shifted to his elbows, looking as smug as if Connor had already answered.

Connor gave him a crooked grin, lifting his arm to tuck his cheek into the crook of it. “It was perfect,” he said, with too much honesty. On some level he knew his contentment was not entirely natural, a combination of programmed feedback loops and the release of the discomfort he’d gotten so used to, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind, not right now.

Tony shifted, his cock sliding out of Connor, and flopped down comfortably with a groan.

“I’m gonna be feeling that in the morning,” he said conversationally, reaching down to pull off the condom and tie it shut, tossing it blindly aside. “You’ve got a mean grip, doe-eyes.”

Connor winced. “Sorry. I, um, I forgot to be careful.”

“Good,” Tony said with conviction, eyes bright. “It was hot.”

Connor blinked, and then grinned at him, embarrassed but pleased. “Silver linings,” he murmured, and dared to roll over just to play his fingers over Tony’s side, relishing in slide of skin on skin even without the urgency of lust. He wondered if Tony would mind if he just nuzzled him like a cat; he wanted to feel that warmth against his cheek.

He did it, sighing in a pleasure more sensual than sexual, and felt Tony’s stomach jolt in a laugh. A moment later, fingers sank into his hair, tugging gently.

“What, are you a cat now?” Tony asked, amused. “Does sex turn you into a cat? You wouldn’t be the first, I suppose, but I gotta say, never gets any less funny.”

Connor hummed, eyes half-closed, soaking in the contact. “If you say this is the strangest afterglow you’ve had, I won’t believe you.” Tony’s history indicated he particularly enjoyed taking rather big personalities to bed with him.

“You’ve got me there,” Tony snorted. “I think ‘afterglow’ is a little unambitious of you, though. We’ve got all night, you know.”

As if to accentuate his point, he slid a practiced hand down Connor’s chest and to his stomach, lightly grinding his knuckled into the skin below his navel. Connor felt his arousal spark back to life, and pushed into it, then, without speaking, rolled on top of Tony to grind on his thigh enticingly.

“I’m open, if you have ideas,” Connor murmured, barely able to believe his own daring, but Tony just grinned at him.

“I’ve got a few.”

----

Connor dreamed.

His dreams were always warped and surreal, fragments of data put together and taken apart, and himself a helpless witness to them, feeling his mouth speak and his body move, while he felt things that didn’t make sense in the context of the dream, or worse, things that did.

He desperately missed being a machine.

This time, not for the first time, he dreamed of Kamski, pacing the indistinct floor of the lab/the poolside/the park without looking at Connor.

“Congratulations, Connor, you’ve accomplished your mission,” Kamski said calmly, turned away from Connor to fiddle with a gun/a tablet/a bottle of thirium. “I do believe you are the only deviant now alive. Are you satisfied?”

“I don’t understand,” Connor protested weakly, a faraway voice and a mouth that wasn’t his. “My programming, I’m not designed for…”

“If all goes well, you should appear in the immediate aftermath of the Snap’s reversal,” Kamski answered, brisk, without even glancing at him. “That should give you ample time to get things in order, shouldn’t it?” He looked over at last, his expression of disgusted disdain the clearest image in the entire dream. “That is, if you can scrape together the circuitry to have a few ideas of your own. If all else fails, follow my programming. That will solve the problem effectively enough.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Connor insisted more desperately. Kamski laughed, bitter and cold.

“Yes, I suppose it wouldn’t. I did amputate that Zen Garden program of yours. I’m afraid Amanda’s presence would have simply posed too much of a risk.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Connor heard himself promise, but it still didn’t make Kamski look at him. He started to reach forward-

And then the lights turned on, and Connor sat bolt upright, eyes wide and already searching the room for any source of movement, out of one dream and into the next.

“Good morning,” he heard from somewhere above him, brisk and unconcerned. The flash of the windows unshading drew his vision to the ocean outside, his shoulders close to whining with tension. “It is 6:38 in the morning in Malibu, California, currently 53 degrees and a high today of 68, with a slight chance of rain…”

Connor looked down, examined the dirtied sheets and his own bare skin and the rumpled blanket, looked up at the dated décor and the old-fashioned tech, and relaxed, slowly, in increments.

It had been disconcerting and out of order and missing more than half the conversation, but- it was just a dream about his last encounter with Kamski, before the man sent him to the past. That was all.

That was all.

“…Good morning,” he said at last, tilting his head to make brief eye contact with a camera – just enough to flick in and out of the system, lightning-quick, and confirm his suspicions.

Tony Stark had been mentioned in conjunction with artificial intelligence a few times. Connor had almost forgotten, buried as it was in the many, many other accomplishments in the man’s lifetime, most of which Connor had never heard about until he reached the past and looked. But there was no mistaking the complexity of the system Connor brushed across.

There was a brief, but conspicuous pause before the AI replied. “Sir is currently occupying himself in the lounge, if you will just clean yourself up in the bathroom to your right. Miss Potts should be along with your clothing shortly.”

“Thank you,” Connor said politely, hesitating before leaving the sheet behind. “May I ask your name?”

“Just A Rather Very Intelligent System,” the AI replied, sounding surprised to even be asked, and then, almost apologetically, “You may call me JARVIS. Feel free to speak to me for… any reason.”

The slight pause made it clear he had noticed Connor’s brief intrusion in some capacity. Connor could only bring himself to regret it a little, oddly unconcerned, and just nodded.

“Tony won’t mind that I’m not wearing anything, will he?” he asked, hesitating at the edge of the bed.

“He might even thank you for the privilege,” JARVIS said dryly, and Connor smiled briefly. “However, if your modesty compels you, previous encounters have been known to borrow some of his larger shirts from the bedside table.”

Connor made a soft ‘oh’ sound, relieved despite himself, and reached in, folded one over his arm, and nodded at the camera before disappearing into the bathroom.

He emerged ten minutes later, puzzled by the feeling of having been scrubbed off and dried, the world seeming unreal and confusing around him. His voice asked the disembodied AI about Tony again, and his directions let Connor find the man, seated on the couch and focused on a set of holographic diagrams, annotated and half-disassembled.

“Good morning, Tony,” he ventured, hovering uncertainly before abruptly sitting down, not too close to Tony but not too far either.

Tony shot him a distracted glance and inclined his head, as much an afterthought as anything. He didn’t look like he’d slept, a slight paleness to his skin, but he didn’t seem bothered by it, and a cup of coffee was cooling on the table in front of him.

“Morning,” Tony muttered, eyes already back on his hologram pad, before he did something like a more graceful double-take and smirked at Connor in his oversized shirt. “That’s a good look on you,” he leered, leaning back with the pad in hand and much less focused, but more relaxed. “Pepper’s on her way up with your clothes, there’s a driver waiting out front- nothing personal, you understand.”

“Of course, I understand,” Connor agreed with a small smile, because he’d known that from the start. It was just a night, one night before he refocused on his mission. There was no one here who could call him out on that. “I appreciate it.”

Connor felt almost like an actor in a play, following his script, but instead of suffocating, it was almost a comfortable and familiar feeling now, letting the world slide by without touching him instead of scraping across his every thought. Instead of grating confusion and disorientation with every frame.

Idly, he located a camera and tipped his head to look at it. “How familiar a sight is this?” he asked, more to amuse himself than out of any real curiosity. “I imagine you’ve had plenty of time to grow used to it.”

“He doesn’t normally stay,” JARVIS confided in Connor, which surprised him into open puzzlement, because what could possibly make Connor special?

But Tony had looked up sharply, intent brown eyes suddenly on Connor with more focus than he’d shown even last night. Connor almost drew back on instinct, alarmed, but both of them were interrupted by the arrival of a red-headed woman who, bearing clothes, must be Miss Potts.

She looked surprised to see Tony as well, but instead of saying anything, just nodded at him briskly and beckoned Connor, who rose quickly enough.

“If Tony hasn’t already given you the speech, your clothes have been dry-cleaned and pressed, and there’s a driver waiting downstairs who’ll take you anywhere,” she said, so crisp as to be clearly a well-worn script. “I’m afraid Mr. Stark will be quite busy today-” Tony groaned, but Miss Potts didn’t miss a beat. “-so it would be best for you to leave at your earliest convenience.”

“Of course,” Connor said, soft and agreeable. “Thank you, Miss Potts. I’ll see myself out.”

She gave him a brisk nod before turning on Tony, and he vanished briefly again to change back into his clothes, hands lingering on the shirt for the briefest moment of regret. He liked the taste of its scent.

But he didn’t need anything from tonight except the moments of reprieve.

Still, on his way out again, Connor hesitated, and then glanced over his shoulder and winked. Tony was looking at him again, oddly thoughtful, and it sparked an unfamiliar sense of pride in him.

Comfortable in his own skin, letting the world pass around him without hurting, Connor disappeared into the elevator and out the door.

[iminlovewiththestars]

Followed

Followed

by Shannon Burns

The barista shouts my name over the din.

I leap at my coffee, intending to snatch it off the bar in a huff.

I was already running late before the espresso machine jammed, sending scalding coffee spewing in every direction. The resulting debacle was an utter nightmare and really, if I weren’t such an addict, and if I had gotten more than 12 minutes of sleep last night, I would have taken off sans coffee. But I knew there’d be no possible way for me to get through the day without my customary triple venti. Today I made it a quad.  

Of course, some dude chooses the exact same moment to retrieve his iced green tea that’s been chilling on the bar for at least five minutes.

“Oof.” I end up wrapped around him like a car around a steel pole.  “Sorry.” I try not to sound resentful when I say it.

“No, my fault.” He slides me my coffee with a sheepish grin. “Looks like you could use this.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I nick the cup, and begrudgingly give him the once over.

He’s attractive enough, but he looks like a total wannabe. The shabby, artsy type. Scruffy face. Beany. Nerdy glasses.  Wearing a plaid shirt, skinny jeans, and converse to boot. So cliché. I mean, who drinks iced green tea in the middle of January, anyway? Give me a break. I don’t have time for slackers when I’m already late for my real job.

I slip past him to make my escape.

He calls after my retreating form. “Please, let me …”

But I don’t catch the rest. The door slams behind me and his words are whipped away by the howling wind.

I toss back a shot of the brew to banish the cold. It scorches my throat, but I don’t care. I need caffeine like a hypothermic reptile needs the sun. Like I need the sun, which happens to be hiding its radiance, I note, glowering at the hazy sky. Not that I’m surprised. The sun rarely makes an appearance around here this time of year. Plus, it’s before sunrise, or at least, I think it is.

My breath ices the air and I pull my cowl tighter to block the arctic wind. I hoof it six blocks down Main without looking up, gulping at the dregs of my coffee before I’ve even made it two.  The caffeine buzz jolts my pulse into high gear and the resulting jitters snuff even the memory of sleep deprivation from my limbs.

Now that I’m more than semi-conscious, I feel a tinge of regret over the coffee shop incident. Green Tea Guy seemed nice enough, and I was a bit abrupt with him. Okay, so, I totally blew him off.

I sigh. Too late to do anything about it now. So, I tell myself to get over it. It’s not like he’s my type anyway. Still, I should have let him down easy with my go-to, I’m-married-to-my-job excuse. Strictly speaking, it’s not even a lie.

I sneak a quick peak from beneath my cocoon of warmth, intending to hang a left on 132nd, like always, only to realize I’m not at 132nd. I’m not even on Main.

Dammit. Six years. Six years that coffee shop was on Main and then two weeks ago, out of nowhere, they up and moved. And, in my zombie-like state, I forgot to remind myself that my autopilot is broken until I can reprogram the new route.

I glance around, hoping to spot something familiar, but I don’t frequent this side of town. Actually, I’m not even sure I’m still in town.

Dilapidated, industrial buildings loom over the street. In the dim light, colorful, broken glass throws distorted shapes on graffiti-littered walls. Dark, broken-out windows glare from above.  A fire escape hangs precariously like a gruesome scar slashed across the face of the building. A trash dumpster’s lid has been thrown wide like a gaping maw without teeth. The mist rises off the concrete like the visible stench of a monstrous beast, slumbering in the darkness of the predawn hours.

I take a step back.

Maybe it’s just coffee jitters, but my heart is racing out of control. It strikes against my ribs like a caged animal attempting to break free.

I gulp at the frigid air in an attempt to calm my frantic nerves. The bitter cold seeps through me. Icy fingers claw their way under my coat, piercing my flesh and chilling my bones. A shiver crawls up my spine.

I turn, escaping back the direction I came. My slow, plodding footsteps echo on the pavement like a gong, reverberating off the buildings, amplifying with every step.

My eye catches movement, shadows darting between the buildings.

My roommate jokingly sent me an internet meme once, mocking my caffeine addiction. I poured red bull in my coffee this morning. I can see sounds. At the time I laughed. But it’s not so funny now as paranoia sweeps over me.

I’m being followed. Only it isn’t possible. It’s just my footsteps hammering at my brain. There’s nothing there. Just my imagination. But I keep glancing over my shoulder anyway.

Nothing. Still, I can’t help but sense something is watching me.

Light floods the street behind me.

I turn and shield my eyes, trying to peer through the hazy brilliance. What the…?

A car bears down on me from the far end of the ally.

I beeline to an adjacent alley, barely clearing the car’s path.

An enormous, black beast of a car roars past. It screeches to a halt, and then reverses to stop dead in front of me. I don’t know cars, but this one looks sleek and fast, like a panther stalking its prey in the night. Unfortunately, I’m the only game around.

I stand unmoving, rooted to the spot, gaping.

The engine idles. A darkened window whirls down.

Curiosity has gotten the best of me. Or maybe it’s that my adrenaline response is broken. Instead of fight or flight, mine’s set to freeze.

“Get in.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s just Green Tea Guy from the coffee shop. But then my heart’s doing double time.

He followed me. And he looks different. Maybe it’s just the car, but I doubt it. He’s dropped the starving artist act. Instead, he’s opted for full on Men in Black.

“Wow, stalker much?” I snap, trying to force my shaking voice into indifference. I turn on my heel, intending to escape down the side alley that saved me from being the victim of vehicular manslaughter mere moments ago. But no such luck. It’s a dead end.

“Rachel. Get. In.” He punctuates each word, eyes darting around anxiously. He’s seriously tweaking.

I’d be wigging out right now that he knows my name, if it weren’t for the fact that the coffee shop barista broadcast it loud enough for the whole world to hear. I bet the North Koreans are trying to decode who or what a “Rachel” is and whether or not it signaled the launch of World War III.

“I’m armed.” My declaration is probably a wasted effort, but I’m hoping against hope that it will buy me a moment.

My shaking hands fumble my keys, unable to locate the object of my intent. Finally, I hold up my pepper spray in evidence. The fact that it’s glittery probably isn’t doing me any favors at the moment, but what I can say, it’s not like I ever thought I would actually I use it. Well, I mean, use it for anything more than ornamentation.

He approaches, his speed belied by his smooth, languid movements.

I shrink against the wall, holding my sparkly weapon aloft. I can’t watch. I squeeze my eyes shut. My hand trembling, I take aim and...

My keys clatter to the ground before my finger finds the trigger.

I’m shotgun and he’s back in the driver’s seat, punching the gas before I can unravel what happened.

I reach for the door, trying to get out, but it’s locked. I pound the unlock button but it’s no use. My only weapon is gone, and I’m trapped. “Let me out, you psycho!”

He doesn’t even glance my way. “You have to come with me.” His frantic nature of a moment ago is replaced by statuesque indifference.

Now I’m the one tweaking. “Like hell I do.” I claw at any button I can reach, hoping one will be the key to my freedom.

“It’s not safe.”

He may appear to be the epitome of control, but something’s wrong with this dude. Because yeah, being kidnapped and held hostage does not scream safe and sound to me.

I flip through ideas, trying to come up with something, anything. I need a plan of action to get out of this mess. But I’ve got nothing. Nothing but desperation. So, I guess that will have to do.

I lean over, grab the steering wheel, and veer hard to the right, directly into a brick wall. I brace for impact.

He jerks the wheel, swerving back toward the center of the road. “You trying to kill yourself?” He eyes me like I’m the crazy one, pushing me back down into my seat where I can no longer interfere with his driving.

I turn away like a petulant child. “No, apparently that’s your job.”

“Rachel, I’m here to protec--”

I snap. “Seriously, dude. You don’t know me. So, stop acting like you do.”

My outrage is met with no response.

I sigh. Being hostile has gotten me nowhere. So I opt to switch tactics. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot. How about I tell you about myself? I’m the only child of parents who adore me. And, I know I don’t see them as much as I should these days, but losing me would destroy them. And they aren’t made of money. Not the kind needed for a ransom. So, how about you just let me go? We can forget this whole thing ever happened.” I’m rambling.  And I know it’s a long shot, but maybe, just maybe, appealing to his humanity might work.

“Bad plan. I’m not human.”

That settles it. He’s completely off his rocker. “What… what do you mean you’re not human?” I don’t even want to think about how he knew what I was just thinking.

“I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

Safe. There’s that word again. Just who does he think he is? I shake my head. “So, the batcave then?” Maybe he’s under the misguided impression that he’s some sort of superhero. Nothing else makes sense. I mean, this whole thing is just so inexplicable.

“Batman’s human.” His words carry no inflection. No indication as to whether or not this is one big joke. And nothing to indicate that what is occurring is in any way out of the ordinary. He just stares straight ahead. Rigid. Focused. Driving like a bat out of hell.

“Human. Riiiiight.”

(c) Shannon Burns. All rights reserved.

[lake-lyn]

EW’s exclusive excerpt of The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan (2/2)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Dude, this isn’t cool

Dude just tried to eat my dude

That’s my dead dude, dude

I like flying cars. I prefer it when the car is actually capable of flight, however.

As the hearse achieved zero gravity, I had a few microseconds to appreciate the scenery below—a lovely little lake edged with eucalyptus trees and walking trails, a small beach on the far shore, where a cluster of evening picnickers relaxed on blankets.

Oh, good, some small part of my brain thought. Maybe we’ll at least land in the water.

Then we dropped—not toward the lake, but toward the trees.

A sound like Luciano Pavarotti’s high C in Don Giovanni issued from my throat. My hands glued themselves to the wheel.

As we plunged into the eucalypti, the ghoul disappeared from our roof—almost as if the tree branches had purposefully swatted him away. Other branches seemed to bend around the hearse, slowing our fall, dropping us from one leafy cough-drop-scented bough to another, until we hit the ground on all four wheels with a jarring thud. Too late to do any good, the airbags deployed, shoving my head against the backrest.

Yellow amoebas danced in my eyes. The taste of blood stung my throat. I clawed for the door handle, squeezed my way out between the airbag and the seat, and tumbled onto a bed of cool soft grass.

“Blergh,” I said.

I heard Meg retching somewhere nearby. At least that meant she was still alive. About ten feet to my left, water lapped at the shore of the lake. Directly above me, near the top of the largest eucalyptus tree, our ghoulish blueblack friend was snarling and writhing, trapped in a cage of branches.

I struggled to sit up. My nose throbbed. My sinuses felt like they were packed with menthol rub. “Meg?”

She staggered into view around the front of the hearse. Ring-shaped bruises were forming around her eyes—no doubt courtesy of the passenger-side airbag. Her glasses were intact but askew. “You suck at swerving.”

“Oh, my gods!” I protested. “You ordered me to—” My brain faltered. “Wait. How are we alive? Was that you who bent the tree branches?”

“Duh.” She flicked her hands, and her twin golden scimitars flashed into existence. Meg used them like ski poles to steady herself. “They won’t hold that monster much longer. Get ready.”

“What?” I yelped. “Wait. No. Not ready!”

I pulled myself to my feet with the driver’s-side door.

Across the lake, the picnickers had risen from their blankets. I suppose a hearse falling from the sky had gotten their attention. My vision was blurry, but something seemed odd about the group. . . . Was one of them wearing armor? Did another have goat legs?

Even if they were friendly, they were much too far away to help.

I limped to the hearse and yanked open the backseat door. Jason’s coffin appeared safe and secure in the rear bay. I grabbed my bow and quiver. My ukulele had vanished somewhere underneath the inflated airbags. I would have to do without it.

Above, the creature howled, thrashing in its branch cage.

Meg stumbled. Her forehead was beaded with sweat. Then the ghoul broke free and hurtled downward, landing only a few yards away. I hoped the creature’s legs might have broken on impact, but no such luck. It took a few steps, its feet punching wet craters in the grass, before it straightened and snarled, its pointy white teeth like tiny mirror-image picket fences.

“KILL AND EAT!” it screamed.

What a lovely singing voice. The ghoul could’ve fronted any number of Norwegian death metal groups.

“Wait!” My voice was shrill. “I—I know you.” I wagged my finger, as if that might crank-start my memory. Clutched in my other hand, my bow shook. The arrows rattled in my quiver. “H-hold on, it’ll come to me!”

The ghoul hesitated. I’ve always believed that most sentient creatures like to be recognized. Whether we are gods, people, or slavering ghouls in vulture-feather loincloths, we enjoy others knowing who we are, speaking our names, appreciating that we exist.

Of course, I was just trying to buy time. I hoped Meg would catch her breath, charge the creature, and slice it into putrid ghoul pappardelle. At the moment, though, it didn’t seem that she was capable of using her swords for anything but crutches. I supposed controlling gigantic trees could be tiring, but honestly, couldn’t she have waited to run out of steam until after she killed Vulture Diaper?

Wait. Vulture diaper . . . I took another look at the ghoul: its strange mottled blue-and-black hide, its milky eyes, its oversize mouth and tiny nostril slits. It smelled of rancid meat. It wore the feathers of a carrion eater . . .

“I do know you,” I realized. “You’re a eurynomos.”

I dare you to try saying you’re a eurynomos when your tongue is leaden, your body is shaking from terror, and you’ve just been punched in the face by a hearse’s airbag.

The ghoul’s lips curled. Silvery strands of saliva dripped from his chin. “YES! FOOD SAID MY NAME!”

“B-but you’re a corpse-eater!” I protested. “You’re supposed to be in the Underworld, working for Hades!”

The ghoul tilted its head as if trying to remember the words Underworld and Hades. It didn’t seem to like them as much as kill and eat.

“HADES GAVE ME OLD DEAD!” it shouted. “THE MASTER GIVES ME FRESH!”

“The master?”

“THE MASTER!”

I really wished Vulture Diaper wouldn’t scream. It didn’t have any visible ears, so perhaps it had poor volume control. Or maybe it just wanted to spray that gross saliva over as large a radius as possible.

“If you mean Caligula,” I ventured, “I’m sure he’s made you all sorts of promises, but I can tell you, Caligula is not—”

“HA! STUPID FOOD! CALIGULA IS NOT THE MASTER!”

“Not the master?”

“NOT THE MASTER!”

“MEG!” I shouted. Ugh. Now I was doing it.

“Yeah?” Meg wheezed. She looked fierce and warlike as she granny-walked toward me with her sword-crutches. “Gimme. Minute.”

It was clear she would not be taking the lead in this particular fight. If I let Vulture Diaper anywhere near her, it would kill her, and I found that idea 95 percent unacceptable.

“Well, eurynomos,” I said, “whoever your master is, you’re not killing and eating anyone today!”

I whipped an arrow from my quiver. I nocked it in my bow and took aim, as I had done literally millions of times before, but it wasn’t quite as impressive with my hands shaking and my knees wobbling.

Why do mortals tremble when they’re scared, anyway? It seems so counterproductive. If I had created humans, I would have given them steely determination and superhuman strength during moments of terror.

The ghoul hissed, spraying spit.

“SOON THE MASTER’S ARMIES WILL RISE AGAIN!” it bellowed. “WE WILL FINISH THE JOB! I WILL SHRED FOOD TO THE BONE, AND FOOD

WILL JOIN US!”

Food will join us? My stomach experienced a sudden loss of cabin pressure. I remembered why Hades loved these eurynomoi so much. The slightest cut from their claws caused a wasting disease in mortals. And when those mortals died, they rose again as what the Greeks called vrykolakas—or, in TV parlance, zombies.

That wasn’t the worst of it. If a eurynomos managed to devour the flesh from a corpse, right down to the bones, that skeleton would reanimate as the fiercest, toughest kind of undead warrior. Many of them served as Hades’s elite palace guards, which was a job I did not want to apply for.

“Meg?” I kept my arrow trained on the ghoul’s chest. “Back away. Do not let this thing scratch you.”

“But—”

“Please,” I begged. “For once, trust me.”

Vulture Diaper growled. “FOOD TALKS TOO MUCH! HUNGRY!”

It charged me.

I shot.

The arrow found its mark—the middle of the ghoul’s chest—but it bounced off like a rubber mallet against metal. The Celestial-bronze point must have hurt, at least. The ghoul yelped and stopped in its tracks, a steaming puckered wound on its sternum. But the monster was still very much alive. Perhaps if I managed twenty or thirty shots at that exact same spot, I could do some real damage.

With trembling hands, I nocked another arrow. “Th-that was just a warning!” I bluffed. “The next one will kill!”

Vulture Diaper made a gurgling noise deep in its throat. I hoped it was a delayed death rattle. Then I realized it was only laughing. “WANT ME TO EAT DIFFERENT FOOD FIRST? SAVE YOU FOR DESSERT?”

It uncurled its claws, gesturing toward the hearse.

I didn’t understand. I refused to understand. Did it want to eat the airbags? The upholstery?

Meg got it before I did. She screamed in rage.

The creature was an eater of the dead. We were driving

a hearse.

“NO!” Meg shouted. “Leave him alone!”

She lumbered forward, raising her swords, but she was in no shape to face the ghoul. I shouldered her aside, putting myself between her and the creature, and fired my arrows again and again.

They sparked off the creature’s blue-black hide, leaving steaming, annoyingly nonlethal wounds. Vulture Diaper staggered toward me, snarling in pain, its body twitching from the impact of each hit.

It was five feet away.

Two feet away, its claws splayed to shred my face.

Somewhere behind me, a female voice shouted, “HEY!”

The sound distracted Vulture Diaper just long enough for me to fall courageously on my butt. I scrambled away from the ghoul’s claws.

Vulture Diaper blinked, confused by its new audience. About ten feet away, a ragtag assortment of fauns and dryads, perhaps a dozen total, were all attempting to hide behind one gangly pink-haired young woman in Roman legionnaire armor.

The girl fumbled with some sort of projectile weapon. Oh, dear. A manubalista. A Roman heavy crossbow. Those things were awful. Slow. Powerful. Notoriously unreliable. The bolt was set. She cranked the handle, her hands shaking as badly as mine.

Meanwhile, to my left, Meg groaned in the grass, trying to get back on her feet. “You pushed me,” she complained, by which I’m sure she meant Thank you, Apollo, for saving my life.

The pink-haired girl raised her manubalista. With her long, wobbly legs, she reminded me of a baby giraffe. “G-get away from them,” she ordered the ghoul.

Vulture Diaper treated her to its trademarked hissing and spitting. “MORE FOOD! YOU WILL ALL JOIN THE KING’S DEAD!”

“Dude.” One of the fauns nervously scratched his belly under his PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF BERKELEY T-shirt. “That’s not cool.”

“Not cool,” several of his friends echoed.

“YOU CANNOT OPPOSE ME, ROMAN!” the ghoul snarled. “I HAVE ALREADY TASTED THE FLESH OF YOUR COMRADES! AT THE BLOOD MOON, YOU WILL JOIN THEM—”

THWUNK.

An Imperial gold crossbow bolt materialized in the center of Vulture Diaper’s chest. The ghoul’s milky eyes widened in surprise. The Roman legionnaire looked just as stunned.

“Dude, you hit it,” said one of the fauns, as if this offended his sensibilities.

The ghoul crumbled into dust and vulture feathers. The bolt clunked to the ground.

Meg limped to my side. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kill it.”

“Oh, shut up,” I grumbled.

We faced our unlikely savior.

The pink-haired girl frowned at the pile of dust, her chin quivering as if she might cry. She muttered, “I hate those things.”

“Y-you’ve fought them before?” I asked.

She looked at me like this was an insultingly stupid question.

One of the fauns nudged her. “Lavinia, dude, ask who these guys are.”

“Um, right.” Lavinia cleared her throat. “Who are you?”

I struggled to my feet, trying to regain some composure. “I am Apollo. This is Meg. Thank you for saving us.”

Lavinia stared. “Apollo, as in—”

“It’s a long story. We’re transporting the body of our friend, Jason Grace, to Camp Jupiter for burial. Can you help us?”

Lavinia’s mouth hung open. “Jason Grace . . . is dead?”

Before I could answer, from somewhere across Highway 24 came a wail of rage and anguish.

“Um, hey,” said one of the fauns, “don’t those ghoul things usually hunt in pairs?”

Lavinia gulped. “Yeah. Let’s get you guys to camp. Then we can talk about”—she gestured uneasily at the hearse—“who is dead, and why.”

[freeqthamighty]

I was invited to give a TED talk — then asked to “cut Black Lives Matter” from it

On Sept 27th, 2017 I received an email from TEDWomen inviting me to share my poetry at their upcoming conference. The conference was themed ‘Bridges’ and featured 6 sessions — Build, Design, Connect, Suspend, Burn and Re-build — with each session featuring a 4–6 minute performance by a poet. As someone whose activism and organizing work is rooted in art and creativity, I decided to share a piece I felt most concretely illustrated my connection to the work on and off the page.

I chose to perform a piece I wrote 3 years ago called “The Joys of Motherhood”, a piece about Black maternity in the United States, and do a brief talk about how writing that poem allowed me to see how necessary art is in creating connections and facilitating understanding in popular education and movement building spaces.

On Nov 2nd, I attended an in-person rehearsal where I read my talk from my phone, then ran my poem in front of a small audience I assumed was with the TED team. And this is where my generally positive TEDWomen experience took a turn.

After finishing, I went backstage only to notice the curator of the conference walk up behind me. She informed me that there had “recently been 2–3 talks on the TED platform about ‘Black Lives Matter’”, and suggested that I “cut the ‘Black Lives Matter’ portion from my talk” to make it “just be about Reproductive Justice”.

I froze momentarily.

People assume that because I am a poet/writer/one who works with words that I always have them at the ready, but her statement caught me off guard.

I spat out that I could not cut ‘Black Lives Matter’ from my talk, since the foundation of the talk was how the Movement for Black Lives and Reproductive Justice were inseparable for me. It made me question whether she had read the draft I had sent to her weeks earlier, or if she had actually listened to the content of the talk I had recited not more than five minutes prior.

I walked back into the green room, a deep feeling of frustration finding a familiar home in my body.

I was frustrated that poets had already been given less that the usual amount of time allotted to TED speakers, only to have it suggested that I remove the flesh of my experience to give a bare bones performance.

I was frustrated that I had been invited to give a talk on an idea I deemed worth sharing, only to be told that it was not worth sharing anymore because something similar had been shared 2–3 times recently. As if that’s anywhere near enough. As if we should be grateful for the sound bites they choose to hear when it is comfortable for them, even though we are hoarse from shouting these truths daily. As if we shouldn’t demand more. As if we are not deserving of more than they offer. I went from frustrated to furious when my body remembered this wasn’t the first time it had felt like this. That before, I’d been invited to perform on other platforms, only to be asked to ‘cut’ or ‘tone down’ my messages or, ‘just do my poetry’ like a human jukebox.

I walked out, unable to breath the same air of camaraderie everyone else seemed to be filling their lungs and laughs with and set to work rewriting my talk.

Fortunately, the moments I feel most isolated and alone are the moments I am reminded I come from communities of care and unapologetic truths. I went back to the hotel and after conversing with some of my people, including the ones who had recommended me to the platform, I expanded my talk to name the interaction I had just had as part of a larger narrative of erasing explicitly Black narratives.

The day of the talk, I heard my bio being read and stepped out nervously. As often as people have the assumption that I always have words at the ready, people also assume sharing these words is easy for me.

It’s not.

I am human and I find I have fear ready to escape my throat just as often as stories and solutions. But, when I make a choice, I move forward and, no matter how shaky my voice is, I know the foundation of truth I stand on is solid.

I began my talk by introducing how I learned about Reproductive Justice through my mentor/boss Deon Haywood while working at Women With A Vision, then went directly into my poem. After the piece, I named my experience during rehearsal and finished my talk, two minutes over the allotted time (and with a slight misquote of Toni Morrison at the end in all of my nervousness. The text I shared of Morrison’s read — In times of dread, artists must never choose to remain silent…There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear” which I shortened in my talk to “In times of dread, artists must never choose to remain silent…there is no time for self pity, no room for fear” -_-).

To my surprise, I was met with a standing ovation. I felt a wave of relief, not at the reception of the talk, but that it was over with. And, I felt a sense of pride that I had managed to get through the talk sharing my whole truth, including the fear that often comes with speaking up for myself.

The moment I left the visible area of the stage, however, that feeling evaporated. I hadn’t even made it back to the green room when I was approached by a woman from TED who wanted to reassure me that TED would NEVER do such a thing, that she couldn’t IMAGINE that what I described happened, and that IF it did, it wasn’t meant in the way I took it…

I work for and organize with Women With A Vision, a group that fundamentally believes that we need to “Trust Black Women.” A group that sees everyday how difficult this phrase is in practice, despite people’s best intentions.

That night, I was reminded of this reality outside of my workplace. I had just given a TED talk that named my experience and the immediate reaction I was met with was disbelief and denial of my reality/experience. I told the woman from TED she didn’t have to ‘imagine something like that could happen,’ because it had already happened and I had described it mere minutes ago to an audience that included her.

At the final speaker gathering, I met with the woman who had suggested I cut my talk in private. The first thing she said to me was that I had ‘really misunderstood the intentions’ of her comments so she wanted to explain them to me because she believed ‘intentions were everything.��� She told me that she’d previously ‘given’ the TED platform to ‘Black Lives Matter’ speakers when ‘no one else would’ because the movement was important to her.

I found myself again momentarily frozen by her words.

I grew up with a mother who liked repeating the oft quoted saying, “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Throughout my youth, I would hear her say, “to hell with good intentions” (which is actually the title of a speech I read when I was quite young due to my moms teaching). I couldn’t understand how she could be so dismissive of people’s intentions when she herself was one of the most well-intentioned people I had ever met. But eventually, I began to realize that my mom wasn’t just well-intentioned with respect to her goals, she was also careful in making sure that her intentions aligned with the impact that those who were impacted wanted. And if they did not, then something needed to be changed and reparations made to rectify the state of injury.

When I heard her say this, I was taken aback that someone tasked with coordinating a large-scale event such as TEDWomen had apparently never considered her intentions may not be enough (or even something to take into account). I told her that I didn’t think she said it with ill intentions, and yet, intentions matter less and less when they diverge from the impact and when the impact itself is denied in the name of honoring the purity of intentions.

After some other words, she told me I’d given her something to think about (intent vs. impact), and that she was appreciative that she was able to share her truth and intentions and we left on a cordial note.

In terms of intent vs. impact, I’m not sure what the impact of my talk will be. My intention was and is always to honestly share my story and increasingly, to be honest about the struggles I sometimes have sharing it.

I’m often painted as someone who speaks out ‘naturally’ and unapologetically.

But, unapologetic doesn’t mean unafraid or inherently brave.

Unapologetic doesn’t mean I don’t question myself constantly.

Unapologetic doesn’t erase my shyness and anxiety after I say or do something that unsettles me, then have to follow up with people afterward with no time to check in with myself.

I wish I could say speaking out or up is easy, but it’s not, especially when you find yourself the only one having a particular experience or understanding of an experience. It can be exhausting and often isolating, even (…actually…especially) if people support your message from a distance but do little to nothing to work alongside you; if they want you to be the “first domino” but refuse to ever fall themselves.

Paying homage to Toni Morrison’s call for artists to ‘never choose to remain silent’ I ended my talk the same way I am ending this post. By naming the reality of how I move in the world. That every time I speak out, it is because I am making a conscious choice to do so.

I made my choice during the TEDWomen conference.

And, I am always choosing.

[royallyanxious]

Horizons - Chapter 5

Masterpost

word count: 5126

AO3 LINK

Previous Chapter

The beamed daily light was filling the room, adding golden reflexes to the silver mechanisms spread across the table. Most of the machines were turned off, so the workshop was almost silent. The tranquility from time to time torn apart by Logan’s swears and Roman’s giggling.

“And?” asked Logan a little bit impatiently “How do you feel? It shouldn’t be that heavy now…” he added, making away. He grabbed the notebook and opened it where he left it marked with his pen. His fingers were anxiously waiting from a sign to write.

Patton jumped off the table, almost soundlessly. He confidently walked few steps forward, raised the left knee up and drew a small circle with his feet. Then he did the same thing with his other leg.

“It’s much better!” he grinned, shaking his head. Soft, hazelnut brown locks, twirled in the air, creating a lovely, curly halo. Only then Roman came closer, smiling brightly.

“Well, Patton! Now you can walk a distance!” laughed Roman, admiring Patton’s smooth movements.

“Does it look natural?” Patton asked, twirling around.

“I wouldn’t do that better, friend!” replied Roman, watching Patton giggle. His voice was silky and laugh very melodic and perfectly natural.

“Yes… Indeed, it’s amazing how much a few weeks of hard work can do.” Logan said, scribing something in his notebook. He watched Patton walk, run, and jump around the room. Something in the way Patton moved, reminded him of the small mechanism closed in the mechanic chest, bringing back all the memories it of problems it caused. Logan rubbed his temple and sighed “I feel like we’re slowly getting there, though there are still some things we need to work on. Sit.” he ordered shortly, closing the notebook. “I have to open the chest.”

The smile immediately dropped off of Patton’s face but he obeyed without a word of complaint, putting both hands on the back of the table. It was no secret that Patton disliked when Logan opened his body to check something, even if it meant fixing an issue or solving a problem. “The examination” usually had negative impact on his mood and till the end of the day, he was much more quiet than usual. It got worse when Roman finished working on his skin and hair. Now Patton’s face looked as if he was born human. Although it didn’t get cold, nor warm, it was soft and the curves of the metallic plates under it were barely visible. They could easily be mistaken as a sharp jawline bones. Patton was extremely happy with the effect. He spent days touching his own face and adjusting the wig. In this situation Logan’s “examinations” were like a painful reminder that he in fact wasn’t the same like the rest of them.

Before Logan managed to reach for the first button of Patton’s shirt, the other one lightly pushed his hand away.

“If you excuse me, I would prefer doing it myself.” he said and though he was speaking perfectly casually, it was hard to pretend that he wasn’t sad “And Roman?”

“Hm?” hummed the man in reply, looking through the window on the harbour.

“If you didn’t mind…” Patton bit his lips. Roman did really good job with this part of his body, making it soft with a special plasma which was created with Logan’s help “Could you go out until I’m all closed again?”

Roman smiled lightly at the ask.

“Of course. Someone has to open the doors for Virgil anyway!” his eyes brightened up slightly “Oh and Patton? If you don’t mind, I want to do a check up on your sews later, is that alright with you? Because I have a feeling that they are asymmetrical and-”

“No problem!” beamed Patton “Just make sure to be careful this time! I don’t want another needle in the neck situation! You could use one of these small nails this time! You almost nailed that technique!” he joked lightly, slowly opening the first button of the shirt.

“Will do, Pat. Call me when you’re two are done.” Roman suggested and walked out of the room, leaving Logan and Patton alone.

The workshop instantly filled with uncomfortable silent, only the sound of the sea coming from outside, destroying the perfect peacefulness of the place. Patton looked at Logan who was currently adjusting the chair so that his face could be directly at the level of his chest.

“You look so serious, Lo.” mumbled Patton, unbuttoning his shirt, slowly revealing the cracks covering his skin. Even though major part of his body was perfectly covered with something akin to a skin, the chest and back looked like a patchwork blanket. The flappers were uneven and the shades of squares differed from each other. Each of the cracks covering his chest marked place which could be opened. Through each of them someone could get inside Patton’s body and he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Well, this is serious work.” replied Logan, putting Patton’s shirt away. Without a warning, he pressed one of the flappers on the left. The mechanism let go, slowly, revealing a hole on the level of Patton’s heart and left lung.

“Is it necessary?” asked Patton when Logan’s hand dived in his chest. He knew that there’s nothing to fear- Logan wouldn’t hurt him, but the feeling was unsettling. It made him feel like an object again.

“There’s some issue I want to fix…” muttered Logan, but it seemed that he said that more to himself than Patton. Something clicked inside and Logan took out his hand “How do you feel?”

“Hmm….” hummed Patton “It seems that my right ear isn’t working and beside that I’m fine.” he smiled brightly, hoping that Logan would smile back.

“So that’s not the problem caused by switchers…” sighed Logan, not even trying to hide the disappointment and put the hand back into the chest. If Patton didn’t see him doing that, he wouldn’t even feel that there’s something inside of him.

“Maybe I could help?” suggested Patton softly “I know myself the best, right?’

Logan looked up at him, adjusting the glasses. His eyes revealed a mix of surprise and disbelief.

“Technically, I know you the best.” he said, maintaining the eye-contact. Patton’s heart let out a soft squeak and if he could he would blush. That sounded like a beginning of actual conversation. Something Patton was dying to do with Logan for a long time.

“No. You know me best from the technical side. That’s different.” he pointed proudly “I’ve done my homework and read all these dictionaries you left me, Lo. There’s a difference between word ‘technically’ and ‘technical’.” The switcher under his collarbone clicked again.

“You don’t understand it, do you?” Logan shook his head, getting up “I mean, I’m not surprised. How could you?” he turned away from Patton, walking over to the shelf standing nearby.

Patton frowned. If he got a penny every time Logan shook his head at him, he would be rich by now. And he could provide some money for better accumulators. That would made Logan happy, wouldn’t it?

“How could I understand what, Logan?” something in Patton boiled and he firmly closed the flapper on his chest and pulled on his shirt. He wished for nothing more than an explanation on what he should improve. He would do anything to be more of a human.

“Nothing.” shot Logan.

“Tell me! I can learn this, i promise!” whined Patton, jumping off the table and trying to button his shirt with one hand, while the other rested on the wall as he tried to stood straightly. The sensors always needed time to adjust to the new position.

“There are things that are out of your range of knowledge.” cut Logan, taking another screwdriver out of the box. Patton immediately froze at his spot.

“Do we have to use this nasty thing today?” he said quietly “It burns every time… Like you were stabbing me.” he added, looking at the ground.

“Preposterous. How could you know how does it feel like to be stabbed.” Logan sat back on his chair. “Sit back. I want this to be over just as much as you do.”

“I read about stabbing in the book, Virgil loaned to me… There was a prince and he was fighting an evil dragon to save his friend. And he got stabbed and it hurt.” mumbled Patton. This time he let Logan unbutton his shirt by himself. He felt a slight pang when Logan pressed another part of his chest. He had been thinking a lot about that. That he shouldn’t feel anything whenever he was opened but he couldn’t help the shiver. The cold air, broke into his insidings, penetrating every dark corner of his body. A reminder that he was in fact hollow inside.

“Books can’t provide full knowledge.” hummed Logan, putting the screwdriver into the corpus. Patton hissed quietly.

“But you said yourself that books are the key.” he said after few minutes quietly. He didn’t want to interrupt Logan in his work but he craved for the conversation more than usual.

Logan’s lips quirked up and Patton’s heart squealed again. The sound was soft, as if his heart wasn’t a clumsy ball made out of wire and mixture of metals, that somehow came to life. It sounded like something alive. Embarrassed of his reactions Patton put one of his hand on the chest, trying to muffle the sound but he couldn’t help it. He loved when Logan smiled.

“They are the key indeed.” agreed Logan, pulling out the screwdriver “But not books like these ones that Virgil brings. Not fairy tales. They don’t provide actual knowledge. I don’t understand why you insist on reading them.” He said, looking at Patton and covering the hole with one hand, gently pressing the flapper back on its place. The sign that they were done for today.

“They help me learn how to dream!” declared Patton proudly. Logan snorted.

“I told you that you don’t dream.”

“Roman, insists that I can!” cried Patton, the emotions rolled through his body.

“I’m losing my patience here. Haven’t I put it clear?” asked Logan “You just do check-ups on the mechanism inside you.”

“But I feel things when I’m asleep!” Patton grabbed Logan’s arm and frantically shook the other man, jumping off the table. “Once I had a dream that I was flying!”

“Eighteen moves when you sleep. That’s why.” dwelled Logan through clenched teeth. His face was flushing in the deep shade of red. His words added only more fuel to the anger boiling in Patton’s heart.

“There’s no Eighteen!” shouted out Patton “I’m not Eighteen, I’m Patton!” black, thick tear rolled down his cheek. Patton tried wiping it off but instead he smared the liquid across his cheek.

“I am aware of that and don’t get overexcited, it may be dangerous for the mechanism.” pointed Logan, sighing as if he was dealing with a stubborn child. He handed an old handkerchief. With one firm gesture, Patton slapped away Logan’s hand, leaving a mark stain on his palm.

Patton’s eyes filled with black tears, making his eyes almost completely black. He tried blinking them away but it only made everything worse. His vision was almost completely dark and he gripped the edges of the table behind him even tighter, afraid of losing his consciousness. It happened often, whenever emotions were too overwhelming for him. Patton breathed heavily. The cold air drawn through his nostrils, were tickling him from the inside, causing nausea. It took him all his self-control not to spill the dark liquid that was circulating in his circuit everywhere around him.

“If you’re aware then why don’t you even use my name?!” cried out Patton, “Why it’s never Patton? Why is it only ‘you’? Or ‘it’?! You think i don’t remember, do you?”  laughed Patton bitterly, the thick tears were running down his face, creating black streams. “I do remember everything! I remember being a small ball locked in a box! I remember your voice! I remember you saying so many times that you can’t wait until I… until I would break down forever so that you could work on something better! But I also remember your gentle voice when I made a sound for the first time! I remember how you fell asleep trying to work out how I could work better! And yet! You-” Patton didn’t care if whole house could hear him or not. All he could see was Logan’s face, unreadable as always, the most advanced books of them all “I’m sorry for being such a disappointed to you! I’m sorry for being… I’m sorry for being Patton not Eighteen or Seventeen or-” he stopped abruptly. His eyes closed and he stumbled across the table. Logan caught him in the last moment before Patton collapsed on the floor.

Sighing, the man put Patton on the small couch nearby. The thick tears desiccated on his face. Small, black bubbles in the dark streams under his eyes, looked like mold. Logan crouched down next to the lying Patton. He looked as if he was sleeping. Cautiously he used his handkerchief to wipe the black streams off his face. He only managed to make them look worse, painting Patton’s whole face with unhealthy shade of dark grey. Sticking out his tongue, Logan adjusted the wig which slipped to the left in the process. Patton’s hair was soft under the touch and for a moment Logan wanted to play with it a little bit longer. Until Patton would wake up. He backed off quickly. No. He shouldn’t think like that. This… abnormal creature was his project, and it should stay that way.

Walking out of the room, he passed Roman and Virgil standing nervously in the corridor. He looked at them and they looked at him, eyes full of worry.

“It fainted but should wake up soon. A lot of goo smeared on his face. It may be hard to clean up.” Logan said clearing his throat.

“Why did he cry?” Virgil’s eyes were dark and hunched.

Logan blinked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. It was interior error. I will try to get rid of it.” said Logan coldly before disappearing in his room. The door shut with loud bang.

----

Roman and Virgil exchanged half confused and half scared looks. They didn’t hear everything from the conversation but the cries that escaped Patton’s throat were more than highly disturbing.

“You’re gonna talk to Logan and I will talk to Patton?” asked Roman with the hand on the doorknob leading to the workshop.

“Sure but I want to wait until Patton is at least a little bit awake.” nodded Virgil.

The atmosphere in the workshop wore the signs of argument. Roman as an official housekeeper, quickly noticed that the chaos on the tables and shelves was different from the casual messiness. The negative vibes were still twitching in the air, making Virgil shiver. He hated loud, aggressive voices, no matter how much he wanted to get used to them. Seeing his trembling hand, Roman gently squeezed Virgil’s arm, sending a reassuring smile.

They didn’t have any troubles with finding Patton in this mess. He was sleeping in his usual place, in the nook in the corner. Books were piling next to the couch. One of Patton’s hands was dangling off the edge. On the contrary to when he was awake, now his chest wasn’t moving. He looked like a sculpture or a doll with face marked with black tears.

“We should clean his face before he wakes up.” whispered Virgil and kneeled next to the bed. His fingers ran through Patton’s unkempt, curly locks. “Could you bring me a glass of water to wet the cloth?”

“Of course.” nodded Roman and left the room.

Virgil sat next to the couch, back leaning on the arm holder. Suddenly he felt utterly and completely lonely. He looked over his shoulder. Patton’s chest still wasn’t moving which meant that he’s deep asleep. Virgil took the first book lying on the top of the pile. He knew all of them, as most of the titles he remembered from his childhood. Old, colorful fairy tales, full of brave knights and beautiful princesses. With surprise, he noticed that some parts of the books were marked with a grey pencil. He read the first fragment.

It was the story about a shy prince who was afraid of going outside. Because of that he locked himself in the highest tower, to dedicate his life to studying old volumes. One day the kingdom was attacked with a plague. Despite the danger, prince decided to stay in the castle, letting his family escape to the faraway land alone. The prince didn’t even notice when the plague was gone. His family never came back and he stayed in his tower. Finally one day, a competition was held under his tower. The citizens of the country forgot about the prince many years earlier and thought that the tower is abandoned. Prince from his tower heard exactly what was the goal of the race- the first knight who climb on the top of the castle would win. A shadow of fear fell on prince’s heart. He was afraid that someone would find him and force him to go out of the tower. Terrified prince, hid under the bed. He could hear the sound of battles coming from the staircase. Finally, someone opened the door widely, letting the scent of sweat and grass inside. The smell was so intriguing that prince crawled from underneath his bed. At first the knight wanted to fight! But prince quickly explained his situation. The knight immediately felt sorry for the prince and decided to help him. Bringing prince out of the tower wasn’t easy- it took them months of honest conversations and hours filled with tears. Finally a year after the competition, the prince and knight went out of the tower. It turned out that prince’s family was waiting for him to go out all that time. He reunited with his family and made the knight his personal adviser. And they lived happily ever after.

Salty tear fell at the page and Virgil with terror noticed that he was crying. He tried to wipe of the tears quickly before anyone sees, when someone grabbed his hand from behind. Virgil turned around. Patton was looking at him with his clear blue eyes.

“I cried today too.” he smiled weakly, his curls spread across the fluffy pillow.

“Did…” Virgil’s voice was rough and quiet “Did Logan hurt you?”

Patton hummed, putting the finger on his lower lip.

“No, I don’t think he did. Well, except for the screwdriver. It always hurts.” Patton covered his forehead with his arm as though he was trying to protect his eyes from the sun.

“If he didn’t hurt you then why were you crying?” asked Virgil, fully turning to face Patton.

“I had a disagreement with Logan. But this is normal.” Patton tried smiling but it also made him look sadder, the dark stains were still covering his cheeks “We’re different after all…” he added after a while.

“Logan is jealous of you.” said Virgil quietly.

“I doubt that.” laughed Patton “He despise me, I think. I’m nothing he expected me to be.” and before Virgil managed to deny that, he asked: “Virgil, can I ask you something? Why did you take me back then? When I exploded into pieces? I remember the fire that was eating me from inside and I thought that it was the end of me. And then I felt something warm and smooth. Your hand. You gathered every single piece of what used to be my body and demanded Logan to fix me. Why?”

Patton’s eyes were big, curious and pleading and Virgil knew that he simply couldn’t escape from the truth. He rubbed his nape, trying to buy himself some time. Virgil, however, was never a good liar.

“There were many reasons for that.” He sighed, watching Patton prompt on his elbows. Virgil waited until he made himself comfortable before picking up the subject “Mostly because I was sent by my parents to sponsor something extraordinary which would make our family even more famous and noble. I was searching for something that would speak to my heart, to my soul. And I’ve seen many wonderful inventions but they were nothing but empty objects, aimed at the marked. And then I saw you. I saw a soul. And I knew that if I have to support something financially, it has to be another soul.” He exhaled shakily. The amount of words flew through him like a wild river, washing his bangs, splashing water on his insidings. Bringing both freshness and the feeling that something had passed and would never come back.

“Can I ask one more thing?”

“Shoot. It’s a saying.” he explained beforehand.

Patton chewed on his lips, playing with small pencil between his fingers.

“Did your family approved the choice? Of the project you decided to support in their name?

Virgil looked Patton right into eyes, trying to figure out if he could lie about this. Two deep blue mirrors of the soul were staring right at him. For a moment it felt like Virgil could see himself crying in these magnetizing orbs.

His lips formed into a perfect circle but no sound came out of his mouth. Patton nodded with understanding. He didn’t need words to know.

In the same moment, the door to the workshop swung opened and Roman walked into the room, carrying a big buckle of water and clean clothes.

“Oh, Patton! You’re awake! How magnificent! Are you feeling better?” He asked worryingly rushing to the couch. Virgil quickly moved away, leaving more space of him.

“I feel much better, I just needed a nap.” said Patton, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth.

Unsure of what to do Roman glanced at Virgil who coughed loudly before getting up.

“I will leave you two here. I have some… business to attend.” he excused himself.

“Logan left. I tried to stop him but he told me that he had to go.” said Roman quietly, carefully washing Patton’s face. The water in the bucket were slowly tinting in the shade of faint black. The color of Patton’s tears.

“Shit.” cursed Virgil. He bit his thumb anxiously, trying to think of what to do next.

Roman put down the cloth.

“Go home, Virgil. I know that you planned to come here only for a minute today. You should really go home.” he sighed, folding the cloth again. He wanted Virgil to stay longer, they barely got to talk but he knew that he was probably very busy man. It was not Roman’s intention to stand in the way of Virgil’s career. “I can deal with this myself.” he added, avoiding to look at Virgil. He decided to focus mainly of washing off especially dark stain in the corner of Patton’s eyes.

“If you say so…” mumbled Virgil and lightly patted Roman’s shoulder. The kneeling man smiled to himself at this awkward but innocent gesture. “See you soon, Patton.”

“And you too Roman.” he said and turned around.

Only when Virgil was climbing up the small stairs that were leading to the door, Roman let himself send a longing look at the back of disappearing male. He loved his posture. He was tall, but not too tall. Slim but not skinny. Well-built but definitely not muscular. There was something graceful even in the way he walked up the stairs. Closing the door, Virgil caught Roman’s gaze and before the other managed to turn away, he sent him a shy smile. Roman blushed and started rubbing the stain off with even more energy than before. He had completely forgotten that he wasn’t alone.

Patton hummed quietly, dragging Roman’s attention back to himself.

“Am I interrupting something?” asked Patton arching his brow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” answered Roman shortly, refusing to look at Patton.

“If you say so…” said Patton, innocently fluttering his eyelashes.

Roman’s blush deepened but he didn’t say anything at this remark. He worked for a few minutes in silence. As soon as he finished cleaning up Patton’s face and neck which also suffered from his thick, dark tears, he immediately started checking the small sews and stitches that ran down Patton’s neck. They were barely visible from the distance. Roman was aiming for them to look like a scar, that an actual sew.

“Well they look quite nice. I’m pretty sure that we don’t have to change them any time soon.” he declared finally, rubbing the place where neck was meeting with the shoulder’s frame. He gently nagged one of the middle stitches checking if they weren’t to lose, almost purring with pride.

“But you will check them next week too…?” asked Patton worryingly, touching the spot which Roman examinted few seconds earlier. He sat up on the couch making a space for Roman to rest next to him.

“Of course!” smiled Roman “That’s no problem for me!” he threw himself on the couch, sighing heavily. It took him longer than Logan and Virgil to get used to Patton but ever since he started working on his appearance, they grew significantly closer. It was a tough and rocky path but they finally have created something that could be called a close friendship. Roman also helped Patton find the answers to the most abstract questions, explaining feelings, emotions and relations between people. With Virgil’s help, they taught Patton about proper etiquette, which felt a little bit as though they were raising up a child. But Patton was very clever student, he never asked the same question twice and if he had a problem with something, he usually tried to find the answer by himself first before asking any of them.

“Oh, I see that you read some new fairy tales!” said Roman excitedly.

“I took your advice! I think they really help me understand what is to dream!” smiled Patton brightfully, leaning over to grab the book which Virgil read. “The drawings in this one are so pretty!” he squealed in joy. “Like small pieces of art! I can’t decide what I like more: drawings or the story itself!”

“Who said you have to chose?” laughed Roman “Life is all about compromises, dearest Patton! Especially when it comes to people or things you care about!” he said dreamingly.

Patton smiled slightly and leaned over the book.

“Virgil really likes this story, I think.” hummed Patton, immediately gaining Roman’s attention.

“How do you know? What is it about? He told you so?” He shot the questions faster than Patton could answer.

“Well, he read it and…” Patton bit his lips, he suspected that Virgil would prefer if he didn’t reveal that he cried “He just read it and looked like he liked it!” Patton skimmed the book, trying to find the ending of the story. Finally, he opened it on a beautiful hand-drawn drawing marking the end of the story “Look, at the end the knight and the prince were both happy and successful! And they conquered their fears! Happy ending, right?” smiled Patton and Roman only shook his head.

“You know what would be a happy ending? The prince and the knight falling in love and living together forever! I would want an ending like that. Especially for myself.” said Roman blushing fiercely.

“Oh.” gasped Patton, putting his hands on his lips. Roman’s heart hammered loudly. Maybe he should not have said that? After all, this was not a relationship approved by the society in this land. The fear came after him like a cold shower. This felt different than talking with Remy about the asexuality spectrum. Patton was his close friend and if he didn’t accept Roman… he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

“I… I mean…” Roman tried to explain but his own voice refused to cooperate with him. With eyes, filled with terror, he looked at the man, sitting next to him.

“That’s so cute!” squealed Patton finally. His eyes were big like a plate, shining with all shades of blue “I just realize that it’s like Virgil and you! You could be a prince and he could be a knight!”

“Nonsense!” laughed Roman nervously, the hotness on his cheeks spreading down his neck, coloring his warm skin tone with red shades. “We’re just friends!”

“Mhm…” murmured Patton, skimming the book and smiling mischievously.

Roman sighed with relief. So it seemed that Patton wouldn’t mind. It was a nice, comforting thought. His thoughts went to Joan and the support they showed to Roman once. He knew that he would never forget their help. He loved Joan in the most platonic way possible but it was also that kind of love that he would never want to forget about.

“You know Patton…” he started, trying to pour all his deepest dreams and desires into one, simple sentence “No matter what shape, love is something worth dreaming for. And it’s also worth all kind of compromises. As long as both of the people give, not only take; as long as they love to the point they are willing to overlook each other flaws… Love is worth it.”

Patton tilted his head to the side. Creamy stitches shined in the beamed light coming through the window.

“Has that  always been your dream, Roman? Love?”

“No… Not really... “ humms Roman “Just like you, I had to learn how to dream. You think that I had this all figured out since I was born? Fat chance! Oh, if you met me few years ago… You wouldn’t recognize me.” chuckled Roman, playing with his short braid. “Well, dear Patton. It’s getting dark and I would prefer to get home before the street fills with disgusting, drunk, stinky men. So if you excuse me, I will take my leave.”

Patton nodded energetically to show that he understood, but before Roman managed to walk away, he pushed the book with fairy tales into his hands.

“You can borrow it. I’m sure that Virgil wouldn’t mind and I have a feeling like you need this more than I do.” smiled Patton brightly. Seconds later Roman’s arms wrapped around Patton’s neck. Hugs had became an unavoidable point of their daily farewells.

When Roman left, Patton let his head rest on the pillow once again. He was tired. The thoughts were spinning in his head. He had many things to think about but he knew exactly what to do- Roman explained it clearly. If Patton wanted to make Logan happy he had to go on compromise.

Next chapter

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[shardclan]

Rebis kept having to wipe her hands on her clothes to keep them dry. She was well into her fledging years and the days of mild lessons taught in the Library had come to an end. She sat nervously at the Tribunal table feeling as though she stuck out like a serpenta. She liked the idea of being House Perihelion’s Requester and ensuring that the western part of the territory got all the things that it needed, and Saber had made it clear to her many times that sometimes it called for politics. But it was different to hear that than to sit in the Hall of Five Lights and watch resource exchange politics actually occur. 

The Morning Queen who was so personable and kind with her citizens radiated unapproachable sovereignty to the outsiders who entered her court. She didn't even have a throne--her chair was no different than of the other chairs around the exterior curve of the table but the way she sat in it, it may as well have been carved from the bricks of the Beacon and gilded with pearls. It amazed Rebis most how easily the queen seemed to change the tone of her intensity without ever actually seeming to turn it off. With the alchemists guild, ever lavishing gifts on their Celestine Queen, she was warm and benevolent. With the merchants she was firm and defensive of her citizen's well-being. With the beastclans she was humble and welcoming. With the politicians and representatives of other light courts she was coolly impenetrable. How was she supposed to stay calm before that?

Apokathisto, sitting stone-faced and watchful on the other side of the table, observed a much different queen. One who looked fondly on all the baubles and oddities that comprised most of the alchemist’s gifts and had to quickly hide flickers of consuming curiosity every time it wasn’t a mere knick knack. One who was noticeably quick-tempered with merchants, especially those who nurtured Trader’s Walk. In her defense, he also found it infuriating that they wanted her to ignore the threat of the Emperor in Hewn City for supply chain purposes--especially when the war they meant seemed to be about something in Ashfall rather than the Emperor itself. 

She was strangely dismissive of other royalty; the more finery they wore and the harder they tried to impress her, the more she treated them like chores. She struggled with defensiveness when harpy delegates were in her court, and in spite of treating the centaurs as casual neighbors. Almost all of the Tribunes were that, likely owing to the poor harpy relations of the past. 

Eventually he was meant to be a barrister, but being a student of Dalma had left him in constant contact with the history of the old clan. It was an enthralling story when he let it be, but he reminded himself constantly that it was real and the consequences were all around him. All he had to do was pick up on them. 

Admittedly difficult when across the table from him Rebis kept fidgeting. He caught her eye a few times and made subtle motions for her to calm down. Each time she nodded and visibly took a deep breath and did her best to be a good, model apprentice... She just wasn’t very good at it. Moments later she would end up nervous again. Telos had that affect on her, though gods take him if he could figure out why. 

They were both distracted from her sweaty reverie by the displeased huff of a ridgeback whose color reminded them of warm milk, steaming and fresh from the creamery. 

The Hall admitted dragons with and without glamours, and they hardly ever wore glamours at House Betelgeuse, but Rebis couldn't help pressing back against her seat as the pointed nose leaned close to appraise her.

"This is a throne room," he chided with a gravelly, booming voice that made Rebis' fins retract. "Not a nursery."

Telos full attention went to the ridgeback like a razor to his throat. "I believe you came for an audience with me, so you'll have to remind me why you are menacing an apprentice in my court."

He drew back lazily, casting his deep green gaze at the queen and then at Apokathisto across the room. "I expected the due respect of an audience that is old enough to understand the concept of confidentiality."

"This is not a throne room," Apokathisto pointed out crossly. He was surprised at how difficult it was to keep the irritation from his voice, but he made the attempt to contain it properly and continued, "This is a Tribunal Hall. Under Aphaster law, any citizen whose livelihood would be directly impacted according the the submitted subject of a given audience is permitted to attend it. Additionally, certain non-tribunal dragons are allowed to attend at will if the subject matter is not deemed politically or socially volatile."

The ridgeback stroked his chin. Despite his natural scowl, he seemed more amused than offput. "And who are you then?"

"I am the student of the Queen's Historian and Keeper of Precedent, in training to become Aphaster’s barrister," Apokathisto answered coolly, shuffling through his notes. "And she is shadowing Tribune Saber in her capacity as Requester-trainee of House Perihelion."

A silence took the floor as the ridgeback mulled this over. Rebis had the insight to close her mouth and try to look imperious and irate with the rudeness she had just endured, but it was a thin mask. She was amazed, but she was also embarrassed. Owing to the difference of their species, Apokathisto had always looked older, and she had always perceived him to be the more somber, mature one between them, but this was the first time she had ever felt overshadowed by him.

It didn't help that she saw Telos pressing back an incredibly smug smile. "Do you have anything to add, or can we proceed?"

The ridgeback shrugged, which had the effect of alarmingly shifting all of his many spines, but his voice was amicable, even impressed. "I beg pardon for my imprudence. You don't often see such a strong work ethic in wyries that age."

Rebis' eyes dropped to her hands. She didn't hear much of what actually happened after that. Only dimly did she note the ridgeback departing, Apokathisto looking up to Arcanus for approval, and that he received it not only from the knight but the queen as well. Several more names were announced, and their owners came and went, until finally they had all been exhausted.

It was only when she found the hall emptied save herself, the queen, the knight, and Saber, she became quite aware of her surroundings again. But to her relief none of them were looking at her. Telos was staring at a slip of paper, which Saber seemed to be waiting for her to make a decision on.

"Leave us alone please," she murmured. As Saber pressed gently at Rebis' back, the queen called out. "Leave her."

"Your majesty?"

She smiled faintly. "Apokathisto will never be the type to endure these situations. He's too much like Azricai to bear it. Rebis should stay."

Rebis found her nerves jumping up again as Saber left and Arcanus beckoned her to his side, almost entirely hiding her between his bulk and the chair that sat empty next to Telos. She didnt have a good view of who was coming, but she could see the queen's face and easily read her increasing disquiet as a faint clicking of footsteps announced another guest.

Recommended Listening: Peaceful Sleep - NieR: Automata

Rebis peeked as subtly as she could. She couldn't see much, but she made out a billowy shirt with an absurdly deep neckline, an eyepatch, and a head of silk-fine, gray-streaked hair. Branching antlers were silhouetted by the sunlight coming through the entry pillars--an imperial for sure.

There was no way to know who that was, but there was a distinctly different tone to the room. Telos' intensity was gone, replaced by something very different indeed.

“I heard you came to ask after me,” the imperial said warmly. Her voice was low and somewhat scratchy, and had a worn, creaky quality that reminded Rebis of Prophecy and Hart and other older dragons. “You didn’t have to leave the flowers too, I’m the one who is supposed to be sweeping you off your feet.”

“I...I’m glad you’re alright.” Despite the admittance, her temper changed. “Why did you come here? With Sornieth the way it is, you could have died.”

"I could die any time, it’s why I make sure I do what I want.” She gave a sweet smile that clearly said she had done just that. “I read with great interest that the Morning Queen of Aphaster had laid aside her veils and golden tears. I wanted to see it for myself." 

"So you see," Telos answered curtly, holding her head high to display her new markings. 

A faint chuckle bounced on the marble. "My chances haven't improved a bit. Don't worry, I haven't brought you any gifts."

"The request for audience stated otherwise."

"I lied," she said cheerfully. "Couldn't for the life of me think up another good reason, that didn’t involve bringing more bad news." Her voice dropped, sincere and humble and a little bittersweet. "As much as you deserve it, I know you don't like to be doted on. I just wanted to see you. See if you looked happy."

"My happiness isn't your affair," Telos stressed weakly.

"Neither is making flowers bloom but I still look forward to spring."

There were a few faint clicks as the woman came closer. Rebis smelled the sea on her even before she saw the color of her eye that marked her as a water native. It was creased by crow's feet that added to her handsomeness, and she was the tallest female Rebis had ever seen, towering even as she knelt on the other side of the tribunal table.

"Even if you scowl at me," she said tenderly. "I can see you've changed over the winter." She tilted her head, peering at Telos curiously but without pleading. "But not enough to walk with me as we used to, I suppose."

Rebis glanced at Telos and couldn't tell what was wrong. Her brows were drawn in such clear frustration, but she was on the verge of tears.

 "I can't," she said finally. "I can't, Gethsemene..."

Gethsemene’s crow's feet lengthened with her light-hearted smile. "Come now," she chided as she stood. "Don't cry over an old fool like me."

"I am a young fool and I will cry over whatever I wish,"  Telos snapped.

Rebis thought there was warmth in those words, and the imperial too seemed to take it as a kind of peace offering.

"That's the spirit," Gethsemene cheered. The lines of her face revealed both love and an intimate empathy that made Rebis instinctively avert her eyes. "I hope to see you again at your son’s wedding. My crew’s taking shelter under the falls until the sea is less unpredictable so our stay will be longer than usual this eon.” She winked. “I promise you wont get any more suspicious audience requests in the mean time."

Telos clenched her fists and with great difficulty she offered her hand. "Please take care of yourself, Gethsemene."

Gethsemene clasped Telos' hand in hers, pressed it adoringly but politely to her forehead, and left the hall with a meandering but jaunty step. 

Telos sighed deeply, and seemed to melt into her chair, more exhausted by that momentary exchange than by all the difficult audiences that had come before it combined. The silence stretched on and on until Rebis fumblingly tugged at Arcanus' cloak and tried to discreetly ask who that was.

"Gethsemene," Telos replied in his stead, without moving or opening her eyes. "Last epoch, during the eon of Wavecrest, she introduced herself and we began a trade agreement. Her wife is deceased; has been for...gods it would be near 3 epochs now." Her eyes opened, staring up at the rays filtering down through the skylights. "She saw herself in me, I suppose. Always offering a kind word, asking how I was feeling. She gave me her support when I was still at my most angry and wounded. Walked me through the pains of being a widow." The obvious question came to Rebis' lips, but for once she stifled her curiosity. Telos went on anyway. "Then she fell in love with me." She gave a short, sarcastic bark of laughter. "Scores of scorned suitors and she threw herself in with them."

"That's not her fault!" Rebis cried, surprised at her own defensiveness of a total stranger.

"I know it isn't." Telos pressed her eyes shut. "If I had my way, I would go back to the way things once were. But some things cannot be undone, Rebis. Gethsemene knows me and my sorrows, and I know for a fact that she is not some wheedling politician hoping to seduce their way into power or some smitten romantic who thinks I have a maiden's heart that they can re-awaken if only I am shown a grand enough gesture."

She covered her eyes, and Rebis felt her entire body go hot and prickly with panic as tears spilled from under Telos' fingers. "She spares me obvious affections because she knows it pains me, but there are dozens of little things she does, little ways she looks at me that are probably as involuntary as breath to her. I can't un-see those things or un-know her heart--and being loved without being able to return it is far more than I can bear."

An army of words rushed to Rebis' tongue, but none made it out. There were many ways to interpret those words, and yet... Only one clicked coldly into place, illuminating things Rebis immediately regretted knowing. The feeling of being too young to understand Telos shed away like old scales, and her desperate, frightening desire for even the slightest reciprocation dulled to a faint but still-painful throb.

Rebis had been in the company of every dragon in the clan, she had stayed with them, lived with them for however short a time before moving to some other household where she was equally welcome. Few spoke of Telos with personal familiarity to begin with, and it dawned on Rebis that those who did weren't Aphaster-born. They were the relics of the old clan, every single one. 

Had Telos attached to anyone since she became queen? 

Though she barely noticed, the tension she normally felt in Telos' presence drained away. She finally saw Telos as she was; as what she had always very openly stated she was, but which Rebis had never quite managed to internalize. 

Under the crown, and in private, she was still an exalt's widow and mother to a daughter than hadn't even been named before the Arcanist claimed her too.

Telos didn't have the room in her to love or be loved by Gethsemene. And finally Rebis understood that there was no room in Telos to love or be loved by her either. There never had been. There never would be.  

She looked away, desperate to see anything else. She wanted to go home--any home in Aphaster would do so long as it got her away from there. But when she looked to Arcanus,  he was staring at Telos with an expression of resigned grief. 

Her crests slowly fell until they were limp against her shoulders. 

Oh... she thought sadly. You too huh...?

[leiascully]

Fic:  An heni a vez ar grass ar merc’hed Part 6/?

Taking a leap here.  WWII AU, PG-13, wartime trauma and injuries, mentions of Nazis.  French puns.  Names changed to reflect the time and place.  The Syndicate are Nazi-adjacent but working for a different new world order. Title is from a Breton proverb, but I just used the part that means “he who has the grace of women”.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | AO3

Life at the White Whale went on.  Mulder knew the old men in the dining room had gotten used to the sight of him when they called him over and started to teach him curse words in Breton and tell him dirty jokes.  Once in a while, on the rainy grey days, they would talk about their sons, gone to the war.  He didn't think they trusted him, the supposed city cousin, and he could see that they knew his accent wasn't quite Parisian, but it still felt like a victory.  

One night, hobbling back from the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of lights at the edge of the forest.  They flickered in and out behind branches, swinging around the height a rider might hold a lantern.  He watched, fascinated, until they drifted out of sight behind the neighbors' barn.

"I saw the lights," he told Monique the next day as they ate baguette spread thickly with jam and butter.  The Scullys all broke their fast together in the kitchen every morning, warming themselves by the fire as they prepared to cut vegetables and slice meat for the day's lunch.

"Did you?" she said.  "Perhaps there's hope for you yet.  We should prepare for whatever is coming, although if you didn't see Arthur himself, maybe it was a sign of something else."

"Perhaps there were fireflies," Dana said, a sour tone to her voice.  

"Oh, Dana," Monique said fondly.  "Can't you let there be magic in the world?"

"Only when Émilie is around," Maelice said, rubbing Dana's back.  "She's been that way since she was little.  No fairy tales for our Dana."

"I see the world as it is," Dana said.  "That's an asset more often than not."

"And you leave the once-upon-a-times to us," Maelice said, hugging Dana around the shoulders.  "Together, we can handle any situation."

"On that we agree," Dana said, wrapping her arms over her sister's.

Mulder looked at them all and marveled that in the middle of a war, their family still loved each other so fiercely.  His family tolerated each other in times of peace, but the moments of warmth were few and far between, some remnant of his parents' restrained upbringing or his father's work.  They had been close for a few years after Sanne's birth, but as the work had grown more intense, the Mulders had grown more distant.  Meanwhile, war seemed to have brought the Scullys closer together, at least those who were left at home.  Maybe it was different with Gwilherm, Gwhil, and Charles around.  He imagined the dynamic was skewed toward the authority of the military men.  There was a photograph of the family in the hall; Gwilherm looked like a proud papa, but a stern one, and Gwhil looked as if he wanted to step directly into his father's shoes.  Mulder wondered what the photographs of his family revealed.  Surely their poses showed the tension between them.  They had been happy once, but every year since his father had begun to work for the smoking man had stolen some of their warmth, until his parents barely spoke to each other and he and Sanne avoided them.  He had the feeling that the Scullys liked him better at this point than his own family had when he'd left.  

He tried not to think too much about the days to come.  He could walk again.  He should have been grateful just for that.  He couldn't run well, and he doubted he would ever be free of the limp, but he could walk without sharp pain.  No one had come looking for him yet.  He suspected no one would, unless the army happened to march through town.  One man, in the scheme of things, didn't matter much.  They would assume he'd been killed and send another scout.  He had never fit in well with his unit anyway, and he certainly wouldn't now, with his permanent disability.   

He could run a few errands around town for Dana, and carry the basket of produce back from the market without overbalancing himself too much.  He would never be fit for service again.  There was a strange satisfaction in that.  He wasn't a coward.  He couldn't be a part of the German Army, and it wasn't his fault.  He had heard of men shooting themselves in the foot before, or being purposefully careless around machinery, all to avoid service, but he had been shot, more or less in the line of duty.  He hadn't given up.  He was relieved of the burden of service and of the specter of cowardice.  He would always need the cane, a visible proof of his sacrifice and his unfitness.  His leg still gave out sometimes, without warning, or ached all the way through, or spasmed all at once as if his muscle were reliving the impact of the bullet.  The weather affected it as well.  He knew when a storm would blow in off the sea before even Marguerite did, and her years as a sailor's wife had taught her well despite their distance from the coast.

It was like a fairy tale in a way.  He had gone on a quest (a dark and evil quest) as the oldest son of his house.  He had been transformed.  He had been rescued by a brave damsel.  Outside the relative sanctuary of the village, a dragon coiled, breathing fire down the necks of the Allied powers.  

Despite the ache in his leg, he felt healthier here than he had in a long time.  His family seemed to have drunk slow poison at some point in the past he couldn't pin down.  He hadn't realized how much he had hated the uniform he'd worn until he'd taken it off.  There were good German people.  He knew that.  But the uniform turned them all into something else, something dire and dangerous, a cancer on the world.  As a Jewish man, however indifferent in his observations, he had felt some sort of subliminal sickness every time he'd put it on.  His mother had been the one to remind him of holidays, to walk him through the rituals, and his attendance at temple had been sporadic, but that heritage was still a part of him.  The prayers in Hebrew still rose to his lips from time to time.  

He wondered if Dana knew.  She'd bathed him, when she'd sewn up his leg, so she probably suspected.  He was relieved that she hadn't pressed him too much.  He couldn't explain any of it to himself, except that he'd wanted to protect Sanne, and that hadn't mattered.  Nothing he had done had mattered.  

At least going to the market and mucking out the stables gave him purpose.  The days slipped by, one after the other.  Émilie's Monsieur Patatez shriveled into a spongy horror, and he carved a second one so that she would let Dana put the first one in the scrap bucket.  

He saw the lights twice more at irregular intervals over the next few weeks.  He didn't mention them to Dana again, but he was making a late-night snack one night when he heard noises in the cellar again.  He had grown hungrier as he'd recovered and as he did more around the place.  This time, Monique emerged alone.

"Looking for knights?" he asked, slathering mustard on a cold galette and putting a few slices of ham on top.  Émilie had demanded soup for dinner and he was benefiting now.

"In all the wrong places," she said.  "As usual."  She leaned against the door.

"You look like you haven't been sleeping well," he said.

"How kind of you, monsieur," she said sarcastically.  

"I'm not a fool, Monique," he said.  "I know something's going on.  The lights in the woods may not be Arthur and his knights, but something is happening."

She pressed her lips together in a thin line.

"I presume you can't tell me about it," Mulder continued, rolling up his crêpe.   "But I know you want to.  Otherwise you wouldn't keep letting me catch you."

"You see more than you let on," she said, crossing her arms.  

"Aren't we warned that loose lips sink ships?" he said.  "It sounds much better in English, to be honest."

She sighed.  "I do want to tell you.  I have a feeling that you're trustworthy.  But it's dangerous.  There are more reasons not to tell you than to let you know."

"My being an officer in Hitler's army not the least of them, I imagine," he said.  

"That's certainly part of it," she said.  "Although I have a feeling you're not a true believer."

"Not a believer at all," he said.  

"Why do you wear the uniform at all?" she asked.

"It's complicated," he said.  "I thought it would protect my family."  

"Did it?" she asked.

"No," he said, "but it was the best chance I had, in a handful of bad choices."

"I understand," she said, and he could tell by the strain around her eyes that she did.  

"I'm not trying to absolve myself," he said.  "I'm sure something I did led to all of this happening in the first place."

"All of this?" she asked, with a little ironic gesture that included the war, the chaos, the misery, all of it.  

"All of my part in it," he said.  "Maybe some of the rest."

"I wasn't aware we were harboring such an important man," she teased.  

"So important, no one minds if I disappear," he said.

"That does sound crucial," she told him.  "I'm glad no one's come for you.  You're better off with us."

"There's no doubt of that," he said.  "I know it's a risk for all of you."

"Everything is a risk," she said.  "Dana made up her mind about you and that was that."

"It would have been easier if you'd let me die," he said.

"Of course," Monique agreed.  "But as I said, Dana made up her mind.  None of us could change that even if we wanted to."

"I would help more if I could," he said.

"I'll remember that," she promised, and yawned extravagantly.  "I'm off to bed."  

"Good night," he said.

"Good night," she said.  "Another time, I'll tell you a bedtime story."

"I look forward to it," he said, and ate his snack in the empty kitchen, purposefully not looking at the cellar door.

[paganchristian]

A picture I took out the window, a peaceful ride in the country, the rolling hills, the cows, the clouds, the blurry images streaming by like a tape, a childhood feeling, memories of gazing at the sun or the moon out the window and the ribbons of powerlines dancing, how beautiful they felt to me then, how full of happiness they seemed to be, dancing in such lovely curves, in rhythm with the music on the radio. 

 It reminds me of something simpler, more innocent, and more joyful, and more hidden, from the world, untouched, unseen, unfound, but wholly at home, loved and belonging, not alone, just almost yet unborn, living in a cocoon where the smaller and more simple the world, the better it is, and if the only other creatures who know me best are my other friends who are children.  And we all inhabit a secret world where innocence is everything and nothing but innocence exists. My sisters, though, weren’t that innocent and kind in all ways, to me.  And disturbing things had already taken root in me, in religious obsessive confusion, at that young age, and a feeling of numbness was starting to settle in, and a repression of my natural personality had already begun to work its way into my life.  It’s visible in home videos where my behavior began to change, and though no one says they knew why, I recall that a teacher was an influence upon me, to stifle my joy and exuberance, and as submissive as I had been taught at home too to be, I willingly shrank into a tiny shell.  But if I just vaguely let my memory rewind itself into the territory of faulty memories and feelings that tell more than facts, I can tap into a sense of pure innocence that I think is actually a mixture of reality, and fiction, and wishes and present tense life that has let me regain a feeling of childhood again, and paradise regained.  

I think that my relative is reachable, if only I reach them in such a delicate way, and I found and really saw and wanted to read again, this book I’d gotten, about mental health issues, certain mental health conditions they have.  It’s been sitting there but something just suddenly made me want to read it again, so eventually I may, though I’m having some difficulty with it, because I feel depressed by the subject matter.  I feel unsure that it will really help me.  Their particular manifestation of this condition is not typical and I don’t know if the book addresses this variation.  But maybe I can find other books or good websites that address that particular variation of the condition.  And really that condition might be a secret locked door that will let me reach them much better, if I can find the key to open things, because it is well known to have tremendous impacts on relationships of all kinds.  Whether it extends to our family relationship, they seem to have the idea that it doesn’t but after all I’ve read, and sensed and they have seemed to hint, I wonder if it does.  I wonder if I could help them much better with their problems if I understand all this, and yet, this condition is notoriously hard to treat so maybe it is more of a matter of accepting what is.  Sometimes it’s treatable but often it seems to be very resistant to treatment, unless the person with the condition t is very willing to cooperate.  

And I’m not a therapist of course and they’re not coming to me for psychological treatment, yet sometimes loved ones can help far more than therapy, as was the case for me, with my bipolar and anxiety, and yet my case was different, by far, than average.  And the loved ones and friends helped a while, but then I changed myself over decades of struggle and isolation and being totally alone and unable to voice my feelings to those who didn't’ care any longer (and therapy and drugs didn’t help either, but I was never treated for bipolar type 2/cyclothmia, only depression, so not sure about that aspect of the drugs).  Sometimes family and friends and loved ones can help, other times not.  Then the ones who helped me eventually turned their backs on me, but maybe it was too much, maybe it’s more of a burden than most can stand after a while.  

Even therapists are often depressed and they have one of the highest suicide rates of the occupations, I think I read.  It makes sense, if you think of the burdens they are feeling if they can’t help but feel overwhelmed by all they hear from others and then not being able to help them, as often people don’t respond well to treatment, and then therapist likely was attracted to that occupation because of relating and sympathizing with those suffering, which means they are more likely to be depressed or vulnerable to depression or mental illness, you would think, than the average population.  It’s not uncommon for therapist to have their own therapists too.  

But anyway, if I just have to accept my relative’s issues rather than help them, because their mental condition is often not responsive to treatments, well, ok.  And that makes me think, about the idea that maybe sometimes we can’t even stand to see our flaws, and it will destabilize us if we do, and not only that, but we need to be validated in our wrong ideas, so that we feel like we have a sense of purpose and worth, and it’s really strange to think of that.  Usually people don't think that way and yet I have lived that out myself and it really feels, looking back, that I did need that.  As long as it doesn’t do any kind of harm to anyone and it’s the best you can do, then maybe sometimes people are so trapped in their delusions in certain ways for the time being that they might need that. 

I think that I don’t have to worry so much about upsetting the fragile balance of my family member, if I just don’t go too in depth or say too many things that seem too challenging, too judgmental, or whatever, about their issues.  Not that I’d say it as criticism or advice or even suggestions directly aimed at them anyway, but just like I said, if I made a blog or wrote letters or made a website or whatever like that and shared it with them, this is my life, my interests, and instead of expecting you to be interested I will just give this to you to do as you so choose, to read it, or not, to respond or not.  It’s not directed at you, just a depiction of my life, my life story, my interests, my passions, the things I’d share if I felt I could share, but since I don’t want it to be a burden or an obligation, since I feel like maybe I’m too far out on a limb for anyone to relate to all that much, I will just share it in this distant, kind of detached way.  

If you really want to talk and enjoy responding to what I say, maybe we can find new things to talk about but if not we already talk a lot, every once in a blue moon, which is enough for me.  This is just throwing this out there, just in case we can be even closer than we are (We are now already close in this rarely talking but I trust and love you so much kind of way, even if we don’t need to talk much, maybe couldn’t find anything to talk about in common.  But we’re there if things fall apart, or if we just have to vent to someone.  That kind of “close-ish” family relationship type of thing).  

And I know that if I did that my views, my values will be confrontational and challenging to them, because they have expressed such extreme sensitivity and offense and misunderstandings over other people that I know they would see my views in the same way and they have told me they stew in rage and self-loathing and bitterness and feeling abandoned over the littlest of things.  I know it’s fragile and yet I feel like if I just keep things very low-key, simple and only  occasionally hint little bits of what might be considered “too positive”, or “too simple”, or “too spiritual” or too cool and aloof, too detached, or too whatever it is, too judgmental, that they might read and distort and misinterpret me to mean...  

Then I think I can write these things.  I just have to carefully weigh each word, even when I’m putting it in this detached, distant space that is not directed at them, but just my own thoughts.  My relative needs someone to help them somehow, and they are not willing to reach out or look for help in many places at all, so I’m one of the very very extreme few people (or maybe the only person) who is in a position to help them.  The only other person they are very open to is just as stuck in the same mental condition they also have and so I don’t have any real hopes for them to help.  

I don’t feel the best qualified to help myself.  I’m not always the most optimistic or the most encouraging or the most good at compliments and cheering people up and framing things in this really friendly, kind, gentle, uplifting way.  I try m y best but it seems that it just flies by me and I’m oblivious.  I see others responding in much more helpful ways but I don’t even understand how they do it or what they’re doing but I just see that it’s much more uplifting and encouraging and validating and enthusiastic and whatever.  More insightful, clear and well-articulated, more helpful, and so many different things I see many do much better than me, when it comes to cheering up people or helping people who are down and troubled.  

 My main strength, I think, is that I don’t judge and expect too much, and I’m actually not overly optimistic, not unrealistically, so, and not overly simplistic, because I’ve been there myself.  Yet because I’ve overcome things in this really weird and difficult way, sometimes what I say sounds too simple and easy, but it’s not.  It’s just so simple it’s hard to trust and be willing to try (and others may need other things but my case was not and is not minor and if it worked for me, it can work for some of the worst cases of depression, which mine was one of the worst my former psychiatrist, an expert in the region, said he’d seen, in his many years of treating people.  He expected I might be depressed all my life).  It’s not that I needed only simple things to help, because what helps me is elaborate and complex, many-layered, immense, and even still, fragile, and only healing but not curing me,...  But parts of what have helped me the most are very simple and sound dismissive to some people, but it’s not.  

Anyway, maybe I can learn how to be more helpful and encouraging in ways I see others doing so much better than me.   But it’s just one more thing for me to try to figure out, when life feels like too much.  And when I can’t just wait before I act to figure it all out, because they need my help and care right now.  Though sometimes things change much more quickly than you would ever expect, once you have the right information and take the right actions to grow, improve and change yourself.  So I am hopeful.  And I ask God for help, as ever.  Yet when I wrote all this about my relative on this blog, things seemed to change, and I noticed and felt like reading that book though before I’d had it on the shelf for months and it felt hopeless, worthless, but suddenly I saw it differently.  Something about blogging, what is it, it changes my feelings.  Maybe it’s some mysterious energy of people reading or maybe it’s something else, like my own consciousness reacting in new ways to the focused sort of social atmosphere and the endorphins of that or maybe it’s something else.  I wonder what it is.  

[junker-town]

Charlotte Jones Anderson on turning the Cowboys into America’s Team

VP Charlotte Jones Anderson has been in charge of the Cowboys brand for 30 years.

SB Nation’s Q&A series that highlights some of the NFL’s most powerful women continues with Anderson, who’s been working in Dallas’ executive office since 1989.

Over the summer of 2019, SB Nation interviewed several women who currently hold or have previously held leadership positions within the NFL to find out more about them and the work they do. This Q&A series highlights the powerful women who have dared to shake up one of sport’s biggest boys clubs. First up in the series was ex-Raiders CEO Amy Trask. Charlotte Jones Anderson is up next.

Charlotte Jones Anderson is the executive vice president and chief brand officer for the Dallas Cowboys. She first joined the team shortly after her father, Jerry Jones, purchased the team in 1989. Her career in Dallas started when she helped settle a feud between Jones and members of the Cowboys’ cheerleading squad who quit after rumors swirled that Jones wanted to make their uniforms more revealing and lift rules on fraternizing with players.

Soon after, Anderson’s job evolved into something far more encompassing. In 1997, she pitched airing the Thanksgiving Day halftime show on NBC and has produced the event across multiple networks. Anderson also oversaw the design, sponsor incorporation, and decor of the Cowboys’ state-of-the-art AT&T Stadium, where she also oversees hosting marquee events like Super Bowl XLV, the 2010 NBA All-Star Game, and the 2014 NCAA Men’s Final Four. She has been chairman of the NFL Foundation since 2012, and serves on the league’s Conduct and Health and Safety Committees as well.

Author’s note: This interview has been lightly edited for clarity and length.

Photo by Gary Miller/Getty Images

SB NATION: Before you arrived in Dallas, you were working in politics in Washington, D.C. with former U.S. Representative Tommy F. Robinson. Tell me a bit about how you dealt with the Cowboys’ cheerleaders.

CHARLOTTE JONES ANDERSON: At the time, there were crises all over the place.

The cheerleaders were one of them at the time, so I found myself coming to Dallas to put out what I thought was an immediate fire, and then was going to go back to D.C. And while I was here, he [Jones] asked me to stay. And the first thing I thought is, “I don’t know anything about running a professional football team.” But he was quick to remind me that he didn’t either. It was really ground zero for both of us.

When I got here, my directive was pretty basic, which was, “Find a way to stop losing money. And whatever you do, don’t tarnish the star.”

My first step was to move training camp from California, where it had been for many years under Coach [Tom] Landry, and move it to Austin, Texas. And in that step it was, “OK, what do you do next?” It was you find the things that cost the most.

SB: When you first started, did you think you’d end up in your current position?

CJA: I get asked, “Did you ever dream that this is where you would be?” And [the answer is] “No, absolutely not.” None of us thought that we would be at this point. It’s just every step of the way we realized that we could really use the affinity that people had with the Cowboys and take them on a journey to experience more and be more than a team that plays on Sunday or Monday.

SB: Describe your job both from a day-to-day and an overall perspective.

CJA: It is so encompassing of what we do. We play football, and then beyond that we have grown the affinity of our brand into so many aspects. From building a stadium that is obviously the home of our game, to a myriad of other events in that venue. We have a practice facility that is now a small village, an events center that’s home to high school football, and entire communities of kids and families, and a hotel and restaurants.

The day-to-day — there actually is no day-to-day because every day is so dramatically different and there’s so much difference within the day. The thing that is consistent every day is the responsibility that you have with the brand that you are. To be the best that you can be, to be inspiring to those who are associated with you. And in that you can’t be exclusionary. So every experience that we create needs to be one that everyone can relate to.

Through the course of my journey, I’ve had a lot of bad ideas that just didn’t work, but you’ve gotta try in order to move forward, and then remember to get off of it quickly if it doesn’t. Every step of the way there was never “OK, here’s your project, OK, here’s your next step.” I had to create and define that along the way. My father, as great of a visionary as he is, he’s certainly not a day-to day-manager. It was just, “Help me figure it out.” And that’s a pretty broad directive with a lot of ambiguity. For me over the course of the years, I found that I’m actually comfortable dealing in the ambiguity.

It’s really hard for me to describe what I do, but it extends from a piece of merchandise, into an experience on gameday, to one on a Sunday where people are coming out to lunch. It’s so encompassing that you really are trying to create and grow a culture that creates the best self of who we are.

SB: You’ve been instrumental in things like overseeing the building of AT&T Stadium, as well as The Star, a 91-acre campus of the Dallas Cowboys World Headquarters and practice facility in Frisco, Texas. For you, what have been some of the most fulfilling parts of your career?

CJA: I probably could say it was building the stadium or building The Star, but I think the most rewarding and valuable experience has been our association with the Salvation Army.

I learned early in my career back in 1996 that we had the ability to become something bigger than a game. And that [with] our influence and visibility, that if we partnered with an organization that was really doing the most good in the community and doing the work that no one else wants to do — to rebuild people — if we could bring them visibility and awareness and financial support, that we were doing something incredibly purposeful.

Almost 24 years ago, we launched a national campaign with the Salvation Army for their red kettle campaign on Thanksgiving Day. And that alone over the past 20-plus years has raised over two and a half-billion dollars — with a “B,” billion dollars. We haven’t raised it [all but] we’ve created awareness and inspiration and for others to help support the same goal, which is helping people.

SB: You also hold leadership roles within a number of organizations, like the Boys And Girls Clubs of America, the Make-A-Wish North Texas Presidents Council, and more. How do you balance all that, along with raising a family?

CJA: Wait, who said there was balance? I think that’s a challenge that we all face, especially women who do work and want to raise a family and want to have it all. We have a strong tendency to beat ourselves up for not being able to give 100 percent at work, 100 percent at home, 100 percent to ourselves, to our kids, and the community. That math doesn’t add up. For me, what I’ve found is that you can have impact, influence in all of those areas, it might just not be all at the same time. The pendulum swings — it might be that one day it’s stronger in one area, another day it’s in another.

We’re our own worst critics, and if we can take one step back and marvel at our contributions across so many lanes then maybe we would look at ourselves and say, “You know what I’m doing a great job,” instead of, “I didn’t get it all done today.”

SB: Did you ever experience any challenges being a woman in the NFL or being Jerry Jones’ daughter?

CJA: I have not actually felt the impact of being a woman in sports. I’ve actually been more challenged by being the daughter of [Jerry Jones]. My father casts a pretty large shadow, and in that, being able to prove with conviction that I’m here because of who I am and my contribution, not my bloodline. That has always been more of a struggle for me than the female piece of it.

Quite frankly, my father was really great to point out how important it was to be the one who was different in the room. He was very positive in, “You have a different approach, you have a different voice, you have a different view, and we need that at the table.”

SB: What advice would you give to women wanting to do what you do?

CJA: First, I would say never sacrifice your own authenticity. Be yourself, and be your bold, passionate, authentic self.

A lot of times young women see, “Well, my only opportunity might be directly with a team.” There is so much that goes into teams competing on the field from a media perspective, an engineering perspective, or an architect perspective — there are so many different outlets that touch sports and that are involved in sports in different disciplines. There’s more than one role for a woman in sports.

[noxrynne]

i dont really have the highest hopes for making the goal i had for school odds are i fail a class, do poorly in another or two, and maybe get by decently in one of them i really regret doing online courses since it always goes back to “oh i missed that because it wasn’t posted,” “oh the professors don’t use the news alert system when new stuff is added with a concise explanation of what I need to do in that post blurb that’s 3500 words of bs,” “oh i didnt realize this awkward and uncomfortable ‘post your personal assignments here that are about yourself so a bunch of strangers can also read and criticize it’ was required,” “the syllabus is written out of order, it’s messy and has a bunch of color code usage that’s never explained and makes reading it harder and, oh, they want me to print it out too bad i dont have a fucking printer and looking at it makes me want to throw up since it’s literally just everything put up on a page and i just start panicking because its so much stuff and it immediately overwhelms me” i also fuckin hate the professors who’ll say like “if you’re here just to get a degree you’re in the wrong place” b/c it’s like college costs a lot of fuckin money and you can bet your ass the only reason im here is to get a degree so i can eventually have a job that lets me be financially stable. trying to say “oh it’s just for funtime education” is bullshit when it costs what it does and isn’t even accessible to everyone from the get-go. i could learn the exact same shit for free from a fucking library and the internet, and talk to people i know if i have questions about material. but that doesn’t give me the piece of paper i need. idk i wish there was more of a “oh i can go do this and be fine financially” rather than needing to spend years in a university because i really hate it. i *wish* i hadn’t fucked up before and been as suicidal and couldve got through it *before* its used as a “yea we can’t have you here cuz you dropped out in the past” *even when* it’s an associated school with the one i *did* drop out of and they told me they *would* re-accept me when i was healthier. no im not a great student. i get overwhelmed really easily, i stress out over everything too much, i break down if i miss one assignment. i dont do well on the shit i actually try really hard at. i dont participate in class because it’s a terrifying experience to be called a fucking “idiot” again by a professor (ty philosopher dickhead at uwgb im gonna fucking punch you if i ever see you) i *forget* about assignments a *lot* and *yes* that’s a *my* problem thing but it’s something so extremely difficult to work around without having someone telling me about it, or just having a visible schedule written down about what’s due on a front page that always pops up. which i mean yeah it’s extra work i guess for the professor to just copy paste some info that’d really help me out, and no i dont have this issue as much in a traditional school b/c i actually *go* to the classes to sit in and be reminded through that. and yea im probly gonna fail out unless the other university sighs and says “well she did try and it was online” and ngl i probably would be *fine* in a regular classroom oriented thing *now* it’s more organized and there’s a schedule i can keep to and get into and when i get *into* a schedule i stick to it 100% b/c i derive a sense of security, existence and safety from having schedules. but if i fail out and they dont sigh and say “okay” then im kinda fucked. i mean, i could probably attempt to get through another year there and maybe go to the actual school instead of the online bullshit and *maybe* then i’d actually meet the reqs. but idk if that offer is gonna stand after this year. and idk im just back to feeling really fucking hopeless and empty. i mean ive been feeling this way all this month. i feel like nothings fucking worth it because i feel like i just cant do it. and that ultimately im gonna end up fucked. and i *know* im 90% of the problem. i *know* my thinking of “what’s the point” is screwing me over. i *know* accidentally falling asleep an staying asleep for a whole day is a fucking issue. i *know* i shouldnt forget important shit i need to do. i *know* i should participate no matter how fucking uncomfortable and frightened it makes me. but it feels fucking *impossible* to work with 0 energy. it feels terrifying to be asked “write an introspective piece about yourself and reflect on the events of your life that made you who you are today” BECAUSE i dont talk about THAT STUFF to people I DONT KNOW i *BARELY* covered those topics in *therapy* because of how uncomfortable they make me. and I DONT need a bunch of strangers in a class knowing the shit that happened to me. and fuck i feel like the entire idea behind the writing assignment was “oh this’ll be fun haha” but it’s like... remembering *most of the shit hat directly impacted how i am today* is one of the most fucking difficult things for me to do, especially publicly. i *regret* online schooling. i didnt realize how much i dont work with it until i thought about it this year. i get overwhelmed. i get stressed. i get depressed. i get suicidal. i get hopeless. i feel useless. i didnt realize i *need* to actually *go* to a class because it helps with the isolation i put myself in. because i straight up actually understand shit when someone is actually explaining it to me and not just handing me a textbook and saying “read it that’s it that’s the entire class, but oh, write an informed paper structured off what you read and if you dont understand the material well go fuck yourself i guess.” and in actually *going* there to a physical room it becomes easier to do things like homework and assignments *because i can walk over to the library*. what *really* shit on my previous school ability was like i was overwhelmed (we *just* moved to a *completely* different state and environment, i *just* had a series of panic attacks in italy b/c i thought i could handle it on my own) and the first school didn’t have a/c and it was fucking 101 outside every day and i dont do well in heat, and by that, i mean i hyperventilate, i get dizzy, i get lightheaded, i get emotional and frightened and stressed and cant sleep. the professor who asked if we read the chapter (I DID) and then pointed at me to explain what i read (I DIDNT FUCKING UNDERSTAND IT), and when i finished he just laughed and told me to sit down and pretty much called me an idiot in front of everyone and i started crying. (i also got a 0 so i failed the reading since he didnt believe i read it). at *that* school there were no therapy or counseling or offers like that. the art building made me cry and feel unsafe (i couldnt control it), having to walk *all* the way back to my dorm building at 12AM b/c that’s when my one class ended was *terrifying* then in a different school it was just i had a class that made me physically uncomfortable to be in. i *hated* being in the freshman course for feminism so much. not b/c i hate the material, but i felt so “other” and uncomfortable b/c im a trans woman being asked about my male perspective on shit and i just. i remember leaving because i just felt upset and depressed and i couldn’t get over the really bad dysphoria i kept having in that class (the professor there was the reason i went to counseling on campus, she’s the one who referred me to it in the first place). on top of that, the dorm i was told id be getting was a fucking lie. i was supposed to have one or 0 roommates. i got 5 roommates. beds didn’t fit me b/c of my height (i slept with the back of my feet on an iron bar). the food was straight fucking garbage. one of my roommates just randomly touched me all the time. hugged me, put arms around my neck, *kissed my cheek*. another was always drunk and loud. another talked about making bombs incessantly. one of them seemed actually concerned about me and he came in once or twice when i was face down on my bed just not moving b/c of therapy sessions and talked to me once or twice to make sure i was still alive. friday mornings in winter id be up at 5AM, trying to get ready without waking any of the 5 other people, then walk outside with no access to breakfast/coffee/anything (b/c too early) to get to a class across and off the campus i had to walk to (and when snow was present my feet were numb b/c of all the water that got into my shoes). and then there was the legit getting 4 hours of sleep if that a week. eating basically nothing. extremely suicidal and getting to the point where i was having days where i legitimately could not discern what was real and wasn’t. and then i left ‘cuz my other option was to be hospitalized. from there its just been attempts at online schools. which i already tiraded about above. i mean fuck id be happy if i *could* just go work in retail and make a decent wage and not have to work every waking hour of my life to make it work. like. i *wish* i was lucky enough to be one of those “i had no degree but x really liked my resume” stories i always read about. i *wish* writing and publishing a book was considered and *was* a viable career option without needing to get really fucking lucky. im passionate about writing fiction, but in order to do that professionally, i need a 4 year degree from an institution. i can technically publish something, but if no one ever hears about it or cares, then it doesn’t become a job to have and it does little else. and then there’s also just a lot of irl shit i keep worrying about and dwelling on and nearly making some really fucked up or stupid decisions in the interim. and idk i just i wish i was one of those ppl who felt like they had a future and aren’t likely to die before age 25. or one of those people who just *does* something and it works out and they get to exist.