#I love that the number increases exponentially as the years go on

[judicent]

Yeah, I did fill 4 sketchbooks in 4 months so far this year. Huh? Am I gonna post even an ounce of it? Well, you see, I am allergic to my phone, so you will have to come CATCH ME

[sleepy-writes-stuff]

DP X DC WRITING PROMPT #14

(Had this idea on the brain as soon as I woke up this morning. This prompt is basically going off of the idea that the ghost zone is the dimension that connects all dimensions.)

(#) = Notes at the end of post

✦

Living in Technicolor

When Danny gets zapped by the portal and brought back half alive, his vision is forever changed. He doesn't know what caused it, just that ever since the accident, his sight has been split into three different perspectives.

1. His home dimension

2. The ghost zone/invisible spectrum

3. Another dimension entirely

He had originally been able to peer into more than three perspectives directly after his accident, but that resulted in his brain more or less short-circuiting from all the extra information and putting him in a week long coma. Still, even with the decreased load, the amount of information that's being filtered through his eyes and into his brain from three different plains of existence leaves him legally blind in his original reality and needing the help of either a cane or his service dog, Cujo.(1 & 2)

It isn't until his powers start appearing that he learns something interesting. If he concentrates enough, he can shift/manifest his own existence into whichever perspective he's focusing on the most when he transforms, singling his vision down to one perspective for the duration. He has to be careful though, otherwise he could get stuck in-between, which scrambles his vision to an even more nauseating degree. That or he could cause himself to blackout just from the amount of stress it puts on his mind.

He's basically his own dimension hopping portal though.

The only thing is, he never hopped over to the other dimension that seemed to exist alongside his own and the Ghost Zone, content to just travel between his dimension and the Infinite Realms. That doesn't mean he wasn't interested in it or didn't take a more concentrated peek into it from time to time though. Cause let's be honest. A world full of superheroes defending the Earth from a multitude of threats? He'd be lying if he said he didn't use the opportunity to observe and learn from a few of the professionals when it came to his own defending of the ghostly variety.

It isn't until long after he becomes the Ghost King that he is approached by Clockwork, the Ghost of Time. He reveals he knows of Danny's ability to peer into the multiverse like the time ghost can, although greatly limited in comparison. He offers to make Danny his apprentice and to teach him what it means to see through the veil into different universes and timelines, and perhaps increase the amount of perspectives he can handle at once now that his power has increased exponentially. He is King of the Infinite Realms after all. He needs to properly oversee his domain and everything connected to it if he wants to be a good monarch. However, the only way to increase the number of perspectives he can handle is by experiencing each one first hand.

The first step? Shifting into the dimension he has yet to visit, the one he's been peering into and learning so much from over the years.

✦

Notes:

(1) Here, Danny gets Cujo before he becomes a security dog/a ghost.

(2) He eventually creates some specially designed glasses with color changing lenses that help him filter out the extra perspectives when he's older, but they're far from perfect. Red for home reality, Green for the Ghost Zone, and Blue for DC Universe/other universes.

ALSO, while this is technically a dp x dc crossover prompt, I wanted to keep it pretty open for any other crossover ideas. There's infinite possibilities here and I'd love to see what people come up with!

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

I stumbled upon Fuegoleon slander today, so can I request comforting fluff with Fuelara, please?

We don't tolerate Fue slander in this house! So YES

I took my time, but this was very overly self-indulgent to write, and I just might make it be the most of a chapter of The Vows We Made once I get there. Anyways! I hope you enjoy! ^^

Pairing: Fuegoleon x Solara Fanfic type: Oneshot Genre: Fluff/romance Length: ~3.1k Contains: sleepy Fue, mentions of their twins, mentions of Salamander, maybe some possessive themes if you squint??? (The idea of "my family, I need to protect it", does that count??), just pure fluff, they're in love, and go to sleep There is a mention of "Ms. Rose", who is Briar Rose belonging to @/koneko-pi !

The long, quiet corridors of the castle that lead into an office, among a lot of things, which were lined by large windows that faced the courtyard. One could almost see the trees and the bushes, flowerbeds planted in there, but from this height, one would have needed to walk closer to the sheets of glass. And thus, it was only the faint light of the moon that could be seen coming from the outside. Just the sight of the dark blue autumn skies; the sunset had gone already.

Even the servants had gone home, or the bed, for the most parts already. Only the guards outside of the castle walls were awake to keep an eye; even though keeping an eye open was difficult both outside and inside of the castle walls.

Solara could swear that he steps must’ve wobbled ever so slightly as she made her way down the halls, lit by the light of the moon that cast shadows at her feet. The shadows she barely saw as she struggled to keep her eyes open from the state of fatigue she was feeling. The weight of it that she felt had increased exponentially over the last few years.

It’s only age, she told herself, though she was barely past 30, not yet closing in on 40, even if that decade in her life loomed somewhere in the horizon. Not that the number bothered her. It was more so just that she could feel herself getting tired more easily.

She couldn’t keep up with the kids, who wanted to stay up all night long. Or so they said, and still dozed off at 9 the latest. Which was good. They needed their rest.

It was only that the twins had been restless during the last couple of days. The last of the baby teeth would be coming out, which was the cause of the poorly slept nights lately. This night included.

But now they were finally asleep; in their rooms, safely tucked in with Salamander by their side. Or, Sal’s basket by them to be more precise.

The Great Spirit of Fire had assumed a smaller form while living in the castle, and preferred to sleep in his small little wicker basket nestled in a blanket. But the basket needed to be in the common room that joined the bedroom of the twins, so that it could be equally close to both of them.

Solara had reasoned to herself that it was partially a wish of Sal, and partially Fue’s wish amplified in the dragonic spirit. The wish to keep safe. To protect. Make sure that his family was being looked after. The sentiment of ‘my family’.

And it would allow Fue to stay up to date via Salamander, though their communication was what it was. Limited to kinds of hunches. Feelings. That was still the idea how Solara understood it. That it was a non-verbal connection, which didn’t allow for that complicated discussion as with some other spirits might. It was just the nature of Salamander. He was a non-verbal creature, and his methods of communication were limited.

But she didn’t mind. She didn’t think any of them minded. It was just how it was.

A way in which father could be with the family, while working; he could keep an eye on the kids, while having to perform his duty. Even if from behind a desk. And there was no reason to lock the kids, or the family, into a sitting room next to his office.

No... life was out there. It was in the blades of grass, in sunshine, the glimmering of stars, in the frost bites and sweet drinks and the smile of those you hold dear. Life was never meant to be confined within the walls of an office decorate with motifs of grandeur.

The things he says... she mused to herself with a slight shake of her head. And still he very much confines himself into that office... her eyes fell in a slow blink, as her gaze and attention were directed somewhere far, far away, but her steps knew the way nonetheless. It was inscribed into her bones by now; she didn’t need to think about it. All for the sake of the people, he says... she smiled to herself, even if the smile bore a veil of melancholy over it. While trying to make it into every little event, to be there during bed time, read to Leon and Cyra, even though he’ll need to go back to complete something more... always something more...

Her chin lifted as she thought about it. All those moments when he had emerged from the office, with eyes that seemed to bear the weight of the world. But as the kids would go running to him, the weight would subside, he’d pick them up, and tell them how much he missed them.

He doesn’t-, I know that he wouldn’t need to come to us while he’s still working. To take a break to do that. And most wouldn’t. They’d just... complete whatever is on their desk and come home when it’s time for it. And I know... I know that he tries *so hard*. To be everywhere. To come home for a while, chat to the kids, maybe play with them for a while during the busy work days, and then it’s “off to bed, I’ll read a story to you”, she smiled at the thought. The precious moments during the hardest days.

Because during the good days, those that he had off, as much as he can have them off, he’d spend more time with Cyra and Leon. Give them as much attention as he could. Be as good of a father as he could.

But... she couldn’t claim that it wouldn’t be hard for the two of them. Because between work and the kids, there was very little time for the two of them. Which... it just made things a bit difficult. Not that they could claim there to be a real problem, but sometimes they would have liked to just spend time with each other. Cuddle and kiss and... perform spousal activities... maybe sleep a little longer... all the things for which there didn’t seem to be time or energy.

All the things... well... maybe after some time... The first 2 years are the most difficult, or so they say. And then it’ll ease up on sleep at least.

She sighed to herself as she reached the door. The large wooden door which was decorated with some carvings and a golden handle. To signify that it wasn’t just any door. Or at least that it wasn’t a cleaning closet out of all the things. Not that she could imagine anyone mistaking it for one in the first place. Not in this part of the castle.

Her hand landed onto the cold metal surface, without a knock. After all these years, there was no knock.

She wasn’t sure how many times he had had to tell her that she was among the few people, who wouldn’t need to knock when it came to him. That she’d always be welcomed, no matter what.

And how many times had it taken that she hadn’t believed? That she had still knocked. Maybe not waited for a reply, but had still knocked.

During day time she still would.

A silly little thing. She deemed it with a smile.

Just a small thing that amused her. Perhaps amused him too. A kind of a game for them to play. As foolish as it might have sounded. Him having to tell her with a smirk that the door was open, and how it’d always be open for her. And how she’d argue back with a grin of her own, telling him that she couldn’t know what he was in the middle of. That it was courteous. A little game of cat and mouse. Or maybe just two cats play fighting.

Perhaps the latter would be more fitting.

Perhaps that was why when she opened the door, there was no sound. Quiet as a cat.

But when her eyes were granted an image of the room from behind the wooden surface of the door, she stopped.

Just stood there with her hand on the door handle, and looked at her husband. Sleeping over the desk. A single candle lighting the room on his desk.

His mana hand wasn’t manifested, but his left arm was under his head. His chest was rising and falling, and there was the sound of steady, heavy breathing flowing through the air. It wasn’t quite a snore, nor did it sound forced. Just a very... intent way of breathing. Maybe due to the position he was in.

A hum broke through the steady sound. It vibrated through the air, speaking of how it must’ve risen from his throat, as a faint frown appeared on his brows.

But it disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared.

A small smile tugged up the corners of Solara’s lips as she looked at him. Poor thing... he must be exhausted...  

She took a few steps forward, closer to the table, with feather light steps, careful not to wake him.

Bed would be more comfortable... and if he stays in that position he’ll have a sore neck tomorrow. He’s bound to, even though his exercise routine keeps him in good shape and his muscles open. For the most part at least, she chuckled under her breath. But... since he is tired enough to have fallen asleep there, maybe I shouldn’t wake him up... at least for a while... Let him rest for some time and then... then wake him...

Her eyes turned to the door of the sitting room that was next to the office. There’d be a closet where there were blankets and a few extra pillows. Which might have been unconventional for a sitting room, but... they had deemed it better to have them, in case of such situations. An afternoon nap.

Perhaps there lied a danger too. Because since they had blankets and pillows close by, a nap would be more tempting.

A terrible danger, really.

Another amusing thought.

She looked at her husband, still sleeping over the desk with a neutral expression.

Stay there, she thought, joked to herself, before making her way to the sitting room and to the closet from where she found a blanket. A part of her was thankful that they oiled all the hinges of the doors so well, and made sure that no floorboards were creaking.

Yes, of course, it made sense to make sure that it all was in the best condition, but... sometimes such little things could me missed. Especially if you’re only moving around during daytime, when small sounds such as those didn’t seem quite so apparent. While during night time, they were as if amplified. Which was why she was mindful to close the closet, and the door, as silently as possible, before tip-toeing to him.

Don’t nap for too long, she thought while opening the blanket in her hands. You’ll get a sore neck if you do...

She placed the blanket over him, around his shoulders with as little movement as possible, and leaned over him.

But as soon as she did, his eyes begun cracking open and a groggy hum left him.

“Mm... What time is it?” He asked, while trying to gather his senses. His tone was quiet, nearly distant, like he was trying to grab onto reality while still being partially asleep.

“Almost two..” she whispered back before leaning closer and pressing a tender kiss onto his temple. One that was warm and comforting; that held a promise of a soft, warm bed where he might rest with a smile on his face. And the knowledge that he wasn’t alone in the world. That he had someone with whom he could share his smiles and his sorrows just the same.

“Mmm...” he hummed again before taking a deep breath and leaning back in his seat. “Maybe I should call it a night...”

“Maybe,” she half teased, half smiled before placing another kiss on top of his head.

“Did the kids fall asleep?” He asked as he pushed back his chair and stood up, making a dragging sound, wood scraping against would, break through the otherwise silent room.

“After a while,” she replied with a hushed tone, almost as if she was still trying to be careful not to wake him. “I have the monitor with me, just in case too.”

“The monitor?” He frowned while looking at her. “Oh yes, yes,” he continued before pinching the bridge of his nose. “The device Ms. Rose of the Research Department gave us...”

“Yes,” she gave a small nod, during which her eyelids fell in a slow blink. “She is a good friend.”

He hummed in agreement while pushing his chair under the desk.

His expression was neutral, as if there were no thoughts running through it. Which was probably true from his state of fatigue.

“Ready for bed?” She suggested, half asked, while reaching for his hand.

“Yes,” he uttered, while taking her hand into his, and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll take a quick shower first.”

She gave him a nod, while taking a step back to lead him towards the door.

“I’ll keep the bed warm meanwhile,” she assured him while squeezing his hand.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he smiled to himself as his steps followed hers, easy and natural, like the flow of a river.

Like this was the only course he should take. As if this, squeezing her hand and following her to rest, was just like drawing breath.

As if the way back to their room was no journey at all, despite the winding, twisting and turning corridors of the castle where one could get lost in. Plenty of people did. And even him, admittedly, sometimes needed to think what might be the quickest route from one place to another. Still, after all these years of living there, he still needed to think from time to time.

But these steps, over which the silvery moonlight cascaded; the way it reflected from her hair, and embraced her form, as if she was some divine being brought to him in sleep rather than a mortal just like him... It felt like no time passed, as he followed her.

Time didn’t exist.

It was just the two of them.

It was just him, trusting that she’d lead him to the sanctity of their bedroom, where it was soft, warm and safe.

As if he wouldn’t have known the way.

But perhaps he would have stumbled in his drowsy state.

Perhaps, perhaps not. None could tell. For it was left in the sea of possibilities.

The sea that wasn’t important; that lost all meaning as they reached their room, as if in a dream.

The door was closed behind them, and he stopped, but didn’t let go of her hand as she tried to continue further into the room. But the stop created a tug, and the tug made her turn around with raised brows and hum out a question. A simple: “Hm?”

It was only then that he took a step closer, as if to step into her embrace, and pressed a kiss onto her forehead.

“Go to sleep, my love,” he whispered against her skin, letting the words glide over her like a river of warmth and tender affection. Like something so soft and gentle he couldn’t name, even if given a millenium to describe it. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he promised.

He always promised, and he always kept that promise.

“I can’t promise to stay awake for ten minutes,” she partly teased, partly joked, but mostly she told the truth.

“I’m not expecting it,” he hummed with an amused smile while pressing his head against hers. “You should sleep, if you’re tired,” he told her. “I’ll find my way to you.”

She smiled to him with closed eyes, not making a move to make her way to the bed.

“I always will,” he promised again. Yet another promised he intended to keep. Another promise he had always intended to keep. One that felt like it was a promise that he had made so many times before that he couldn’t count.

But would he need to? Count them? He didn’t deem it necessary.

“Go on, my love, I’ll be there soon,” he nudged her head with his, before slipping into the bathroom. And she slipped into bed in the meantime.

The covers were soft. A bit cold, but they’d warm soon enough.

She rolled onto her side, towards his pillow, and resisted the urge to pull the pillow closer so that she might bury her nose into it and breathe in his scent. Just like she resisted the urge to shift onto his side of the bed. Just like she resisted the urge to gather his side of the covers into her arms, so that she might feel him close to herself again.

All the things she resisted. And yet she could feel her consciousness slipping away.

Little by little, she was drifting into a sea of dreams.

But then again, she hadn’t promised to wait for him to get to bed. She trusted that he’d some soon.

Within ten minutes.

Even if those minutes felt like an eternity.

Or maybe one fifth of it.

A fraction.

The bed shifted next to her.

She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt heavy. Too heavy to open fully, but still her hand reached closer.

There was another kiss on her temple.

“Thank you for warming up the bed,” he whispered. But she could hear him loud and clear; his voice vibrated to her through her heartstrings, or perhaps the golden threads of fate that had spun into ropes. “I loved you,” he whispered again.

She smiled, must’ve smiled. Her hand took a hold if his. Fingers intwined together with his into a secure hold.

“[I love you],” he professed again, sounding a little more drowsy than a moment before.

“[And I love you,]” she replied with a hushed tone. “With all the days I have left,” she continued, not sure if he was still on the brink of the twilight zone, or already within a dream. “And even beyond it...”

She wasn’t sure if he’d hear, but she was sure that he knew. He knew, but still she needed to tell.

She’d always need to tell him. To remind him.

That she loved him too.

She’d always need to tell...

And through the darkness, her drowsy state, she could feel him squeeze her hand back.

[katy-l1988]

Chapter Two: The First Deal

Over the years, humanity multiplied immeasurably, resulting in an exponential increase in the number of souls ascending to both heaven and hell. However, in the Silver City, the understanding of the workings of the underworld was limited, and most inhabitants were only familiar with what they called the Ring of Pride. In this realm, Lucifer reigned over sinners and fallen angels, seemingly free to receive the supposed punishment they deserved. Lilith, with her indomitable spirit and musical talent, emerged as a source of hope for the forsaken of the underworld. Using her voice and music as weapons, she rallied the oppressed against those who had assigned them such a desolate fate.

Amidst the growing turmoil in the underworld, Sera, concerned with maintaining celestial balance, sought solutions to control what seemed to be an imminent uprising. She summoned a total of two angels, Carmilla and Adam, the latter of whom, despite being relatively new to that realm, already held an important position.

"My idea is simple and effective," Adam declared firmly. "Let's kill them all! We'll eliminate the threat, and when they reappear, we repeat the cycle."

Upon hearing this suggestion, Carmilla couldn't contain her indignation.

"But that's…That's inhumane!" she exclaimed vehemently. "How can you propose such atrocity, Adam? How can the progenitor of humanity wish to be so cruel to his own descendants?"

"It seems someone here has their emotions in a frenzy," Adam replied with a petulant tone and a mocking smile that disregarded Carmilla's indignation. "But what did you expect from a woman like you, dear Carmilla? Always so melodramatic and sensitive. It's no surprise you don't understand the logic behind my proposal. After all, feelings are for the weak, aren't they?"

"There are other ways, like dialogue," Carmilla insisted.

"Since when does the angel of war refuse to fight?" Adam retorted.

"The use of force is the last resort, and I will not order a massacre if I can avoid it," Carmilla replied firmly.

"But what other options are there? If they're down there, it's because they deserve it, plain and simple, they're beasts," Adam argued disdainfully.

"They're human souls, not beasts," Carmilla contradicted with determination.

"Look, sweetheart. I am the father of humanity. The first man created by God," Adam continued, seeking to provoke Carmilla. "I think I have the right to decide what happens to them, don't I?"

"You're despicable. You're not…!" Before Carmilla could finish, Sera raised her hand to silence her. "You can't take him seriously, dad..."

"Dad left me in charge, and it's me who must make the decision," Adam declared, showing not a hint of empathy towards his younger sister. "Adam, you'll take 100 angels with you to initiate the Extermination. Carmilla, you'll go with him to supervise."

Adam celebrated childishly, causing Carmilla to leave annoyed, slamming the door loudly before heading to her room.

"That lady sure knows how to kill the mood. She'll ruin everything," commented Adam.

"I know, and that's why you're going to fix it," Sera replied coldly.

After retreating, Carmilla needed a break, a moment to escape the tension and injustice she had witnessed in the celestial meeting. She decided to seek solace in the art she loved most: ballet. In a private space, away from prying eyes, Carmilla surrendered to the grace and beauty of dance. Her fluid and elegant movements filled the room as she danced with an expression of liberation on her face.

However, her peace was suddenly interrupted when Adam appeared in the doorway, without his usual mask. Surprise and confusion reflected in Carmilla's eyes as she abruptly stopped her dance.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, frowning at Adam.

He whistled, admiring the spectacle he had just interrupted, as if it were something worthy of his attention.

Adam's reaction sparked a flash of indignation in Carmilla. She hadn't noticed his presence before, but now, seeing him without his mask and watching her with disdain, she felt a surge of anger and contempt.

"What do you find so amusing?" she inquired, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh, nothing in particular. I just thought it would be interesting to see a seraphim dance so…sensually," Adam replied with a smirk. "Why don't you take off some clothes? I'd like to see one of God's finest creations naked."

Adam's words were even more provocative than Carmilla expected, and his disdain for her as a seraphim became even more apparent.

"You insolent pervert," Carmilla exclaimed, her voice resonating with contained fury. "You should show me a little more respect."

Adam, far from showing remorse, only widened his smirk, as if he enjoyed Carmilla's indignation.

"Oh, come on, Carmilla. Don't be so narrow-minded," he responded, with a lascivious look in his eyes as he stroked her silver hair. "Don't you know pleasure?

"Pleasure? All I feel when I see you is disgust," Carmilla replied incredulously, sharply pulling away Adam's hand from her hair. "You're unworthy of heaven, and I fear Sera is too indulgent in allowing you to be here."

Before she could articulate a protest, a sensation of numbness enveloped her, as if a thousand ice needles ran through her body, paralyzing her completely. Her senses slowly faded as what she believed could be poison took its nefarious effect. The last image she managed to grasp before plunging into darkness was Adam's sinister smile.

When she regained consciousness, she found herself enveloped in the unsettling darkness of the underworld, disoriented and stunned by the poison still coursing through her veins. She tried to move, but an overwhelming pressure on her back kept her immobilized. Then, a firm hand grabbed her hair and pulled her neck, causing a stabbing pain that made her gasp in anguish. A sense of helplessness and despair engulfed her as she struggled to understand how she had ended up there and what fate awaited her in the depths of hell.

"What do you think you're doing?" Carmilla asked with a heavy tongue, struggling to maintain clarity amidst the pain.

"I'm just following my boss's orders," he replied coldly, firmly grabbing one of her wings and exerting pressure that made her writhe in pain.

"Agh!" Carmilla let out a cry of agony as she felt her skin seem to peel away from her bones. "Please, stop!"

"It's too late to beg, bitch. By refusing to cooperate with the cause, you become our enemy," he said disdainfully, gripping the wing bone even tighter. "Your sister told me you loved your wings; let's see how you fare without them."

"No, please, don't…" Carmilla pleaded, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

With each tug, each tear, Carmilla felt as if her entire being was being ripped apart, fragmented into pieces. Agonizing screams escaped her lips as tears streamed from her eyes, soaking her face bruised from previous blows. Adam's mocking laughter, full of malice, echoed in her ears like a drum. Amidst her thoughts, the memory of the moment she ended Miguel's life, her mentor, surfaced. Now, as she suffered the loss of the most beautiful gift her father had given her, she convinced herself that this was punishment for her sin. The physical pain created a perfect storm threatening to consume her entirely. Amidst her screams and sobs, Carmilla clung to the hope that someday, somehow, she would find the strength to rise again. But in that moment, in the overwhelming darkness of hell, all she could feel was rage.

When Adam finally tore off the last wing from her back, he dropped it to the ground disdainfully, as if it were little more than a pile of refuse. Carmilla, weak and bleeding, writhed on the ground, feeling life slipping away with each beat of her heart. With her vision blurred by tears and pain, she turned upward only to see Adam and the exorcists walking away, leaving her behind to die in the darkness of hell. Fury flooded her as she watched helplessly as her tormentors walked away; did her Father truly care so little? With what little breath she had left, she crawled to lean against the wall of a building, vowing that someday, somehow, she would confront those who dared to humiliate her.

As she lay bleeding in the abyss, Carmilla felt her eyelids growing heavy again, enveloped in the growing darkness threatening to consume her entirely. In her state of weakness, amidst the shadows dancing in her blurred vision, she glimpsed a tall figure slowly approaching her. Carmilla's heart pounded as the figure drew near, her mind struggling to stay awake, but just before she could react, she fell into a deep unconsciousness from the pain.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself lying on a luxurious armchair in an elegant room, with a wide window letting in a reddish light. An imposing desk occupied the center of the room, delicately carved with peculiar symbols. She brought a hand to her forehead, trying to remember how she had ended up there, though the ache prevented her from thinking. As she moved, she felt the pressure of an improvised tourniquet around her chest, abruptly bringing her back to reality as she felt her wings missing. Cautiously, she sat up, feeling a slight stabbing pain with each movement.

"It's better if you stay still, dear," a deep voice spoke. She turned her head to her right, seeing the same silhouette that had picked her up. "It's me, Carmilla."

"Zestial?" She looked at him closely, still able to distinguish his green eyes amidst his darkened skin. "You saved me? Why?"

"Why wouldn't I?" His response was unexpected. "We're in the same boat after all."

Before she could ask another question, a familiar voice resonated from the desk, sending a shiver down her spine.

"Hello, sis…" From the shadows of the chair, a pair of red eyes revealed themselves. "We have much to talk about."

"L-Lucifer," she barely managed to pronounce, fearing that Sera's stories about the corruption of souls were true. "Why did you bring me here? What do you want from me?"

For a moment, fear invaded Carmilla's heart, fearing the worst as she found herself face to face with Lucifer. However, instead of violence or reproach, Lucifer stood up and encircled Carmilla with his arms.

"How did you end up here? You should be in heaven, you should be safe." When she looked into his eyes, she could see the changes that darkness had wrought upon him.

"Sera ordered Adam to bring me here. They were displeased with me for not supporting their absurd extermination plan." She sat carefully, putting her sore feet on the carpet. "How are things down here? I see… you have been some changes."

She couldn't take her eyes off Zestial, who among the two angels, was almost unrecognizable. He had once been such a beautiful being; his skin seemed as sweet as chocolate, and his scent was just as exquisite. His eyes were two green valleys, full of life and peace. And his voice, as deep as the sound of a cello, yet so warm. Now, although his appearance had changed, his essence remained intact.

Zestial had been a safe haven for Carmilla. His embraces were the sanctuary where she could find peace and comfort, an oasis amidst the disaster. In contrast, Miguel, with his fierce temper and relentless focus on war, often left Carmilla feeling exhausted. Her encounters with Miguel were like facing a violent storm, while being with Zestial was like watching a swan glide on the calm waters of a serene lake.

"Things are complicated," Lucifer replied, breaking the silence that had settled in the room. "We're stuck down here as you can see, and everything is governed by the law of the jungle. Lilith took control for a while, but we can see now that her work didn't yield the fruits she expected."

"Wait, are you saying she's the one who caused all this mess? I thought you were the ruler of hell, why didn't you set her straight?"

"Oh, Carmilla. That woman scares me more than I do."

"I hope you're not talking about me," Lilith entered then.

Carmilla observed Lilith cautiously as she entered the room, feeling a twinge of tension in the air. Their gazes met, and in that moment, the world seemed to stop, as if time itself had frozen around them. In Lilith's eyes, Carmilla could see a flash of defiance, a spark of power that reminded her why she was the ruler of hell. On the other hand, in Carmilla's eyes, Lilith detected a mixture of determination and distrust, a silent warning that intimidating her wouldn't be easy.

For a moment, neither woman looked away, each assessing the other with an intensity that could be felt in the air. It was as if they were in the midst of a silent duel, each seeking weaknesses in the other as they prepared for the inevitable confrontation that would surely come.

"Do you remember my sister?"

"Of course, she's the one who saved my beloved husband," Lilith said as she caressed Lucifer's head. "And tell me, did you misbehave again, little angel? Who did you kill to finally be sent to this hole?"

Carmilla kept her gaze steady, resisting the urge to stand up and confront her.

"I haven't killed anyone without reason," Carmilla replied firmly, meeting Lilith's penetrating gaze. "My actions are justified."

Lilith smiled with a mix of sarcasm and superiority, as if she were enjoying the power play between them.

"That's what they all say, isn't it? But words are cheap, dear. Everyone who comes here carries their sins."

Carmilla clenched her fists, feeling the rage bubbling beneath the surface. She wouldn't let Lilith make her lose control.

"It's worth it if I can protect the ones I love," she said with determination, her voice resonating with

a strength that surprised even herself.

"I would be disappointed if it weren't so," the blonde woman approached Carmilla cautiously, knowing that even weakened, she could fight. "Come, we need to fix you up a bit. A face as sweet as yours won't be well-received on the streets."

Carmilla nodded, aware that she didn't have many options at that moment. Although she distrusted Lilith, she knew she needed her support. She got up from the armchair carefully, feeling the sharp pain with each movement. Lilith offered her a supporting arm, and together they left the main room towards a long hallway filled with portraits. Silence reigned between them as they walked, each step echoing in the corridor's emptiness until they reached an imposing door adorned with golden details. Lilith opened it with a fluid movement, revealing a luxurious room decorated in dark and opulent tones. Black velvet furniture and red silk curtains created a theatrical atmosphere, while an imposing mirror occupied one wall, reflecting Carmilla's battered image with ruthless clarity.

Without saying a word, Lilith led Carmilla to the bathroom, where water ran in a black marble bathtub. With gentle but sure movements, she helped Carmilla undress, feeling her skin shudder as she touched the bruised and wounded areas.

"Ow, ow, ow…" Carmilla moaned as Lilith helped her into the shower, feeling the hot water hitting her battered skin. "It's… boiling."

"Stop complaining, girl. You need to clean those wounds," Lilith responded impatiently, adjusting the water temperature until it was more bearable.

"Don't talk to me like that. I'm older than you."

"For a day."

Carmilla gritted her teeth as the hot water began to soothe her tense muscles, but she couldn't help but sigh with relief when the pain began to ease a bit. It was then that Lilith took some shampoo, and Carmilla felt a shiver as she felt Lilith's cold fingers on her head. Instinctively, she recoiled, fearful of any unexpected contact after all she had been through. However, Lilith stopped her movement and looked at Carmilla with a compassionate expression in her eyes.

"I shouldn't have done that," Lilith said softly. "Let me wash your hair, blood is hard to remove. Besides, those wounds need to be disinfected and bandaged before the flesh becomes contaminated."

Carmilla hesitated for a moment, struggling against the feeling of vulnerability that invaded her. Finally, she relented, realizing she needed to set aside her pride at that moment.

"Okay," Carmilla whispered, nodding her head and allowing Lilith to continue with her task.

With delicate movements, Lilith began to massage the shampoo into Carmilla's hair, working carefully to clean each strand and remove any trace of blood and dirt. Despite her initial caution, Carmilla began to relax under Lilith's gentle touches, feeling the tension slowly dissipating.

Once Carmilla was clean and dry, Lilith set about finding a suitable dress among the garments she had in the wardrobe. As she searched through the elegant fabrics, she mentioned casually:

"These dresses are a bit long for you; we'll have to go see Rosie once you're ready." Carmilla raised an eyebrow.

"Rosie? Who's Rosie?"

Lilith smiled knowingly as she selected a short skirt dress.

"She's the best seamstress in hell. If you need anything tailored, she's the one to go to. You'll love meeting her."

Carmilla tried on the dress Lilith had chosen for her: a daring design with a plunging neckline, short skirt, and striking red color. She looked at herself in the mirror and couldn't help but frown, feeling uncomfortable with the idea of wearing something so different from what she was used to. This was paired with a black velvet shawl and white boots.

Lilith watched her with a smile, leading Carmilla in front of the mirror, skillfully taking her hair to create two locks that simulated horns. When Lilith finished, she took some makeup, and the angel began to transform into something darker. The lashes that once stood out with a bright blue now looked dull and lifeless, while her lips, once full of vitality, now appeared pale and expressionless. The gaze returned by the mirror no longer reflected the spark of determination and goodness that used to illuminate her eyes, but rather a shadow of uncertainty and resignation.

Then, the Queen of Hell handed her a black mask, ensuring that no sign of her true nature would be visible to the sinners. Carmilla watched this with doubts, her hands trembling at the mere idea of ​​giving up everything she was. What would her father think if he saw her like this? How would he feel if he saw her renounce her identity?

"I know it will be hard for you to get used to at first, but in hell, you must learn to hide your weaknesses if you want to survive."

When the angel looked up to see Lilith's reflection, she could notice a malicious gleam in her eyes.

"And speaking of hiding things." She turned, ready to fight if necessary. "Tell me once and for all what you want from me. I know your games, one favor for another."

"Nothing escapes you, does it?" She took a seat on her bed. "I want to propose a little deal."

"What kind?" Carmilla frowned, feeling she was entering dangerous territory from which she didn't know if she could emerge unscathed.

"Manufacturing and selling weapons, dear." Lilith's response was direct, without hesitation. "Your expertise as the Angel of War makes you the only one capable of carrying out this project."

"And how would you benefit from that? I doubt you'd put me in charge of a company without asking for something in return."

"Oh, Carmilla, always so astute." Lilith smiled enigmatically, not revealing her true intentions. "Let's just say the benefits would be long-term."

After weighing the pros and cons, Carmilla decided that Lilith's deal was convenient. Although she distrusted the hidden motivations of the Queen of Hell, she recognized that this partnership could offer her a unique opportunity to establish herself in her new and forced home. Plus, she didn't want to depend entirely on Lucifer for her sustenance; she preferred to take control of her destiny and forge her own path in the underworld.

"All right, I accept the deal," she said. "But consider that my soul will always be mine, and I will never answer to your family's commands."

Lilith nodded with a satisfied smile, apparently pleased with Carmilla's response.

"Of course, the last thing I want is your soul. You will always have your own will."

Carmilla extended her hand to Lilith, who took it firmly in a handshake; the deal had been sealed.

[hit-song-showdown]

Year-End Poll #31: 1980

[Image description: a collage of photos of the 10 musicians and musical groups featured in this poll. In order from left to right, top to bottom: Blondie, Pink Floyd, Olivia Newton-John, Michael Jackson, Captain & Tennille, Queen, Paul McCartney, Lipps Inc, Billy Joel, Bette Midler. End description]

More information about this blog here

From here on, I know that the number of people who follow this blog who were around to see these songs on the charts will increase exponentially. To be honest, I am very intimidated. Please be nice to me.

The 1970's exists in a weird time in pop culture history, because it really feels like an island. Any decade that begins with the Beatles breaking up and ends with the murder of John Lennon is going to exist in a strange place culturally. Combine that with the previously mentioned decline of disco, the simultaneous rise in inflation and unemployment, and President Carter's declining popularity leading to Ronald Reagan's landslide victory. It was clear that whatever the next decade was, it wasn't going to be like the 70s.

But during this year, Reagan wasn't in office, so I don't have to talk about that yet.

Musically, you can see the last bits of the 70's clinging on. Disco, despite being famously "killed off" still has its place on the charts. Funkytown, for example, is often brought up in pop culture mythology as being the "last big disco song". I'm mostly bringing it up because I feel bad that I had to crop the song's composer, Steven Greenberg, out of the banner. The one good thing about the charts moving away from orchestras and ensembles is that I don't have to worry about cropping people out.

But in addition to the endings, the dawn of the 1980's also comes with its new beginnings. For one, Michael Jackson's solo career will take him from the standout star of the Jackson 5, to the king of pop music itself.

I talked a bit about the rise of punk rock in the 70's, but I didn't go into that much detail because the scene didn't have much presence on the charts. The Clash may have been "The Only Band That Matters", but that wasn't the case to the data compiling the Hot 100. However, while punk rock has seen little mainstream success on the charts, several of its descendants will come to define this decade. Most notable here is Blondie, kicking off the decade with one of its first new wave hits. This movement will only continue to grow from here, especially when we get to the second British Invasion, as well as pop music becoming more image-focused during the MTV era.

Which means I will no longer struggle to find pictures of the artists features in these polls.

[sf-images]

Earth Day 2024

April 21, 2024, update: . . . " the average global temperature on Earth has increased by at least 1.2° Celsius (1.9° Fahrenheit) since 1880 (it increased 0.4° Celsius since 2016). There is only 0.3° Celsius of increase left before we hit the first tier of cataclysmic thresholds, according to environmental scientists.

According to an ongoing temperature analysis led by scientists at NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS), "the average global temperature on Earth has increased by at least 1.2° Celsius (1.9° Fahrenheit) since 1880 (it increased 0.4° Celsius since 2016). The majority of the warming has occurred since 1975, at a rate of roughly 0.15 to 0.20°C per decade. . . . . The data reflect how much warmer or cooler each region was compared to the base period of 1951-1980. (The global mean surface air temperature for that period was 14°C (57°F), with an uncertainty of several tenths of a degree.)"

Adding to this is the growing number of methane sinkholes, each releasing several gigatons of gas per day. This growing phenomenon is changing all the current climate projections. Indeed, we might already have reached the climate tipping point.

There was a time when we believed that we were the center of the universe and that we should have dominion over the Earth. But then Copernicus came along, who asserted that the Sun is indeed the center of our solar system, the Moon being the only body that revolved around the Earth. I'm sure you know that this resulted in a bit of an uproar. As for the dominion idea, our use of resources, overhunting, and factory farming of animals has contributed to climate change and the current sixth extinction. Watch Marvin Gaye's video, Mercy, Mercy Me (The Ecology), released in 1971.

The following two photos show a contrast between Greenland's Tunu Glacier in 1933 and 2013. This melt-back is characteristic of ice all around the world, though melt-back varies widely, depending on location.

Source:

The Greenland Ice Sheet - 80 years of climate change seen from the air.

/ Bjørk, Anders Anker; Kjær, Kurt H.; Larsen, Nicolaj Krog; Kjeldsen, Kristian Kjellerup; Khan, Shfaqat Abbas; Funder, Svend Visby; Korsgaard, Niels Jákup. 2014. Abstract from 44th International Arctic Workshop, Boulder, Colorado, United States.

It wasn't so long ago that Carl Sagan and climate scientists started sounding the alarm that we were going down a dangerous path. Subsequent climate data has revealed that those early projections vastly underestimated what was happening, since we now know that climate change is not a linear but an exponential process. That is, it happens faster and faster over time.

Via Voyager 1 (click to enlarge)

The now famous photograph of Earth as a pale blue dot was taken on February 14, 1990 by the deep space probe, Voyager 1, from a record distance of about 6 billion kilometers (3.7 billion miles). The more recent

Via Cassini

photograph was taken by the deep space probe, Cassini. Though more striking with Saturn in the foreground, it also shows how Earth is but a spec in the cosmos. As Sagan said in his book: Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. (Carl Sagan, The Pale Blue Dot, 1994)

People often say we have to save the Earth. Not so! The Earth will go on just fine without us. The issue is preserving the current biosphere that supports us and the other higher vertebrates. There will always be life on the planet so long as there's liquid water. As I present every year, here is my fictionalized account of our worst scenario. Let's do better!

[indeedcaptain]

Spirktober 2023, day 14: Double Kirk

What if transporter malfunctions... were sexy?

Also posted on AO3 here!

☆☆☆

Engineer Scott’s voice crackled over the comm. “Mr. Spock, we’ve got him, but ye might want to come down here for a moment.” 

Ice trickled down Spock’s spine. He did not hold the same fear of transporters that the good doctor did, but McCoy’s insistence upon bringing up the statistics surrounding transporter malfunctions had been unfortunately trapped in his memory. 

“Mr. Sulu, you have the conn,” Spock said, and departed the bridge with as much stoicism as he could muster. 

☆☆☆

Spock arrived in the transporter room, bracing himself to administer immediate medical attention to his Jim or support to McCoy. He was not prepared to find two Jims and a Mr. Scott talking casually by the transporter controls. Spock halted and straightened. 

“Captain,” he said to the nearest one. Then he turned to the other. “Captain.” The further one laughed. 

“Mr. Scott, I thought you fixed this issue twenty-three months ago.” 

“Aye, Mr. Spock. But something must have come unjiggered in the refit, and, well…” He gestured to the captains. “Obviously it will need to be fixed again. It will take less time than before, since I know what to do, but it’ll still be a good hour or so.” 

“I see.” Spock considered. “The appearance of two captains disturbed the crew the first time. I do not believe it wise to repeat the experience.” 

“I would agree, Mr. Spock,” one of the Jims said. “Would you mind escorting me to my quarters?” 

“Certainly, captain,” Spock said, and turned to Mr. Scott. “Thank you, commander. Will you inform us when the transporter is ready for returning Captain Kirk to his standard form?”

“Aye, Mr. Spock,” Mr. Scott said. “Apologies, captain.” 

“None necessary, Scotty,” the two captains said. Mr. Scott shuddered. Spock ushered them out into the transporter before he could unsettle the engineer to distraction. 

☆☆☆

Spock sat across from the Jims in his preferred armchair, a chess set mostly ignored between them. “I am intrigued, captain. The last time this occurred, the personality difference between the two yourselves was quite stark. Yet both of you seem reasonably aligned with your standard person.” 

One of the Jims grinned, and the flash of his teeth in the semi-darkness reminded Spock of a wild animal. The other Jim said, “The difference, I think, is not one that most besides you would recognize.” 

“What difference is that?” 

The Jims looked at each other, and Spock realized that the number of schemes that Jim could percolate on his own had increased exponentially. Two of himself, in alignment, without the cognitive dissonance and unhappiness that had marked the first separation, seemed like a dangerous equation. The tension in the room shifted, and Spock felt an involuntary pilomotor reflex raise bumps over his skin. 

One of the Jims reached across the table, fingers extended, and Spock met them with his own. The other said, “Spock, you know that you are my only love.” 

Spock could not prevent himself from quipping, “Aside from the Enterprise, captain.” One Jim outright laughed, and the other smirked. 

“Sure,” Jim agreed. “But I mean that our relationship is monogamous.” 

“This is true,” Spock said. His predictions for where this conversation had been going were now all incorrect. He and Jim were monogamous, yes, but he was unsure what that had to do with the two Jims in front of him. 

“And I was your first,” Jim said. Spock inclined his head. “So you’ve never been with more than one person at once.” 

“You know this also to be true, Jim,” Spock said quietly. His lack of experience did not come up frequently, and after almost a year of being together he was unsure why it was relevant now.

“Would you be interested in learning what that felt like?” 

Spock blinked. The concept of group sex had not factored into his predictions whatsoever. He was aware of the idea, but the sexual aspect had not appealed to him before Jim and the group aspect had become unappealing after Jim. “I am uninterested in intimacy with anyone but you,” he said. 

“I know,” said Jim. His smile was sweet and loving. “You wouldn’t have to be with anyone but me.” Spock’s eyes widened. One Jim stood up and walked behind him, and he felt Jim trail his fingertips up his arm, over his shoulder, and trace the pointed line of his ear. The other Jim approached Spock, pushing the coffee table out of the way. That Jim knelt at Spock’s feet, resting his hands on his knees, as the other wrapped a hand around his throat from behind. 

“You’re the only person that knows both of us right now,” the kneeling Jim said, voice warm and quiet. 

“The difference between us,” the other Jim said, applying gentle pressure to Spock’s throat, “is that one of us wants to be dominated, and the other wants to dominate you.” Through the contact of both of their hands, Spock felt the different headspaces that he had come to love from Jim. There were times when Jim needed Spock to be in control; needed someone to take control from him so that he could shed the weight of responsibility, be cared for and controlled, so that he no longer had to be the captain. Then there were times when Jim needed to control Spock, needed to have unfettered access to every inch of him and utter control over contact and arousal and orgasm, to have the physical proof of Spock’s faith and trust in him in his hands. 

“I…” Spock said, and he trailed off. Jim (both Jims) consented. He was asking what Spock wanted. Spock was not opposed to threesomes, as a rule: merely to sharing Jim with others. As a scientist, he had not made a habit of saying no to new experiences.

A threesome with two Jims would mean that he could experience group sex without having to allow others into his relationship. It would also mean twice as much Jim: more hands, more tongues, and more opportunities to make Jim climax while screaming Spock’s name. In the end, it was only logical to agree.

The kneeling Jim pushed his legs apart and he let his thighs spread as Jim nuzzled at him through his pants. Standing Jim pushed harder on his throat, pulling him backwards against him, making Spock arch up off the chair. 

“God, you’re so pretty with your mouth open,” the dominant Jim said, staring down at him. “Get undressed. I don’t want us to run out of time.” 

☆☆☆

Spock was on his back with his hands tied down, head resting on one Jim’s thighs as the other meticulously removed every layer of his control with his fingers and mouth against his cock. The seated Jim ran fingernails over Spock’s palms and down his fingers, sliding his own fingers into Spock’s mouth. 

He was on his knees in front of one of them. 

He was fucking into one while the other watched. 

He was on his back, being fucked, while the other watched. 

He was sliding between them, lips against his back, lips against his, Jim’s thigh sliding between his. He was grinding between them both as they teased his hands, stroked his hair, touched him, loved him, until he couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.

☆☆☆

The psychic and physical overstimulation had driven everything but Spock’s desire to feel Jim against him far from his mind, and when he heard the comm in Jim’s wall buzz he snarled at it. Jim laughed at him, and one of them rolled out of bed, out of his grasp, to answer the message. 

“Kirk here.” 

“Aye, captain. Sorry for the delay, but the transporter’s all fine now. Should be able to get you fixed up in a jiffy if you head down.” 

“Thank you, Scotty. We’ll be down in a moment. Kirk out.” He looked over his shoulder to where the other Jim and Spock still lay tangled in Jim’s sheets. 

“Well, Mr. Spock? Any commentary on the situation?” 

“I am unwilling to see it to end, captain,” Spock said, and he reached out from the edge to grab the other Jim and tug him back to bed. Jim acquiesced, and for another moment he lay between them, feeling their heartbeats against his skin on either side. As his critical thinking skills returned from wherever Jim had convinced them to hibernate, he breathed in the smell of his Jim and sat up. He brushed a hand over one’s cheek, then the other’s hair, before sliding out of the bed to put his clothes back on. “No matter the number of bodies you find yourself split into, captain, all of you is mine.” The Jims slid back into uniforms, smoothing their hair down and tugging boots on, before coming up to Spock and wrapping their arms around him. He put one arm on each of their shoulders and held them tightly to him before letting them go. 

As they stepped into the hallway, he said, “What was the memory transference like last time? Do you maintain everything?” 

“I do, Mr. Spock,” one of the Jim’s said, and the other winked. They arrived at the transporter room and the Jims stepped onto the pad. 

“See you in a moment, gentlemen,” one said, and the other smiled. Mr. Scott sent the Jims away, and when he brought them back, there was only the one. 

But he was still Jim, and when Mr. Scott left to attend other matters Jim kissed him and within him Spock felt multitudes.

[dominickeating-source]

DREAMWATCH Issue #111 (2003)

As the revamped third year of the newly retitled STAR TREK:ENTERPRISE gets underway, DOMINIC KEATING offers his verdict on the season's opening episodes and tells dreamwatch what it's like to be Lieutenant Malcolm Reed in the middle of a struggle between the Xindi and the Enterprise crew. Words: Ian Spelling

REED ALERT!

Dominic Keating likes the new direction Enterprise is taking. Sending Captain Archer and the crew into the Delphic Expanse, adding commando-like troops known as MACOs to their number, introducing the mysterious Xindi, and increasing the action have resulted in what he feels is a better show, especially judging by season three's opening episode.

'I've been very, very pleased by all the changes and the results,' says Keating, who's back on board the Enterprise as Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. 'I thought our first episode back, The Xindi, was great. I probably shouldn't say this, but I'm not really a great fan of action, visual effects entertainment. It's not the sort of thing that generally floats my boat, to be honest. But I've got to tell you that I was really excited by The Xindi. I loved the incarnation of the foremen [Stephen McHattie] we encountered when we tried to find the Xindi prisoner. I thought he was an absolute revelation. When i went in to do the looping [audio recording] and saw what he'd done I called [co-creators/executive producers] Rick Berman and Brannon Braga and said, 'More of that, please!' The episode had fantastic sets and was beautifully lit and it kept me on the edge of my seat - and I knew what was going to happen.

'The second episode [Anomaly] wasn't quite as extraordinary, but for those who love visuals I thought some of the special effects - the coffee floating in the air, the warp drive fritzing and the electrical waves sparking out - were extraordinary. It was a nice episode for setting the audience up for the kinds of anomalies we're going to meet in this Delphic Expanse.

'Episode three is Extinction. That's a good show. We had a lot of fun making that,' he says, referring to the episode which sees Captain Archer, Hoshi and Reed transformed into members of an alien race. 'As actors, it was terrific to devise whole physical and vocal characteristics on the spot. It was quite a bonding experience for me, Scott [Bakula, Captain Archer] and Linda [Park, Hoshi]. I know there were some worries about how it was going to look, but I saw [director] LeVar Burton and he was very pleased. I haven't seen the final episode, but I think I'll like it. The make-up was murderous, mate, but I have to say it was very effective. I hated the prosthetics. I get very claustrophobic and have very sensitive Irish skin which doesn't like the solvents that take all the glue off. After five days my poor face looked like a blob. I look at [Phlox actor] John Billingsley with all new respect.

'So, all things considered, we're in good shape,' he notes. 'The ratings haven't been extraordinary, but they've been robust and healthy and better than they were, especially given that we don't enjoy a lot of promotion.'

Fighting Fit

Malcolm Reed hasn't changed much at all as a result of the revamp. He remains the same character who played key roles in the show's first season episodes Shuttlepod One and Two Days and Two Nights, and season two's Minefield, The Communicator, Singularity and The Crossing. And despite the introduction of the MACOs, Reed remains the ship's tactical officer and still likes to blow stuff up - although now he does get to blow more stuff up!

'I've had a lot more action and running around with guns and stuff since the changes were implemented,' he says. 'We're all there at Paramount more than we ever were. My workload has gone up exponentially. The days have been longer and I've had less time to pick up my dry cleaning, go to the gym, go to the bank and do other things. It's a lot of hours. And that's because it takes longer to do an action scene than a talking scene. There's more shooting involved. There are more camera moves. You shoot action scenes, usually, in smaller pieces and the scene is put together in the editing room.

'We're about to shoot an episode that's like a Western [North Star], and we're going over to the Universal backlot to do that one. But what I'm doing hasn't changed so much. It's not like they've overhauled Malcolm or taken him to another level. There's just been more for me to do. I think I have an episode coming up in which I'll be infiltrating the Xindi Council, so that should be fun.'

While the introduction of the MACOs initially looked set to be a continual source of conflict between Reed and their leader, Major Hayes [Steven Culp], Keating reports that the dispute has been downplayed during the new season's opening instalments. 'There is a little tension. I don't think Malcolm's particularly happy in some respects,' he explains. 'But I think professionally he understands that they need to be there.'

Naturally, Enterprise's overhaul has been widely interpreted as a sign that the show is in trouble. When asked if he felt the changes were necessary, Keating pauses for thought before responding.

'It probably was, all things said and done,' he admits. 'I do think that somewhere in the second season, out of the 26 episodes there were four or so that weren't very good. And it only takes four or so that aren't very good to cause a problem. Scott and I had a big conversation about this, and I don't mean to give myself any airs and graces, but we talked about the nature of episodic television and the challenge of wrapping up an episode each week neatly and happily within an hour's confines. That's tricky, particularly after so many years of writing Star Trek stories. So I think they were right to think of a season, at least, where each episode is joined and has an arc, so there's a story for the audience to follow. It's in the nature of 24, and ER has had major arcs at times that are like this.

'I think putting us in the Delphic Expanse and having us chase the Xindi is a clever move for keeping an audience interested. People don't mind missing an episode or two or even three if they know it's just a particular episode. But if they miss an episode in an arc of episodes that has a story that interests them and has got them on the edge of their chairs somewhat, then they're missing something any time they miss an episode. So, when you've got a high stakes arc, they'll be more inclined to make sure that they watch it. And, hopefully, they'll watch us.'

To Boldly Go On?

In the wake of Star Trek:Enterprise's revamp, Dominic Keating feels a renewed sense of enthusiasm about the show's future. He also reports that the mood on the show's set has lifted tremendously this season.

'I can't say there wasn't a kind of quicksand feeling for a while,' acknowledges the actor. 'I'm a bit of a worrier, definitely, and I got a little worried. The seven-year contract we signed was not as secure as it seemed when we signed it. I started thinking, "Bloody Hell!"

'I think we are going to run. I can't see Viacom letting this just dribble down the drain. I go to conventions and talk to the fans. There's such a groundswell of support for this show. Yeah, they bitch a bit about continuity and stuff that niggles them, but all in all if you ask them, "Do you want to have a show or don't you want to have a show?" they'd rather have a show.

'Right now, all of us on Enterprise are feeling OK. The [US] ratings for The Xindi matched the ratings for [second season finale] The Expanse. The ratings for the second episode were up there too. I don't want to get too much into the politics of the franchise and its relationship with the network because these are conversations I'm just not privy to. We just want to do the best work we can and hope people will tune us in.'

Source: www.dominickeating.com

[i-write-hurt-not-comfort]

i finally updated my diabolik lovers character tier list!! 

so first of all, this was my previous one, which i made juuuust over a year ago. 

but obviously my opinions change as i read different routes, think about characters more/less, and the way in which i write them and the depth i explore their relationships and issues also shapes my favourites list. AAAAAAND here’s my new one. 

some ramblings about my choices under the cut: 

- kou always gets his own category, and it would take a lot to knock ruki out of my number 2 spot

- reiji has gone up the most because honestly?? i used to not be too fascinated by him but i have very slowly seen his character in more and more depth, his lost eden and chaos lineage really changed me, youngblood made me think about him, and the way i’ve written him and ruki soooo much has also allowed me to explore his character. so i’ve become really obsessed with reiji and i think about him like, daily 

- i am also FIERCELY protective over azusa now, his chaos lineage also Changed me and i’ve really come to love him, i’ve had a lot of fun writing him too. i think azusa is quite a special character compared to everyone else as well, i find myself really quick to defend him 

- i’m really sorry for knocking subaru out of my top 3, especially when i love subakou so much but i can’t say i go out of my way to find subaru content on his own like i do with reiji, ruki and azusa

- i feel like ayato and yui sit really nicely there, i appreciate them both a lot and i love writing ayato especially

- it’s a shame laito dropped so many places but his routes are really lonely, i went through a MAD laito phase, wrote that 36k words, 10 chapter drug addict fic of him and i’m glad i did, but the amount that i think about him has definitely dropped 

- i’m sorry that shu and yuma are always so low, my love for them increases exponentially when i think about them together and in the context of reiji aka the arson trio 

- yes, shin is now loved. azushinkino has helped me, and reading shin’s lost eden and chaos lineage was the best decision i ever made 

- i still hate kanato and carla, sorry not sorry 

[sasquatchsightings]

Adding my two cents:

On the one hand, I get that they need to make the game approachable for new people. You don’t want characters spouting off proper nouns all over the place without proper context. And with it being a decade later, there are some choices that can be negated or left out as not being important. I’m not denying that. (I will set aside how many people I’ve seen streaming the series on Twitch and posting vids of their first playthrough on Twitter, due to comparisons to BG3, but I feel like there are plenty of newbies who are CURRENTLY in the process of becoming fans who are going to be very salty when they get their shiny new copy of DATV.)

Plus I feel they want to create as much of a clean cut as they can from the original trilogy to avoid what I’m calling the Pokemon Problem. Pokémon’s issue with its premise is that if each game is in a new area and new areas necessitate new characters (ie the Pokemon) to interact with as the main gameplay mechanic, then they can either make each region totally separate or constantly add about 100 new ‘mons to the roster every generation and have to juggle an exponentially growing number of possible team combinations. Dragon Age logistically can’t keep giving us ever more complicated branching paths for an ever increasing number of blorbos without spending a huge amount of dev time trying to write just those paths and how to give players an update on all those quantum characters.

But to give us so little to tie over when responsiveness to player choice has always been a key aspect of the series is bonkers. The excuse I keep seeing is “it’s 10 years later and we’re in the North, so nothing we did matters.” Excuse me, but the Waking Sea isn’t a fucking Iron Curtain. Orlais is a political powerhouse who trades with literally everyone, and the legacy of Queen Asha of Antiva ensures that all the ruling families are both connected by politics and by blood.

And to say those choices don’t matter means we won’t so much as get a Codex entry or an NPC conversion about what happened in regards to our choices without it being written in the most neutral, passive language. Like, if we’re in Nevarra, it would be pretty conspicuous for no one anywhere to comment on their neighboring country if a war hawk is on the throne or if they’ve radically changed their stance on elves.

Not to mention that “the North” isn’t just Tevinter. Antiva, Nevarra, and allegedly Rivain are all part of the SOUTHERN Chantry, so who is Divine still applies. You can’t tell me that a softened Leliana reacted to the invasion of Qunari in Antiva and responded in the exact same way as she would have had she been hardened, and in the same way as Cassandra AND Vivienne. And you can’t tell we spent all that time getting her elected only for her to abdicate the throne in under 10 years. 

The Morrigan thing, I can see how they can bend the lore to make the Well not matter, if maybe the effect was temporary due to Flemmeth dying, but it still would beg the question how Morrigan gained all her knowledge. If she doesn’t drink from the Well, she never becomes fluent in elvish. If she does, that is what gives her the ability to turn into a dragon, so if she does that in a world where she didn’t drink, that will be odd. And many people have brought up how she is going to be “surprisingly involved” in the story, so that also begs the question of where is Kieren.

And another thing! One of the choices is who you romanced, but there isn’t anything about their fate. This is probably fine for a few of the romance options, but several of them have the chance to end in tragedy, especially Bull, Cullen, and Blackwall. Plus Cassandra can be a romance option AND the Divine. If we meet the Inquisitor and they talk about loving Cassandra, is no one going to bring up that “Hey, Cassandra Pentaghast? Isn’t that Divine Victoria’s proper name?” To me, the only way of squaring this is that the romance option question is stealthily just asking “did you romance Solas: yes or no?” And I get that he’s popular in the fandom, but people who haven’t been rabidly talking about the egg for the past decade probably just remember him as the nerdy elf who turns out to be the guy who started all the bad stuff in DAI, because his romance is locked behind a subset of a subset of a subset of the players. So making two of the three choices exclusive to his story is…a choice.

Folks, I gotta be real with you: Yes I too am disappointed that there aren't more choices carrying over in The Veilguard from the last three games, but I think the current fandom rage is a little over the top. It's not the end of the world. Can we just take a breath for a second and remember that this new game is set in Northern Thedas, where 99% of decisions made in Southern Thedas ten or more more years ago of course aren't going to matter, if you think about it? And on a meta level, I imagine the goal is to make this game as friendly as possible to brand new players, not out of spite towards existing fans.

[radiant-reid]

The Gingerbread Competition

Summary: A gingerbread competition gets serious at the Reids

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (fluff)

Word Count: 1.1k

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Like many families, the Reids have traditions. They have the normal ones, like the birthday boy or girl gets to pick whatever they want for dinner, but they also have... unique ones.

It would be easy to see the annual gingerbread decorating competition as a normal tradition. It's pretty typical for families to do, but like everything about them, the tradition is odd.

"Which kid are you picking?" Spencer asks, walking into the bedroom to see his wife pulling on a Christmas-themed sweater.

It's only 8 am, but the game has begun. And it's a serious game. It started years ago when they first got together. Spencer felt like he wasn't bringing enough to the relationship with his minimal familiar traditions, so he made her a gingerbread house, just as she was making her own for him.

As naturally competitive people, a contest broke out, and the bragging rights and accolades exponentially increased.

It's Y/n's turn to get the first pick this year, and she's been training the troop of children to ensure she wins, and takes the crown from Spencer. "Morgan." She decides.

It's a quick choice. Outperforming her siblings by age and the smallest number of legos put in her mouth this year, Morgan Reid brings dedication and competitiveness to the table. Plus, she's interested in chemistry like her dad, perfect for a baking challenge.

"Who's your first pick?" She prompts, stepping closer to him so they're toe-to-toe in the middle of the bedroom.

"Toby." He chooses.

As expected. "Oh, I know all about your secrets, Reid." She says, pointing a finger at his chest. "Getting him that bridge building set for his birthday, training up your own gingerbread structural engineer."

Spencer doesn't deny it, knowing he's been caught. "Yes because I know you would pick Morgan, so I figured why not build my own secret weapon?"

She laughs at his description of their sweet five-year-old boy. "I'm taking Eden."

He gasps, recoiling in mock shock. "Ouch. That's low, Reid. Taking my little baby."

"You call them all your little baby." She reminds him, although she knows what he means. In her three Christmases, Eden has been on Spencer's team every time. Even for her first Christmas, at four months old, she was on his team.

"Still, in your attempt to cause me emotional distress, you've left me with Toby and Aspen. Twins. They are unstoppable together. It usually freaks me out when they work out of the same brain, but it's a double threat."

She shakes her head slowly and menacingly. "You know what else they do well together?" He shakes his head. "Argue. Morgan's so good with Eden."

He groans, throwing his head back. "Shit, I knew we split them up for a reason." He recalls. "Can we swap?"

"Do you think this is wrong?" She wonders, clenching her teeth. "Drafting our kids so we can compete?"

Spencer wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her body into his. "No. They don't know, and we don't love any of them more or less."

"Yeah, okay." She acknowledges what he's saying. "Now, let's get out there so I can destroy you."

He chuckles. "And our five-year-old twins."

She grins, moving out of his grip. "You're all going down." She hums happily, gesturing downward with her index fingers. "Prepare to be defeated."

He grabs her hands before she can leave, pulling her body right back to him. "Not yet." He hums, leaning down to kiss her. She deepens the kiss with her tongue sliding into his mouth before pulling away quickly. "Tease." He moans, trying to draw her back in.

"Come on, loser." She says, dragging him out of their bedroom. "It's time for you to lose."

They walk out to the kitchen hand-in-hand, announcing the teams to the four kids sitting around the kitchen island, who are eager to compete and completely unaware they've been drafted by their parents.

Then the baking and decorating starts, complete with trash-talking and heavy flirting between Y/n and Spencer. There's some sabotage, of course, and what Spencer calls chemical warfare because of an intelligent move on Y/n's part to 'accidentally' switch the labels on the red and blue food coloring.

"Okay, are you guys done?" Y/n asks team Nobel- named that because of Spencer's influence, not the twins'- as they put the final details on their houses.

Eden and Morgan made great teammates, and team Winner's gingerbread house is, in their opinion, a winner.

"To win? Yeah." Spencer says, pushing their house forward.

"Okay, sit behind them." Y/n directs the kids into the camera view. They sit on the bar stools with wide smiles as they wait to have their picture taken.

Spencer stands next to her out of the frame. "Smile." He cheers. "Then a silly one."

Both pictures get taken and then sent to the official judge to determine a winner. "Can we eat it now?" Toby asks, smiling hopefully as all four of them watch the gingerbread in awe.

"Hmm, I don't know," Y/n says, looking up at Spencer with mock thoughtfulness. "What do you think?"

"I think yes." He decides, snaking his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder.

The four of them dive in, breaking the houses down as they grab a piece to eat. "This one's better." Eden determines.

"They're made with the same recipe, little one." Spencer reminds her.

"No, our one's better, daddy." Morgan backs her little sister up.

He pouts behind Y/n as he walks them closer to the countertop, picking some gingerbread up to feed to her. "It's pretty good." She agrees with what Morgan's saying.

"That was ours," Spencer informs her.

Before she can tell him off for tricking her, her phone chimes. "Oh, we have a decision." She says mysteriously, stirring up excitement as she takes her phone out. They wait eagerly for the answer in silence.

Spencer reads the text message over her shoulder: My sweet godchildren! I miss you all so much even though I saw you yesterday. And you know I hate this job since I'm going to upset half of you so please tell everyone that I adore both of the houses the same amount. However, I am slightly leaning toward the one on the left. Have an amazing Christmas, wonderful Reid family xx

"Aunt Penelope says we won!" Y/n tells Morgan and Eden, who cheer happily.

"But she loves both of them," Spencer adds.

They walk around the bench to hug the four of them, each picking up two of their children and embracing in one big family hug. "Go team Reid." Y/n and Spencer say in unison, leaning forward for a quick kiss while they celebrate the perfect moment.

Tell me what you think

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[erin-bo-berin]

hello! like everyone else I’ve been totally glued to your Steve fics lately. your take on his character/mannerisms are perfect!!

I have a request, if you’re interested: reader’s horny as hell and it’s all Steve’s fault. (personally I’m a sucker for future dad Steve/pregnant reader but if that’s not your vibe feel free to come up with another reason why we’re blaming him). Anyway, normally Steve would love nothing more than to help you out but today he’s actually working at his desk on some project due tomorrow morning so you’ll just have to wait until he’s done before he can attend to your needs. But that’s not going to stop you from trying your best begging/teasing techniques throughout the day, saying things that rile him up, touching him, blaming him for the situation, and appealing to his very deep need to take care of you.

After a long day putting up with you/attempting to stay strong, you finally say or do something that sends Steve over the edge. (He actually knocks over his desk chair as he mauls you.) But Steve’s going to have to pay you back for all the teasing you’ve unleashed on him all day by taking his damn time.

smut city, pls!

Ooh now THIS is appealing! But yes I’m all for having horny pregnant reader. I mean good lord if I had that to look at every day, I’d be popping out kids every year because I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off him 🤣

Let’s pretend this is how Steve looks after a good fuck 👀

All Your Fault

Steve Harrington x Reader

Warnings: Smut (lots of smut, it gets pretty filthy I’m sorry), Pregnant Reader

You thought you knew what to expect during pregnancy.

Morning sickness, cravings, weight gain, fatigue, you get the drift. You even knew to expect mood swings throughout the pregnancy.

What you didn’t expect was to be as horny as a wild animal in mating season.

You were nearing the end of your fourth month of pregnancy. The nausea had dissipated, your energy had increased some and you felt better than you had in weeks. Your body was growing and changing daily, making room for the life that was growing exponentially fast with each week passed.

You’d finally made it through the stage where you no longer look bloated, but we’re starting to sport a small, noticeable bump. Most likely it was going to double in size by the end of next month, but for now, you treasured the baby bump, knowing you and Steve’s baby was growing like he or she should be.

You were taken back at first by how high your sex drive was at this point in pregnancy. You craved him as badly, if not more than the snacks and treats you’d been consuming lately.

Usually, Steve was more than happy to help you out. You were sure he was even more thrilled than you were about the extra intimacy. But this lately was wild, almost animalistic, lust-filled sex. Ironically enough, you hadn’t had much of that since the night you likely conceived.

But today, Steve had to be an adult. Or well, he had work to do.

Keith had unfortunately—much to your dismay—tasked Steve to do the inventory numbers at Family Video, leaving the task until last minute. Thus, he gave the annoying job to Steve, who had been hunched over his desk, hard at work all day, trying to finish the job before they were due in tomorrow, at the beginning of the month.

“Steeeeve,” you whined, “Can’t you take just a tiny break?”

“Baby, you know I’d love to,” he sighed heavily, pushing his hair out of his face, “But I still have a ways to go if I want to finish this before tonight.”

You sighed dramatically, flopping on the couch across the living room from him. You rubbed your belly soothingly.

“Daddy’s being mean to us, baby,” you pouted.

“Daddy’s also trying to get this nightmare of a project over with,” he mumbled in return, “Also, mommy is being over dramatic.”

“It’s your fault I’m like this,” you huffed.

“I think it’s more like the hormones from pregnancy, not me.”

“Is it possible to die from horniness?” you asked, dead serious.

“Babe, if it was, you would’ve killed me years ago,” he responded, his back still turned to you.

You stuck your tongue out at his back playfully, telling yourself you were going to concentrate on the game show that was on TV, but it didn’t last long at all.

Your eyes returned to your boyfriend, watching him. Your eyes slid along his back, knowing the feel of the muscles in them moving under your fingers as he moved above you. You could see the faint sign of his leg bouncing through the loose, gray pants he wore.

His butt looked amazing in those pants somehow, but so did his dick. It was amazing how they seemed to be loose fitting yet hugged the parts of him that you really shouldn’t be thinking of right now.

Then your mind wandered to his thighs. Ones you liked to perch yourself on, sometimes you rode them, getting yourself off by just a thigh alone. The delicious friction of it against your throbbing clit.

You really did have to stop your train of thoughts before you got yourself in a worse situation than you were currently in.

That was when you got the wicked idea to tease him. You were gonna make him sorry for leaving you in such a desperate state.

•

Lunchtime came and you fixed him a sandwich, bringing it into him, knowing he wouldn’t stop working to eat if you didn’t.

“Thanks sweetheart,” he smiled, wrapping an arm around your waist, patting your side, hand resting dangerously low on your ass.

This son of a bitch really was pushing your buttons at this point.

“No problem,” you smiled sweetly.

You looked over his shoulder at the paperwork in front of him, spread out on the desk.

“Not done yet?” you hummed, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind, hands gliding down his chest.

It was a delicate balance; trying to be purposely sensual but playing innocent as if you weren’t trying to seduce him at all.

“Nope.”

“That’s a shame,” you pouted, kissing his cheek, lips hovering near his ear, “How about a short lunchtime break? Let you bend me over this desk and have your way with me, hmm?”

You bit his earlobe softly, feeling him shudder under your touch.

“You know I can’t,” Steve said, surprisingly more firm than you were sure he felt.

“Hmm. Suit yourself. I think I’m going to take a bath, wash up really good. Over my chest, my legs. Lather up the ladies real well,” you said, motioning to your boobs, which had grown fuller over the last few months.

He was blinking at you like an owl, unable to say anything.

“T-That’s fine,” he cleared his throat of the rasp that’d come out, “You go ahead, I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Well you know where you find me, if you need me,” you winked, sauntering off towards the bathroom.

The bath wasn’t that great, honestly. It was fine, refreshing, but all you wanted was Steve to strip naked and join you. You groaned, stepping out when you were done, draining the water.

You needed to up the ante if you wanted results.

•

The soft, silky bathrobe you donned was tied loosely at your waist. One tug and it could easily pull right open to expose your naked body underneath.

You carefully arranged the neckline of it so it showed the perfect amount of your cleavage. Where he could see your chest heaving from your labored breath, could access your neck where your pulse was spiking—symptoms of your intense desire for him.

He’d barely moved from where you’d left him.

One of his hands was in his hair, head resting in his hand, arm propped on the desktop, his fingers clutching a pencil and scribbling. Occasionally he would pause, punch some numbers into the calculator next to him and then resume writing.

The plate next to him was empty save for some crumbs. At least he’d eaten, that was something.

You stopped at the edge of his desk, rapping your knuckles against the desktop to get his attention.

“Can I get you anything else to eat?” you asked, motioning to the plate when he looked up at you.

“No, that was enough. Thanks for fixing it for me,” he smiled.

“Not a problem,” you replied, casually.

Purposely, you reached across the desk from where you were standing to grab the plate, making sure he had the perfect view of your cleavage. When you pulled back, one shoulder of the robe had slipped, exposing even more skin.

You might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking straight at him, but you saw Steve’s eyes flicker downwards then back up to your face, looking glazed. Then he blinked and was back to normal.

You let the disappointment settle internally and immediately went on to your next plan.

“Let me know if you want anything else,” you called in a sing-song voice as you headed towards the kitchen with the dirty plate.

You could’ve sworn you heard an answering grumble come from behind you.

•

Steve turned when he heard movement behind him.

“What are you doing?”

You looked up from where you were organizing the books on the small bookshelf you had in the living room.

“Just doing a little cleaning. Don’t let me bother you.”

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” he asked, looking concerned.

“Steve, I’ve gotta burn off this excess energy somehow,” you responded, turning back to where you alphabetizing the novels.

You made sure he was still looking when you bent over, as if peering closer at a certain book, making sure he got a full view of your ass in the tiny lounge shorts you decided to don.

You heard a creak behind you and turned to see Steve had turned back to his work.

You groaned inwardly. You were going to get him to fuck you if it meant you had to walk around naked.

•

As tempting as that thought was, you decided to forgo the walking around naked part. You were desperate, but you weren’t quite that desperate yet.

“How goes it?” you asked, walking in the room.

You’d spent the last few hours sitting in the kitchen reading your book and snacking on some strawberries. Just because you couldn’t have one of the things you were craving didn’t mean you were going to deprive yourself of your current food craving.

“Well I’m closer to being done than I was, if that tells you anything.”

“Steve, you’ve been at that desk nearly all day,” you frowned, “You must be stiff and sore.”

He groaned, rubbing at his neck and shoulders as if the power of suggestion was enough to make him realize just how sore he really was.

“Here, let me rub it for you,” you offered.

You put your hands on his shoulders, massaging gently, thumbs pressing into soft circles of his neck, kneading the knots out of his muscles.

He moaned softly, heading falling forward.

“That feels amazing, Y/N,” he complimented.

He was just asking for it at this point.

You leaned forward, breasts pressing against his back as you kissed his cheek, seemingly innocently.

“I know how else to make you feel amazing,” you purred, “And make you moan even more than you already were.”

His throat bobbed at his obviously hard swallow. One peek down at his crotch and you could see his cock was all aboard for the idea.

“I could suck you off, then let you get back to work,” you whispered, your voice as tantalizing as your words, “Let me wrap my lips around that pretty little cock of yours, make you moan so loud the walls rattle.”

He turned to look at you and you took the opportunity to press your lips against his. Your mouth purposely moved tantalizingly slow against his.

He hummed when you pulled away, his eyes still closed.

“You taste like strawberries,” he whispered.

“I know,” you smirked, your hands once again running down his chest.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Y/N,” Steve said, giving you a stern look, removing your hands gently from him.

“And what’s that?” you blinked innocently.

“You’re trying to get me to cave because you’re honey as fuck,” he said blatantly.

“I can’t help that I want to jump you,” you groaned, “But I know, I know, I’ll wait.”

“I don’t have much more to do, then I promise, I’m all yours,” Steve promised, kissing your cheek, turning back to his work.

You decided to give in to defeat at that point and just try to be patient, even if you did already feel like jumping out of your skin.

•

“I’m amazed you’ve been patient this long,” Steve said casually.

It was nearing late afternoon, three o’clock soon to be turning into four.

“Believe me, it’s not been easy,” you mumbled, resting against one of the stuffed chairs, watching him.

“Especially when my brain decides to turn every little thing you do into some sexual.”

He chuckled, amused.

“Like what?”

“You just writing for example. All I could think of is your hands and how they feel on my body, how your fingers feel tracing every curve, how they feel inside of me making me beg you to cum,” you groaned, “Sorry, I’m getting carried away again. I oughta just have gotten myself off. At least have one good orgasm imagining it was your hand instead of mine and—”

You jumped, hearing a loud crash. Without realizing it, Steve had hurled himself out of the desk chair, knocking it over. You gasped when he was on you, pulling your weight away from the chair you were leaning against, pressing your body into his. He kissed you hard, hungrily, making you moan into the kiss.

He was already moving you by the time you’d parted, breath heavy from the intense kiss. He backed you up against the edge of his desk, his body holding yours there with his own.

“There is no way I’m letting you get yourself off when I know I can do it and better,” he practically growled in your ear, pressing his crotch into you.

You felt his cock straining in his pants and you moaned, eager already for it.

“Fuck, if I knew that’s all it would’ve taken to get you to pay attention to me, I would’ve done it so much sooner,” you laughed a bit breathlessly.

“I was trying so hard to resist all day so I could get my work done,” he groaned, kissing you again.

“Not the only thing that was hard was it, big boy?” you giggled, nipping at his bottom lip.

“Don’t think you’re gonna get away with your little tricks,” he smirked, pushing all the contents of his desk on the floor.

You gaped at them, surprised.

“I’ll worry about that later,” he muttered, “I’ve got a gorgeous girl to tease.”

He grabbed your hips roughly, setting you on the desktop so you were at the same level as him. Before he did anything else, he practically tore your shirt over your head, groaning at the sight of your breast, nipples hard.

His hands grabbed them firmly, massaging them roughly in his large hands as his mouth moved against yours. You groaned at the wonderful feeling of his rough palms against your peaked nipples. You had never been as turned on as you were right now, your clit throbbing painfully, your panties soaked so thoroughly you wouldn’t be surprised if you left a puddle on his desk.

“Steve,” you whimpered, his mouth moving over your jaw and neck, sucking harshly in certain, random spots, “Can’t we just forgo the teasing this once?”

“Nope. Gotta give you a lesson you won’t forget,” he smirked, lowering his mouth to your chest.

Your breasts were still a tad sensitive and the feeling of his mouth on them practically made you salivate.

“Oh god,” you groaned, back arching into his mouth, his tongue and mouth sucking and licking at your nipples, giving them plenty of attention.

“See this is why I’m constantly horny,” you chuckled weakly, his lips moving back upwards towards your jaw and lips, “You’re too damn good at this.”

His hands had slid from your waist to your outer thighs, squeezing them as if to emphasize his next words which just so happened to be breathed over your lips.

“It’s because I love making you moan.”

God, not only his touch, but his words alone could like make you cum.

Your mouths connected again, his hands grabbing your ass roughly and pulling you into him as he ground his hips into yours. Your hands while tangled in his hair, quickly got on the same track as your brain, moving to his shirt to tug it off.

If he was gonna rub his dick against you like that and expect you not to act like a sex starved being, especially in your condition, then he was sorely mistaken.

He pulled away from your touch, causing you to scowl, but you were relieved to see he was just shedding his shirt. You were awarded with the glorious sight of his bare chest and stomach. If only he’d let you have a minute to just kiss and suck and lick the entirely of his naked upper half…

Much to your disappointment, he didn’t return to your lips, he stayed where he was, pulling off your shorts, cursing at the sight.

“I didn’t think you were wearing underwear when you pulled that bending over stunt,” he grunted.

You smirked, a bit proud of yourself.

“You sure stared long enough.”

“Yeah because all I wanted to do was take you, bent over like that,” Steve ground out.

Your thighs clenched, another pool of warmth gathering between them.

He tutted, like scolding a child as he once again pushed your thighs apart, readying you for his next level of teasing. He was on his knees before you before you could protest, his lips leaving a gentle kiss against your inner thigh.

“I’ve been so wet all day because of you,” you moaned, your desperation already showing.

You really were screwed if he had too much more teasing planned because you were already so desperate for him to have his way with you.

“And now you’re gonna learn how to be patient, aren’t you baby girl?”

He trailed his fingers along your entrance, gathering your slick.

“Yes, Steve,” you nodded eagerly.

You’d probably agree to anything right now as long as made home do something.

A finger pressed against your clit with just enough pressure to make you hiss through your teeth. Then came his tongue, licking a slit all the way up your lips.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathed.

His touch left you, his tongue taking over the job. With a few gentle laps at your clit, he moved on, tongue thrusting in and out of your entrance.

You moaned louder, entire body arching, your hands on his hair, wanting to keep him there forever. It never failed to amaze you that he knew just how to kiss, suck and lick every inch of you perfectly.

His fingers rejoined the performance, gliding in and out of you with ease, twisting and curling in perfect time with the coil of your building orgasm. His lips sucked on your clit, only adding to the bliss.

You were out of control, you’d never felt on fire like this before. Your hips were grinding against his face, body arched and hands squeezing your boobs, pinching your nipples. He was going to send you to an early grave. He was definitely going to send you to heaven during this orgasm.

“I’m close,” you whined, thighs squeezing at the sides of his head.

He held your thighs in one hand and did the worst possible thing.

You were seconds away from shattering completely when all contact was gone. His fingers were gone from you and so was his mouth.

“No, no,” you whined, “Steve, what the fuck?”

“Patience, darling,” he smirked that infuriating smirk.

He was soon forgiven when he started back up, your orgasm closer and stronger than it previously had been.

When he stopped a second time, right at the last second, you didn’t know whether to cry in frustration or slap him.

Apparently, your mouth decided on anger before your brain could catch up.

“I’m going to fucking kill you, Harrington.”

“How bad do you want to cum?”

The gleam in his eyes was wicked, the desire driving him almost as wild as you’d been acting. By this point, your brain was shut off and your mouth was saying whatever. If anyone else were to overhear, they might’ve mistaken you and Steve for an actual porno.

“So bad, so bad,” you whimpered.

“Say please,” his grin was as wicked as his stare.

“Please, Steve, please.”

You were actually going to combust when he was through with his teasing. You were actually going to explode into a million little pieces and float towards the earth like ash raining down. Not that you cared less. You welcomed it.

The second time he resumed, his fingers moved quicker, licks and sucks harsher as he was determined to let you finish this time. Maybe there was something to this science because the building knot was even stronger than the previous two times and you were sure you were gonna make a mess all over Steve’s face.

You were squirming inadvertently on the desk, hands holding his head right where you wanted him because over your fucking dead body was he going to quit before you could cum.

Your moans filled the room the only other sound your labored breathing and whines.

“Oh, fuck!” you partially screeched, a long moan laced with your words.

Your orgasm hit and your entire body trembled with the strength of one you’d never, ever felt. The journey had been pure torture, but damn if the pay off wasn’t worth it.

The aftershocks were just as powerful and you whimpered, trying to push him away as your entire lower half had become too sensitive for more at the moment.

Steve sat back, chin still glistening with a satisfied grin on his face. Wiping his chin on his shoulder, he stood, taking your face in his hands.

“Holy shit,” you have groaned, amazed just by him.

“You okay? We can stop now if you need to.”

“Oh hell no,” you laughed, still trying to catch your breath, “Just give me a moment.”

You leaned forward and kissed him again, one hand bypassing his pants and boxers, reaching in to grip his now throbbing cock, firmly. You pressed a kiss to his chest as his eyes fluttered closed at your touch.

You pumped him slowly, your wrist turning slowly, teasing him now.

“I thought this was your lesson,” he groaned, resting his forehead against yours.

“I happen to like hearing you moan,” you smiled, devilishly.

“I don’t want to cum unless I’m inside you,” he breathed.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

You removed your hand, pushing his pants down his hips, his boxers going as well.

“Come here,” he murmured, pulling you in for another kiss.

In the midst of the kiss, your hand wrapped around his cock once again, guiding him to your entrance. He pushed into you, mutual moans of pleasure coming from both of you.

“So good, fuck you’re so good for me, Y/N,” Steve mumbled hand on your cheek, giving you another quick kiss as he started moving at a slow, languid pace.

You didn’t complain at the moment, just enjoying the feeling of him moving in and out, his hard length gliding and running against you in such a pleasant way.

“Come on Steve,” you provoked, “I know you can do better than that.”

He growled, gaze boring into yours as he grabbed your ass, lurching you for in one swift, hard motion as he thrust into you roughly, making your head loll back.

“Jesus,” you moaned, gripping his shoulders, suddenly short of breath once again, “Yeah, that’s m-more like it.”

Just as your hips were getting used to the rougher pace, he pulls out of you completely leaving you aching and shaking, left wanting more.

You let out a protesting whine, but he shushes you.

“I wanna try something different, is that okay?”

You nodded, letting him manipulate your body like he wanted it.

He turned you around, bending you over the desk, wrapping one arm protectively around your abdomen, protecting your vulnerable bump, so it wouldn’t hit the edge of the desk.

The small gesture makes you smile and you turn your head, kissing the shoulder of that arm.

Your smile fades quickly into your mouth dropping in pleasure as he thrusts back into you, the angle allowing you to feel him so deep, it automatically has your body shaking.

“I got you, I got you,” Steve mutters against your shoulder as he thrusts roughly into you, holding onto your front firmly, aiding you in your own backwards thrusts of your hips.

“Fuuuuuck, fuck, fuck, fucking hell, Steve,” you’re a moaning, babbling mess, fully drunk on him and his cock buried in you.

Your hair is wild in your face and you push it back, your body rocking back against his and you reach out to grip the edge of the desk. Your other hand hasn’t moved from where it rests over his, as if double protecting the growing baby inside you.

“Is it as good as you imagined all day, baby? Shit,” he grit his teeth, moaning the curse at the end of his sentence.

“Better,” you moan, throwing your head back against his shoulder, “So much fucking better.”

He’s repeatedly hitting a spot so deep with you that your eyes might be rolling back in your head. His hair brushes your cheek as he bends over you, reaching down between your legs.

His thrusts are becoming erratic and you know he’s dangerously close and trying to hurry you to your climax. You’re unintentionally squeezing around his cock, your muscles quivering and contracting from your own pleasure.

He finger circles your clit frantically and the pressure starts building inside you again, signaling your impending orgasm is near. His hand’s frantic movements matched his hips frantic pace.

“Wanna cum,” he moaned lowly, “Wanna cum so hard in you, baby girl.”

“Do it,” you begged, “Fuck, Steve, please. Make me a mess. Fuck, I love you so much.”

Your mouth was forming and releasing words that you had no comprehension of, you were so close and with every thrust, he got you closer.

Another mind blowing orgasm hit you and you moaned his name repeatedly, clutching on to him and distantly you heard your own name falling from his lips. You could feel his body that was now slick against yours, tense and shudder as his own body was wracked with his own ecstasy.

You were spent by the time he slid out of you, your entrance sensitive and dripping from your combined releases. You would’ve fallen forward against the desk due to your wobbling, unsteady legs, but he balanced you in both arms, scooping you up in them.

The exhaustion was heavy in your limbs. Pregnancy sex was mind blowingly amazing, but the exhaustion afterwards was twice as bad.

“Your papers,” you mumbled weakly.

“I’ll worry about them later,” Steve answered, “Come on, let’s go get you cleaned up.”

He carried you to the bedroom, laying you on the bed while he went to the bathroom. He returned with a damp washcloth, wiping your thighs clean and running it gently between your legs, knowing you were still incredibly sensitive.

You open an eye when he returns from discarding the rag.

“You know, it won’t be too much longer before I’ll be too big for us to do that,” you said, motioning to the doorway, meaning your precious little escapade.

“Then we’ll just have to enjoy it while we can,” Steve smirked, laying down next to you.

“By the way, I’m thankful it’s all your fault I’m so horny because you sure deliver,” you mumbled, already half asleep.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he chuckled.

You were out before he finished his sentence.

[reality-inflicted]

À la recherche des crises perdues.

How do you feel, really? 

This is not a rhetorical question, I am genuinely interested. If you read this text I’d love it if you left a comment, it would be interesting to hear your thought regarding all the crises that surround us daily and the impact they have on you. 

Earlier this morning (Sunday, February 5, 2023) I noticed a headline in the Swedish newspaper Aftonbladet about (yet another) emerging diplomatic crisis between USA and China. This time in the aftermath of the US shooting down an alleged ”spy balloon” launched by China. Now, I found this interesting as I thought I’d noticed a similar crisis just yesterday, that time in connection to the fact that the balloon was where it, at the time, were.  

This got me thinking about if crisis is relative or static, I mean – is a crisis only a crisis in relation to itself, or can a specific crisis be a part of a larger crisis? Or are crisis fundamentally exponential? I mean, looking at how the word ”crisis” is commonly used and the meaning with which it is loaded that seems to be the case: a small crisis, a crisis, a local crisis, a regional crisis, a big crisis, an enormous crisis – the ”holyfuckweareallgonnadie!”-crisis seem to imply a situation where the imminent level of Crisis in any given instance of crisis seem to increase in relation to itself. 

I decided to do a quick investigation regarding how ”crisis” have been reported in Swedish newspaper media over the last 60 years. I went to do a search in a Royal Library database that index newspapers as far back as the year 1600 (if you want to check it out, go to Kungliga Biblioteket) and i found the embryo of what could be an interesting trend: the progressive escalation of Crisis. Starting from todays date i did a search covering a period of eight days starting in 1963 and ending with 2022. The only word is used was ”kris” (Swedish for crisis). The results came back as follows:

1963-01-27 – 1963-02-04: 51 hits 1973-01-27 – 1973-02-04: 69 hits 1983-01-27 – 1983-02-04: 122 hits 1993-01-27 – 1993-02-04: 233 hits 2003-01-27 – 2003-02-04: 84 hits 2013-01-27 – 2013-02-04: 314 hits (2020-01-27 – 2020-02-04: 952 hits) 2022-01-27 – 2022-02-04: 463 hits (2022-07-27 – 2022-08-04: 874 hits)

The dates within (parenthesis) were made to 1) the start of the Covid pandemic and 2) to include the Russian war in Ukraine which began after the initial search of 2022, in order to simulate a possible usage of crisis for 2023 that is not yet available to search in the Royal library database. 

 Removing the outlier (2003) there is a clear trend indicating that the number of crisis have increased over the last 60 years. Even if we remove some of the hits, during 1973 some of the hits were in relation to the artist Kris Kristofferson, and during 1993 some were in relation to Swedish comedians (and I use this word in the loosest possible meaning) Stefan and Krister. Also, in astrology the star sign Sagittarius, for an undisclosed reason, seemed to be in a state of crisis.

When we talk about emotions we often mention empathy. As the word is commonly used it has become a sort of mix between two closely related words – empathy and sympathy. Empathy is the ability, or ”emotion” that allow you to understand the way another person thinks and feels and connect with them whilst still keeping your own emotions separate from the interaction. Basically, empathy is ”understanding what someone feels”. Sympathy, on the other hand, constitutes a form of active participation in the emotions of the other person and tying them, in a sense, to oneself. Or to put it a bit clearer: ”I feel what you feel”.  

Personally I’ve noticed that I to quite a large degree have lost the ability to care, especially in relation to crises as reported by media. I connect this in part to the fact that we are living in a state of permanent crisis, a state that keeps intensifying. Why should I care about something that will be over with and replaced by something else tomorrow? The problem with this ”blunting” of emotions is that they are not confined to crisis in the media. I find it increasingly difficult to muster any sense of real emotion in situations that really should trigger an emotional response. Intellectually I can understand and relate to what is happening in, for example Ukraine and Iran, ideologically and morally I can relate to what is right and wrong in a given situation – but I am struggling with the emotional and sympathetic aspects of this. It takes a conscious effort to react accordingly. I don’t feel the suffering of others, which don’t mean that i don’t understand that they are suffering.  

During the 60’s and 70’s there were more space in society to share in the suffering of others – often with underlying political purposes. The anti-war movement and the emerging environmental movement originated in a time where the number of simultaneous crises were relatively few, allowing them to grow to a scale large enough to drive political and personal engagement. Today, in the state of constant crisis, this space no longer exist. The sympathy has been replaced with empathy for good and for bad. 

On the empathic level I can understand that the anger and fear of  the threat of a looming climate disaster would drive people to super glue themselves to roads or throw baked beans on a work of art, but I lack the sympathetic ability to share this anger and fear. I don’t think that it require any wider experience within the fields of psychology or sociology to reach the conclusion this deficiency in me might in part be related to the current media state of perpetual crisis. And at the same time the opposite is true – that the perpetual crisis lead to a state of increased stress and a loss of wellbeing for a lot of people around the world. 

Most people can handle the stress that arise in relation to news events. They see the causes, analyse what is going on and move on with their lives. For others it cause increased levels of stress, stress that if left to itself can slide into worry about the self and the future. This worry might in turn lead to fear which can lead to anger. And anger, as any fan of Star Wars well know, can lead to the Dark Side.

I am not saying that the news alone are to blame for this development, and especially in relation to me. That I am ”the way I am” depends on a whole bunch of things, most of which are related to me (it would be strange otherwise). Another is the rise of new and more efficient ways to share events as they take place around the world. But regardless of this, I would think it very interesting to see if there is a connection between the constant state of crisis in media and a loss of the ability to really care.

I mean, one just get so tired of it all.

p.s I’ve decided to open an account on buymecoffee, in case anyone would like to follow me there. Naturally, this will be my main page, but I will try to post some longer pieces of writing there eventually both to reduce ramblings here and to perhaps get increased interaction with those of you that don’t consider my ramblings to be irritating at best. :) just click here to get to my page. I just created the page, so please bear with me, I’ll get some perks set up as well. I just have to... do... some stuff... first. //Jimmy 

[baeddel]

discussion on this post, @horatiovonbecker asks @otatma their opinion about extended families as an alternative to the nuclear family. @otatma replies that it is “a good thing to strive for” but “depends hugely on the family being nontoxic.” true enough!

as it’s my activity feed and they can’t stop me i’ll butt into the conversation. i grew up in an extended family. i lived with my mother and my maternal grandparents, and my aunt would live with us some days out of the week. all of this was accomplished in a 2-bedroom bungalow. i had very little privacy and i hated it; when i was 15 i ran away. my mother pleaded with the council and we managed to secure a terraced house in a socialized housing estate with a bedroom for each of us, plus a spare room (almost unthinkable today). we live near our grandparents and they visit every day.

when i was 16 i met my absentee father. he had been homeless in England and imprisoned in Scotland and when he returned to Ireland that year i found him living in a rhizomatic extended family scenario spanning four generations and three households. they were always being chased out by landlords or paramilitaries and relocating and, in any case, one could never predict who would be living in which house at any time; children would live with grandparents one month, parents the next, aunts and uncles the next, and so on. even husbands and wives did not always share a home.

[long post: 3k words, on the historical development of family structure in Ireland and England and what it means for monogamy, the family and anarchy]

based on this i believed the extended family to be an Irish institution. this is an assumption i shared with most sociologists and historians until about the 1990s (Seward et. al., 2005, pg. 2). the standard narrative was that, world-over, families historically lived in large, three-generation households and that thanks to the industrial revolution this was deteriorating. “Max Weber himself implies in his magisterial way that the rise of capitalist organisation was associated with 'the household community shrinking' ” (Laslett, 1974, pg. 7). Ireland was traditionally conceived of as an exception to this process of deterioration as, on this account, the extended family remained dominant while the rest of the world was going nuclear. it turns out to be the reverse in both cases: the extended family was never the dominant family structure anywhere (ibid. pg. 2-3; Vann 1974, pg. 3-4), except for in Ireland beginning in the 19th century, where over the course of the 20th century it did deteriorate (Laslett, 1974 pg. 34; Gibbon & Curtin, 1978).

the reason for this is embarassingly obvious once you realize it. the fact is that not all families in a society can be extended families. if all children remain in the family home along with their children into perpetuity this house will soon have the population of a small town. this is actually the origin of society proposed by Filmer in Patriarcha (1680), where parental authority becomes the “fountain of all Regal Authority” as their progeny multiply, until humanity is scattered about in the Confusion of Tongues (pg. 11-15). without a Confusion of Tongues to interrupt the exponential increase (and millions, rather than thousands, of years to account for) we have to imagine another sort of family structure. the 19th century sociologist Frédéric Le Play proposed that a new family structure emerged out of ancient patriarchy which he called the Stem-Extended Family. on this account one son was selected to inherit and he remained at the family’s residence; the other siblings were dispersed (Gibbon & Curtin, 1978 pg. 2-3).

to the extent that this form of family organization did exist, it could not have been the dominant form. in a family with three sons, two of them would have to go and form nuclear families with their spouses. they might go on to build their own extended family, or they might not. in many societies the extended family was indeed considered “a good thing to strive for”, and this was the position adopted by the conservative Catholic Le Play, and later accepted by the Catholic Church, who lobbied for policy interventions that would stem the tide of nuclear proliferation in Ireland, particularly by limiting employment opportunities for women. For example, women were barred from civil service positions until 1973 (Seward et. al., 2005, pg. 7).

if this is the case, how could the extended family become the dominant form of family structure in Ireland in the 19th and early 20th centuries? the most significant factor was the reorganization of agriculture carried out by English colonial interests; after the infamous Potato Famine the population of Ireland almost halved (after already more than halving after Cromwell’s genocides), as well as the almost constant state of war that Ireland was submerged in (continuing into the 90s in the occupied North). in the aftermath it was necessary for families to consolidate (Seward et. al., 2005, pg. 3). on top of this, fertility was exceptionally low and emigration was exceptionally high (in the North it remains very high, especially among Catholics). as a result, more generations could live together, and children were more likely to leave the country than disperse elsewhere in Ireland (Seward et. al., 2005, pg. 14). throughout the 20th century, as industry and free secondary education were introduced to Ireland, more children began to move from country to town and nuclear families rapidly replaced extended ones  (Seward et. al., 2005, pg. 6).

my family tree more or less follows this narrative along. in the chaos following the Land War my great, great grandmother was the head of a large intergenerational family involving aunts and uncles, as well as an adopted street orphan. my great grandfather met a homeless woman possessing a child out of wedlock and fell in love with her; they moved to this town and rented a house while he sought work as a street sweeper, starting a new nuclear family. in the 40s my grandmother worked in factories until she married my grandfather, a sailor, and they began their own nuclear family in the same town, renting different little apartments until, thanks to the state of the housing market in the 80s, they purchased the modest accomodations aforementioned. by the 90s this arrangement threatened to become a new Stem-Extended Family (with my mother and i playing the role of inheriting sons), but it proved inoperable in the new context of the 21st century’s mechanized Ireland, and we spilled over into our own single-parent home. given that both me and my aunt are infertile, the maternal line terminates here.

does it follow that we ought to give in and admit that the nuclear family is the natural unit of human society, and that the extended family is possible only in the middle of an ongoing genocide? despite what we’ve just said, there doesn’t seem to be good evidence for this either. while Gibbon & Curtin characterized a debate where Laslett “advanced the iconoclastic [proposition] that there had been little essential historical change in family structure” (1978, pg. 3) this doesn’t seem to actually be Laslett’s position. Laslett argued that family size has not changed considerably throughout history, but on the very first page of his landmark Household and Family in Past Time (1970) he emphasizes that he is “not concerned with the family as a network of kinship” and instead defines his area of research in terms of “coresident domestic groups”, which might bear little relationship to kinship structures. in the past the household very frequently involved not just blood relatives but “lodgers, boarders and visitors” (Vann, 1974, pg. 5) as well as slaves and servants. Vann quotes Etienne Hélin's caution that “[a]rithmetic means, although they varied so little covered a whole series of different situations” and describes how post-industrial English households had twice the number of blood relatives per house as pre-industrial ones, but fewer lodgers, and thus about the same mean. the difference between historical and modern families might not be one of size but of an increasing emphasis on blood relations.

it may come as a surprise that, as a matter of fact, Old English has no word for family. they have a word for relatives in general (sibb), for tribes (cynn, the root of Modern English kin), but the basic social unit known to the Anglo-Saxons was the hiw (and its many compounds), which might be translated ‘household’ (or, indeed, ‘coresident domestic group’). who belonged to a hiw? it was somewhat nakedly a property relation. it was not only a man’s wife and children but also his servants, his slaves, as well as his animals (Stanley, 2008, pg. 1). the Textus Rofensus makes only one distinction between members of a household, that they be “slaves or free” (ibid. pg. 7). it could also refer to a monastic group, involving the whole cloister. Stanley notes (and it seems true to me) that there is a virtual absence of family relations in the corpus of Old English literature. in fact i cannot think of a single example, except perhaps for the monster Grendel and his mother. in the mournful Wife’s Lament and the passionate Wulf and Eadwacer the emphasis is on completely personal affections and seductions, and in any case both depict forbidden relationships outside of the hired.

correspondingly, we find that the average Anglo-Saxon home was a large one; typically they were a single room which measured about 50 square meters and “could have accomodated up to about a dozen or so people” (Hines, 2003, pg. 139). there is no reason to suppose that this was to accomodate several generations of blood relatives; the Anglo-Saxons had many, now very unfamilliar, relationships to populate their houses with. there was husband, wife, and concubine, along with their children; there was slave and hostage (Lavelle, 2006), including many orders of slaves with different status (such as the relatively respectable title of bryti, a sort of ‘head slave’); and indeed guest, visitor, boarder, and in the case of lords and aristocratic thegns, perhaps retainers. in Beowulf about thirty thegns sleep with their lord in Heorot, pulling aside the bench-planks and replacing them with straw beds at night (and when the Geats arrive they incorporate them as still more visitors). we know that at least some beds were placed in recesses in the walls and had curtains (Wright), perhaps to accomodate private intimacy between husband, wife and concubine or, indeed, guest, retainer, hostage, slave, or (why not?) animal. even when husband and wife are the only kin relatives in residence we would hesitate to call this arrangement a ‘nuclear family‘, or indeed an ‘extended family’ should it include a grandparent.

why has industrial modernization corresponded with the narrowing of the productive unit of society to the nuclear family (or, increasingly, the single parent family)? why have non-blood relations become so systematically excluded from the household? these seem like open questions to me. our own experience leads us to suspect conditions placed on family structure by the labour market together with city planning. until the 70s in Ireland, as we discussed, it was typical (and indeed lawful) for wives to stay at home and husbands to work; today very few workers could afford to keep their wives at home, even without children. houses are also too small to sustain extended families (nevermind concubines, hostages and the rest). old council houses such as ours have two bedrooms, one for the parents and the other for the children, along with a room for guests. today they do not include the guest room. there are, in addition, only two common rooms: a family room and a kitchen. it is not only difficult to accomodate three generations in these houses (the small guest bedroom is a poor substitue for the reitrement room of many 19th century Irish houses), it is difficult to accomodate even two generations. teenagers will already complain about sharing a bedroom, and one sibling might take up the guestroom. but we know of women with six, seven, as many as twelve children who live here. as adults they could fill at least three of such houses. all of this is possible only on the theory that as the children grow up they will move out into their own homes.

so. it is tempting to analyze the family situation abstractly, counting up the merits and dysfunctions of different systems and comparing them. for example, using Hirschman’s well-known framework of “exit” and “voice”, we might ask how effective the different forms of family structure are at responding to dysfunction (abuse, neglect and so on). the extended family, we might say, gives a child better access to “voice” - they can turn to parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and siblings for help. your mother might answer to your grandmother who is therefore well poised to address parenting issues, while your father can probably smoothe things over with your uncle if you quarrel. this means that you actually have to worry less about “toxicity” in the family compared to a nuclear family where parents aren’t accountable to anyone. however, in case of a family wide problem, you may have much less room to “exit” compared to a nuclear family, where exit is expected.

which one is better? you might reply that the extended family sounds better. it very well might be; but in reality you’ll never get to act on this exercise in judgement no matter how much striving you do. the nuclear family does not predominate because of the tyrannical thirst for the awesome power of parenthood (no matter how much we do find this thirst satisfied), but because of the given conditions of labour, housing, inheritance and so forth. this is why @horatiovonbecker can reply that all of this is “fair enough” but that they ”don't think it follows that discouraging monogamy will help.” no, surely it does not follow. especially now that we know that family size and kinship relations are not essential features of domestic organization. why was monogamy ever implicated in the first place?

now it seems like a curious slip of the tongue that when Goldman and Parsons disagree about monogamy they do so by attacking and defending the family by turns. but at that time monogamy was not so easily separable. free love was not really polyamory. it was this and also the abolition of both marriage and parenthood, as they understood both as property relations: “marriage slavery”, as even Parsons called it, and parental ownership of children. it was also the abolition of sex work, which they understood as the "public” expression of the subjugation of women which finds its “private” expression in marriage (Marx & Engels, 1848, pg. 24-25), ie. that women are dependent on men’s property and must acquire it by marriage or by sexual labour. as a corrolary they advocated for divorce (which became an immense priority to later Soviet planners who designed mobile, modular homes which would allow couples to separate and cohabit arbitrarily). it was also access to contraceptives and to abortion, as well as, believe it or not, very often the advocacy of eugenics (on the account that with abortion, contraceptives and the freedom to select partners, the previously blind and mute force of sexual reproduction would become domesticated to the rational will; see the anarchist journal Moses Harman founded in the 1880s, Lucifer the Light Bearer, later renamed the American Journal of Eugenics).

this constellation of problems no longer appear all together. after most women entered the conventional work force we could no longer as easily see monogamy and marriage as a relationship of slavery. as we say in the previous post, for many women the struggle is that they are too independent, saddled with childrearing and wage labour and housework with only the cold comfort of the day-care for assistance. for this reason sex work no longer appears as anything special compared to the other forms of labour women do out of necessity; “sex work is work” is the guiding catchphrase of militant sex workers. contraceptives and abortion still appear as a leading issue in feminist agitation but we no longer imagine they have the power to transform the everyday life of the household (nevermind summon forth the genetic Ubermensch). all together the abolition of marriage was replaced, as @birlinterrupted​ reminds us, with its extension: gay marriage. as of right now monogamy and marraige are still inseparable (i can now marry one of my girlfriends but not all three), but we think it need not always be. all together the program fragmented as its success was realized in pieces and none of them were actually irreparably fixed by the property relation (even if they did emerge from it).

Engels actually believed that a true equality of the sexes would, “according to all previous experience,” result in monogamous men and polyandrous women (Engels, 1884, pg. 43), but he admits that we can only conjecture about “the way in which sexual relations will be ordered after the impending overthrow of capitalist production.” he finishes this thought with this remarkable little statement:

[W]hat will there be new? That will be answered when a new generation has grown up: a generation of men who never in their lives have known what it is to buy a woman’s surrender with money or any other social instrument of power; a generation of women who have never known what it is to give themselves to a man from any other considerations than real love, or to refuse to give themselves to their lover from fear of the economic consequences. When these people are in the world, they will care precious little what anybody today thinks they ought to do; they will make their own practice and their corresponding public opinion about the practice of each individual – and that will be the end of it.

the straightforward correspondence between property, economic dependence and monogamy is still here, and which to us now seems insufficient to the problem (ie. the problem still persists after these given conditions are eliminated). broadening the question from questions of marriage, sexual access and economic dependence to the more general question of the organization of the household in general and the necessary social and economic conditions proper to it would clarify what’s really at stake in domestic oppression, the organization of reproduction, and so on. but it remains true that we can only remain sensitive to trends, to those of us organizing new experiments with the household, and where new opportunities might open as the present conditions dig their own grave.

Let’s give the final word to an old friend. What is the Family, Renzo Novatore? Why, nothing but “the denial of life, love and liberty.” Nevermind his entry for Love, which is a “deception of the flesh and damage to the spirit, disease of the soul, atrophy of the brain, weakening of the heart” and so forth.

[eyrieofsynapses]

i’ll be your god of loss

(from “The God of Loss” by Darlingside, which will make you cry.)

so I was thinking about the trio and kids. Because these people, you know, they adore kids! they’re great with them! And they might not admit to that, they may not believe it, but we know it, we see it with Eliot and Molly, with Hardison and Trevor, with Parker and Josie, with the kids from The Stork Job and The Fairy Godparents Job and their clients’ children and so very many more. 

Most of all we see it with Breanna. We see how they mentor her, how they provide advice, how they encourage her, how they build her up, how they laugh with her and speak of teaching her and telling her stories from the beginning. they unashamedly adore her. And they are so very good with her—they know how she looks up to them, they know they are always watched, and they behave like it. They are truly wonderful with her. 

We know they love kids. We know, too, that they see the foster system’s flaws, and we know they fear for the children they save from bad situations. We see how they instinctively nurture the kids of the clients who have lost a parent. We watch how they will lift up the children of the marks who do not treat them well. 

But they are not meant for white-picket fences. 

These are not the kinds of people who settle down. They do not get tired of what they do one day and say “perhaps we’d best end this now.” They never get tired of it. They adore their work, they adore their life, they cannot imagine anything else. They will never willingly stop.

But there is a point where need eclipses want. There will be a day when they cannot do it anymore. 

This is a known fact, but it is not a loved one. 

The years trickle by. The time of Redemption comes and goes. They raise team after team, create an ever-reaching map of International, help people by the thousands and by the singles. And they are not the management. They leave that to the capable people they have trained, the ones they trust with their lives and more, and they keep doing the jobs, they stay involved, they get their hands dirty. Because there is nothing else for them. They began this doing what they loved, after all, and that love has not faded. If anything it has only grown. 

Parker cannot sit still in an office all day, and Eliot cannot watch others fight and listen to them take the blows that he should, and Hardison will never be able to see all the things his algorithms raise and all the troubles that pass in the media and not do anything about it himself. This is against their very nature. 

But the years go on and on, decades pass, and Hardison realizes one day that this cannot go on forever. 

It is Hardison, because it is him who sits in the headquarters or the van or the discreetly close location with his laptop open and monitoring frequencies. It is Hardison, not Eliot or Parker, who can pay the most attention to the every soft grunt and caught breath and withheld noise of pain. 

It is Hardison who realizes, one fateful day, that those moments increase day by day, job by job, and his injury logs have grown exponentially thicker in the last year. He watches their medical supplies drain away faster and faster even as he replaces them. More and more there are mornings when the other two linger between the sheets for longer than they used to. 

It is he who watches Eliot squint ever more at the files and sees his glasses come out of his pocket with unusual regularity. There is a box full of spares in the bottom drawer of their wardrobe for when they break on the job. Hardison begins tipping the lid more often when he starts hearing the crunch of broken glass in his husband’s jacket pocket. They disappear faster these days. 

(One day Hardison has had enough. He makes the toughest case he can and slips it into Eliot’s jacket pocket the night before a job. Eliot never says anything, but it lays on the bedside table sometimes when they’re off, and the glasses stop disappearing from the box so often.) 

It is he who notices how Parker reinforces her rigs more and more, how ropes and straps support more than they used to and stretch further. The vents don’t thud so often these days. She has hung a hammock high in the rafters of their house, and he sees her less in the harness and more tucked away there. 

(He adds padded bottoms to some of the vents and larger places to rest. Parker never says anything, but the vents rattle a little more often.) 

It is he who observes how Eliot isn’t at the punching bag as regularly anymore, how he wraps his hands so carefully when he is, he who sees how Parker does not stretch quite as far as she used to, how she painstakingly plan jobs where she does not have to do a backbend or a particular contortion. 

It is he who watches every time they step out—not jump out, no, not anymore—of the van, carefully holding on to the sides, and thinks to himself as he watches them walk away— 

Is this the last time I will ever see you?

It’s Hardison who, whenever he finds a new job for them to do, eyes the circumstances and determines whether it’s something he can ship off to another team or not. His algorithms are prioritized now to chances of harm rather than potential jobs, attuned to the ever-growing injury logs. Their jobs begin to skew further to grifts and simpler building plans. But that never stops him wondering: Will this be the last job we ever take? 

Will I send them to their deaths today? 

For it is not his hair that fills with grey streaks faster and faster. It is Parker’s. When he sits behind her on the bed with her brush beside him, carefully separating her hair into strands for braiding, he finds more and more of them silvering. 

(He watches her braid it every day, but some mornings she slips before him anyway. She was delighted when she discovered he could do it, courtesy of too many little sisters and not enough time in busy school mornings. It brings a grin to his face every time he thinks of her sunshine smile.) 

It is Eliot’s, for there are late nights when Hardison finds him stretched out and half-asleep on the couch, and when he comes back with a blanket Eliot will be sitting up and waiting. He always sits beside him. Sometimes, Eliot lays back down with his head in his husband’s lap and lets him card gentle fingers through his hair. Those cherished moments become bittersweet when he finds that it is not so thick nor as deep in color as he remembers (though it is always soft). 

And it is Hardison who bolts awake in the midst of the night with the ringing of the comms in his ears, clutching at the sheets to reassure himself he is not in the van he is not in the headquarters he is not on a job he does not have the earbud in his ear he is not listening to his lovers dying. 

These nightmares plagued him from the beginning. He cannot count the number of times he has dreamt of sucking death-rattle breaths, the crack of spines, the sound of screaming in his ears, cannot count the times he has dreamt of searching and searching for bodies. Sometimes he does find them, staring eyes and crushed ribs and mangled limbs. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes they aren’t dead at all—but those times he never finds them. He can never figure out which is worse. 

But the nightmares have never been so bad as they are now. 

Other nights he does not sleep. Other nights, he sits awake and watches his lovers’ scarred chests rise and fall in deep slumbering breaths, and wonders when will I lose you? A year from now? Two? Or only months, only weeks? 

What if it’s tomorrow? 

He wakes to the others’ weeping often. But he thinks they are the ones comforting him more these days. 

Finally Hardison has had enough. 

They can’t do this any longer. He can’t do this any longer. Hardison cannot live without them, these two lights of his life, his sun and moon and bright diamond stars—but he knows he will die last, should they continue down this path, and he will die alone and many years from now. 

For it is not he who takes punch after punch from men decades younger than himself, who climbs into stories-high elevator shafts where one wrong button-press could end it all, who stares down the barrels of guns without one himself, who hangs off the sides of buildings by his fingertips, who pushes and pushes and pushes his body day in and day out. His husband and wife are resilient. The odds say that they should have been unable to keep doing this a decade ago—and the odds are wrong.

But Eliot and Parker are not the kinds of people who can merely stop. There will never be a day, Hardison knows, when they will sit down with him and say we do not want to do this anymore. They will push and push and push themselves till they break. 

Hardison knows what their breaking will look like. His dreams have told him so. Hardison will not, will never, let that happen on his watch. He will have to stop them. 

If he asked, they would. It would take coercing, it would take shouting and arguing and probably many hours of the two of them off on their own and thinking, but they would. 

But Hardison turns this over in his mind as he forges paintings and writes code and sends out emails to the teams, tries to picture stopping, and it makes him go nearly as cold as the thought of breaking does. 

Stopping means no more jobs. No more jobs means… 

Well, it means a lot of time spent volunteering, he supposes, and overseeing International’s teams. It means a lot more nights spent at home and not hotels. More of Eliot’s home cooked meals, he guesses, and more movie nights, more trips for fun. The medical kit wouldn’t have to be refilled nearly as often. Eliot’s box of glasses would never have to be replenished again. It means fewer days spent watching his partners hobble around and deny that they need to sit. Hardison wouldn’t have to plan jobs around the weather that makes their bones ache, or watch Parker wince as she drops out of a vent, or notice how Eliot needs the volume in his comm brought up higher than he used to. 

There would be no heart monitors that spike and fall on the screens. 

Hardison thinks of this, and then he imagines Parker and Eliot in their house, day in and day out, and it brings a shake to his breath rather than a steadiness. 

Ever-moving Parker and Eliot, his never-stopping always-going wife and husband, for whom he has to fill the house with distractions to keep them from pacing and snapping and looking for trouble. Parker has vents and climbing systems and a room full to the brim of boxes of locks, safes, puzzle-boxes, books of riddles, absolutely anything and everything that could challenge her. 

There’s a small gym for Eliot. Hardison always puts new gadgets and cookbooks in the kitchen, and he’s found that there are indeed some books that Eliot will spend hours reading (assuming he can find his glasses). A guitar found its way into the living room one day, and now books of music pile up on the nearby shelves. He keeps a closet specifically for outdoor gear. 

But there are only so many meals that can be cooked. Parker is already bored of most of the puzzle room. More than that, they both have to move. Challenges from books and puzzles and games have never and will never be enough for them. 

Hardison thinks of them in that house, day in and day out, growing wearier and wearier of what they have, growing tired of what life has to offer, and it sends a racking shudder through him. 

He goes on, day in and day out, and he watches them, and they push themselves, and he worries and he wonders and he dreams and he fears. 

And then, one day, it hits him. 

They’re sending off yet another kid to the foster system. Hardison will track them and make sure they find the right place, but it always aches a little to watch them go. He’s been through that hell. There is nothing he wouldn’t give not to help them. The three of them always see them off, but it never feels like enough. 

This time, though, he’s rushing, running to meet them. The kid is already leaving. Parker and Eliot watch them go, tension laced in their shoulders, and it occurs to him that he rarely ever watches them watch the kid. 

They look with the same love in their eyes he saw so many years ago. In a moment he is struck with memories: listening to Eliot teaching Molly how to hit balloons with a dart in the mirror, Parker putting her hands over Josie’s ears as she taught her to break into a car, the worried love in his husband’s voice as he searched for the girl he had known for mere hours, the outraged passion of his wife’s protectiveness over the teenager she had seen so much of herself in. 

There is the ringing of Parker’s half-choked declaration they’ll wind up like me. There is the way Eliot had spoken of Cory, a boy who still carried his father’s lunchbox while he worked in a mine for his family. There’s the kid from the boxing ring and the kid whose father was killing himself in the ice rink and the children tackling Eliot in the school and, and, and—

—and Hardison remembers teaching bright, precocious Trevor about hacking when they were trying to steal a goddamn potato of all things. And of course Breanna, wonderful, perfect Breanna, who leads International now. Breanna, whom he spent so many long, long days and nights teaching how to hack and how to build software and hardware and engineering and whatever else she asked of him. Breanna, who called even when it was four in the morning for her, just to hear his tales of the crew. She still calls. Half the time it’s only to hear their voices. 

With her comes the loud, bustling noise of Nana’s house, the shouting echoing off the walls, the warmth of his little siblings on his hip, the attention and focus it took to put braid after braid in his sisters’ hair. Nana was forever busy with the kids. He still loves coming over as often as he can to help. One thing never changes—her house is forever noisy. There are always new kids around, and there are always lessons to be taught: how to fold laundry, how to dance along to a song without worrying whether you’re doing it right, how to complete all of your schoolwork for the night, how to speak kindly, how to work together, and the most important one of all: 

Love yourself.

Nana’s work is never done. She is always busy.

Eliot and Parker cannot stand to be still. They need to be doing something. But most of all, they have to be helping someone. 

The puzzle snaps together like a flash of lightning. As the thunder rolls, so does his mind: he knows precisely what he needs to do. 

First there’s the matter of housing. Their house is big, but not that big, and anyway, the only home that matters to them is each other. Nana’s only one person, and she can manage plenty of kids on her own. Between the three of them, Hardison is sure they’ll wind up with quite the brood. 

There are any number of mansions lying around the States. It’s shocking how many there are. They’re not small, either: most of them could fit a whole extended family in them, though most of the time they’re just bought by too-rich people who can’t hope to fill a quarter of the space. Hardison should know. The crew has infiltrated plenty of them. But he knows they’ll find a way to put one to good use. 

He searches for the ones that are unlikely to be bought and only takes up space. There’s a lot of them, half too damaged to be good for anything, but one sticks out: secluded with beautiful grounds, an area with good (but not too good) schools, a half-decent price point, and a bit of a fixer-upper. 

Standing on ladders and driving in nails isn’t not physical, but it’s a lot better than dodging punches or dropping two stories off a building. Giving Eliot and Parker a project right off the bat will help ease the blow of quitting the jobs. 

Then he hunts down research. He already has shelves upon shelves of books on psychology and parenting and foster children and anything else that could be helpful, but there’s always more to read. A refresher course is important. 

While he’s got algorithms searching for that, he sets some to hunting down more details on the local area as well as building renovations, then begins building a plan. He’ll have to introduce the idea slowly. Parker and Eliot won’t be opposed, per say, but getting them to completely agree will be a challenge. 

It takes a few weeks, but it’s going well, and Hardison’s almost ready to present his idea to them. 

Then his world shatters. 

It’s another job, another day, another time when he watches his lovers head out the door and wonders will it be this time? 

Except then will it be this time? changes to oh God, it’s this time. 

Eliot’s breaths choke off at the same time something crunches.

Parker screams his name so loud Hardison’s ears ring. Or maybe that’s him—maybe that’s him screaming so hard that the taste of blood coats his throat—but it doesn’t matter because Parker’s cut off with a jerk and the comms go dead and they are dead dead dead and— 

The world spins and drops out. The next few hours are black but for agonizing pain. 

His only memory is not of sight or sound or hearing. It’s touch, the thready warmth of two pulses flickering under his fingers. 

They tell him later that he found them in the nick of time: two unconscious bodies collapsed side-by-side in a back alley, and him, clutching their wrists with 911’s number still glowing on the phone beside them. Apparently he rode in the ambulance, because they couldn’t get him away from the other two without restraining him. Every time they tried they feared they’d hurt him. 

What he remembers next is this: waking in a plastic chair, head dizzy (with sedatives, he learns later), an ice-cold knife of grief sunk into his heart and tears coating his cheeks, to the steady paired beeping of twin heart monitors. 

They survive. Miraculously, they survive, somehow with only minimal injuries. Hardison knows it’s only because of the advancements made within the last few years. Three days later they’re out of the hospital and back home, Eliot on crutches and unhappy about it, Parker complaining at length over the stitches in her arm. Hardison can’t even be annoyed by it. They’re here and they’re alive and they’re still here. 

He gives them the evening. But the next day he’s up even before them, spreading papers on the table and making breakfast at the stove (because you learn some things when your husband is a world-class cook) when the two of them come to the table. 

When they ask, he doesn’t bother to soften the blow. This is the last time he’s doing that. They’re done. 

Eliot and Parker look at each other, then at him. They nod. 

He blinks. Just like that? he wonders, and then asks it aloud. 

“We don’t want to hurt you again,” they answer, and his heart could break with relief. 

When he presents the plans they answer with all the joy he had hoped for. They’re worried, of course—will they be fit to care for children?—but Hardison only rolls his eyes and reminds them of Breanna and Josie and Molly and Cory and all the rest, and they relent. 

Two months later they move out to the mansion. It’s a difficult project. Even Hardison didn’t anticipate how long it would be (though Eliot grumbled at him about how much harder this would be than it seemed, dammit, Hardison, what have you gotten us into this time?) but it’s good work, hard work, busy work. He doesn’t have to watch them pace in a hotel room with boredom. There is no angry snapping born of too much time spent sitting around. They work and Hardison blasts music and the other teams chat with them over voice calls. 

Some nights Eliot sits in the central hall, the ceiling four stories above them and laced with Parker’s rigs, and plays new songs for them on his guitar. They all sing along when it’s one they know. The acoustics of the room are perfect for echoing and strengthening their voices. 

Other nights they curl up on a pile of king mattresses spread three-wide and two-deep, blankets heaped high, and whisper stories to one another before falling asleep to the songs of morning birds outside the windows. 

Hardison still wakes screaming. Eliot and Parker do too. But it’s not every other night anymore, and now that they aren’t on jobs, his nightmares begin to recede. 

(Of course there’s always the recurring one that did happen. Sometimes he sleeps with their wrists in his hands or his fingers pressed to their necks, just to reassure himself their hearts are still beating. If Eliot and Parker are still awake, one of them will pull him close and press his ear against their chest, and he falls asleep listening to their heartbeat.) 

Some of the International people show up to help. They come with suggestions and ideas that get put to good use. Breanna delights in helping them pick out the tools for a massive workshop. His other siblings come too, and he puts them to work. Nana is too old for traveling these days (though he knows she’ll outlive them all), but she talks to them over video calls and gives them tips on how to make everything work. 

“How on earth are you going to handle so many kids?” some of them ask. “You’re looking at a school’s worth.” 

The three of them just smile. They’re up to the task—and besides that, there’s a number of people from other crews who are also on the brink of retirement. An entire section of the manor is planned for incoming helpers: they won’t be alone for long.

Finally the mansion is done. Or, well, done enough. It’ll always be a project. There will always be a room that needs repainting, or a sink that breaks out of nowhere and needs repairing, or a piece of roof that’s leaking. But it is more than livable—oh, so beautifully livable, the best home Hardison has ever found for them, filled to the brim with all they could ever want. 

There is a library with shelves that stretch two floors up, filled with more books than he could read in a lifetime and skylights flooding the room with sunlight. The gym has endless features: a dance studio, a martial arts room, weights, gymnastic mats and bars, a goddamn ball pit because Parker loved the idea, and slides to go with it. Eliot has the biggest and best kitchen he could have ever dreamed of. There’s even a walk-in fridge and freezer. 

(“The hell do you expect me to be cooking for, an army?” he asks once, and Hardison laughs. 

“Worse. Kids.”)

 They’ve made the bedrooms a little plainer than usual, though they have rooms filled to the brim with furniture and curtains and decorations of all shapes and sizes. It will be the kids’ home too. They deserve to decorate their own rooms, no matter how long they’ll be staying. 

There are movie rooms, and rooms of pillows and couches and blankets, hidey-holes aplenty (Parker knows them all), games, puzzles, music (Hardison’s pretty sure a band could set up shop in there), art, writing spaces, closets and closets waiting to be filled, bathrooms with tubs big enough to be small pools, a real pool both indoors and out, and Hardison sometimes loses track of what else. They make sure all but some reserve rooms are used and functional. None of them will let this space go to waste. 

Getting everything up to code is a job and a half, but there’s plenty of disabled International people (and Hardison’s siblings too) who give them pointers and let them know who the right people to call are. Hardison delights in picking out elevator music. Eliot informs him that programming them to play The Imperial March every time he uses them is not as funny as he thinks. Parker plans little puzzles in Braille and puts them in all sorts of places. 

She, of course, has rigging all over the place. The high ceilings are her dream. There are hammocks everywhere. Eliot adores the greenhouse and gardens, spending hours mulling over plans and determining precisely what will work best. Hardison watches the lawn service mowing the massive yards and mulls over the best use for them. There are paths aplenty for running and walking. Eliot’s got a whole space mapped out for an orchard. Parker’s claimed a not-insignificant section of it for mazes and a high ropes course (which is going to be godawful hard to build, but he can’t wait to watch the kids on it).

Hardison’s read a lot of books and seen a lot of research supporting animal-raising as an excellent activity for kids. And he’s always wanted a dog.

When they visit the local shelter they end up with three (because Eliot’s a softie for them) and two cats. He plans a chicken coop in the back and goes to long-term planning for more farm-type animals. Parker has come to love horses over the years, and he knows Eliot’s fondness has never faded. Maybe a stable or two. 

Their adoption and foster papers process not long before they’re done. (Hardison technically already had them, but they hadn’t been done the legal way, and though the law is pretty stupid about this whole thing he still wants to do it right.) Then it’s time to get to work. 

They’re careful, of course. They begin with two siblings in the summer. Both are teenagers, that age where it’s hard to get them into a foster home, let alone to adopt. (Of course the three of them aren’t looking for adoption unless the kids want it. They’re human beings: they get to choose their own parents.) Both are quiet and wary, looking overwhelmed as they stare up into the manor’s heights. 

Parker and Hardison exchange glances, wincing. They’d known from experience that this might be tricky.

They start small, relegating everything to a single wing. It’s around the size of an ordinary house, maybe a bit bigger, and while the three of them have their own rooms elsewhere they make sure to sleep nearby. (That’s something else the kids look at them strangely for: there aren’t many polycules who foster kids, after all. There aren’t many polyamorous couples visible in the media period, though that’s changing with Breanna’s generation. )

When Eliot loads one kid’s laundry into the machine (and oh, they need to go shopping so badly for these kids), he finds a worn dress at the bottom of a pile of boy’s clothes. The same kid, he recalls, who had shaken their head a little when he had asked them about haircuts, whose hair was already brushing their shoulders. It’s fraying at the edges, obviously well loved. There’s a hole in the skirt. When he brings the laundry up he takes out the sewing kit (well, a piece of it—there is a truly enormous area of the arts room dedicated to material arts) and makes sure to fix the hole before he puts everything in the closet. The dress goes first and foremost, hung delicately on a special hanger. 

The days go by, the kids become more open, and a routine falls into place. They fill closets with dresses and scarves and put boxes of pins with pronouns in their rooms. Eliot teaches them to chop vegetables and shows them basic self-defense. He helps them walk the dogs, and when he offers they let him teach them meditation. 

Parker takes them to therapy (a tricky conversation, but well worth it) and shows the younger one how to climb. The older one is more interested in puzzles, and she happily complies, bringing out a massive box full to the brim with puzzle-boxes. 

Hardison, for his part, puts together movie nights and video gaming sessions. He shows off the library and makes sure they know where to find everything, as well as the rules of the house. When one of them shows an interest in fandom, he makes sure they know where the cosplay stuff is. One day he starts a DnD campaign with all four of his family members. 

Four becomes five, five becomes seven, the school year begins and some choose homeschooling and others choose public. Homework is done, meals are cooked, dogs are fed, cats are befriended, lightsaber battles play out in the yards and Nerf gun fights are had in the halls (Eliot still prefers a shield), pillow fights go down, tears are cried and arguments ring out in the halls, the fridge doors and pin boards and walls are covered in artwork, kids eight, nine, and ten show up, conversations about queerness are had, a Pride parade is attended, there’s therapy and therapy and so much therapy, sports teams are joined, clubs are attended, problems occur and they handle it, they handle it, they handle it all no matter how hard it is.

Hardison isn’t sure he’s ever seen the other two so happy. He, for one, cannot contain his joy. The children are hard but they are wonderful, bright sparks ready to go out into the world with no one to dim them. 

There is a baby one day that International directs to them. The rest of the kids dote on them. The work is hard, but they manage anyway, and there’s three of them to get up when the little one cries. There is nothing more endearing than watching Eliot asleep with a tiny baby crooked in his arm or Parker carefully climbing with them strapped to her chest. 

One day, as he’s sitting on the porch with the other two at his sides and watching the kids play, he glances to the sides and realizes that his partners have gone fully gray. He himself finds his joints creaking more and more these days. 

The International retirees are doing fantastic and Breanna is the perfect heir to their throne, directing teams with all her brilliance while getting her own work in on the side. She’s mentioned she thinks she might hand it off to one of her own proteges, just so she can go back to some of the old work. 

We built a legacy, he thinks, and then, We built a legacy, and we are here now, and they did not die and leave me here alone, and we are happy. 

He realizes Eliot and Parker are looking at him with that we know what you’re thinking expression. They smile at him when he notices. Parker kisses his cheek and Eliot pulls him closer on the porch swing, and though they say nothing at all, he knows they’re all thinking the same thing: 

We got our happy ending, and we made sure everyone else will too.

[sf-images]

Earth Day 2023

April 20, 2023 update: A just released IPCC (Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change) report says we are going in the wrong direction on climate change, but there is still a narrow window left to avoid a complete catastrophe to our biosphere, and that includes us.

According to an ongoing temperature analysis led by scientists at NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS), "the average global temperature on Earth has increased by at least 1.1° Celsius (1.9° Fahrenheit) since 1880. The majority of the warming has occurred since 1975, at a rate of roughly 0.15 to 0.20°C per decade. . . . . The data reflect how much warmer or cooler each region was compared to a base period of 1951-1980. (The global mean surface air temperature for that period was 14°C (57°F), with an uncertainty of several tenths of a degree.)"

Adding to this are the growing number of methane sink holes, each releasing several giga tons of gas per day. This growing phenomenon is changing all the current climate projections. Indeed, we might already have reached the climate tipping point.

There was time when we believed that we were the center of the universe and that we should have dominion over the Earth. But then Copernicus came along who asserted that the Sun is indeed the center of our solar system, the Moon being the only body that revolved around the Earth. I'm sure you know that this resulted in a bit of an uproar. As for the dominion idea, our use of resources, over-hunting, and factory farming of animals have contributed to climate change and the current sixth extinction. Watch Marvin Gaye's video, Mercy, Mercy Me (The Ecology), released in 1971.

The following two photos show a contrast between Greenland's Tunu Glacier in 1933 and 2013. This melt-back is characteristic of ice all around the world, though melt-back varies widely, depending on location.

Source: The Greenland Ice Sheet - 80 years of climate change seen from the air. / Bjørk, Anders Anker; Kjær, Kurt H.; Larsen, Nicolaj Krog; Kjeldsen, Kristian Kjellerup; Khan, Shfaqat Abbas; Funder, Svend Visby; Korsgaard, Niels Jákup. 2014. Abstract from 44th International Arctic Workshop, Boulder, Colorado, United States.

It wasn't so long ago that Carl Sagan and climate scientists started sounding the alarm that we were going down a dangerous path. Subsequent climate data has revealed that those early projections vastly underestimated what was happening, since we now know that climate change is not a linear but an exponential process. That is, it happens faster and faster over time.

Via Voyager 1 (click to enlarge)

The now famous photograph of Earth as a pale blue dot was taken on February 14, 1990 by the deep space probe, Voyager 1, from a record distance of about 6 billion kilometers (3.7 billion miles). The more recent

Via Cassini

photograph was taken by the deep space probe, Cassini. Though more striking with Saturn in the foreground, it also shows how Earth is but a spec in the cosmos. As Sagan said in his book: Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. (Carl Sagan, The Pale Blue Dot, 1994)

People often say we have to save the Earth. Not so! The Earth will go on just fine without us. The issue is preserving the current biosphere that supports us and the other higher vertebrates. There will always be life on the planet so long as there's liquid water. As I present every year, here is my fictionalized account of our worst scenario. Let's do better!