#I read it before Christmas and it’s in my brain like a virus | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mnictasbcl · 3 years

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December sniffles

Here is my next story for @connor-sent-by-cyberlife‘s #dbhcarolsandcircuits challenge, prompt DEC 5: Christmas carol.

Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor

Characters: Connor, Hank Anderson

Tags: Sickfic, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Swearing, Hank is best dad

Summary: Connor feels under the weather and tries to hide it from Hank.

Read it on AO3! Or, read below!

“Ugh.”

Hank looked up at Connor as he groaned for the fifth time that day. Which wouldn’t be odd, except they’d only just woken up ten minutes ago.

“Everything goin’ alright over there?”

“Yes. Your food is cooking.”

“Huh. Not what I meant.”

Connor didn’t reply, continuing to mindlessly stir a spoon around in the charred bacon and eggs.

“Did I… do something to annoy you?”

“What?”

This time, the android turned around. Hank almost jumped back at his appearance; hair that was usually tidy, now with an overabundance of messy curls; dark circles beneath his eyes; his skin somehow even paler than usual.

“Never mind that—are you alright?”

“Yes.” Connor replied, just as briskly as before, turning away to look back at the food he was cooking. “Oh. I believe I’ve burnt your breakfast.”

“No shit. I don’t care about that. Come over here.”

He walked over to the table, and Hank stood up at once, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead.

“You’re burning up! Didn’t know androids could get fevers…”

“We can’t.”

“Sure as hell can. You’ve got one. Do a system scan or something.”

“I don’t need to. Come on, Lieutenant, we’ll be late for work.”

Connor tried to move away but Hank stopped him immediately, raising his hand.

“Nah, we’re not going.”

“Why?”

“Cause you’re sick… or something.”

“Androids can’t get sick.”

“…did you do the scan?”

“Yes.”

“What did it say?”

“My… my core temperature is elevated, there are errors with my gyroscope and my mind palace… Nothing a system update won’t fix.”

“Alright. You know which one will solve it?”

Connor groaned. “Can’t we just go to work and I’ll do it on the way there? I’m fine!”

To demonstrate this fact, he stepped away from Hank, back towards the stove, then tripped over his own feet and crashed into the counter. It was a miracle the frying pan full of burnt food didn’t go flying, but he narrowly missed it.

“Jesus christ—”

Connor attempted to quickly right himself, before groaning again. “Fine.” He held up his hands, making slow steps over to the living room where he flopped down onto a chair. “They may be an error that I’m unsure how to fix.”

“Shit. How bad?”

“I don’t know. There’s no warning of a shutdown. In fact, most of these… these symptoms are my system trying to solve the problem.”

“Huh. Kind’ve sounds like a virus, or something. Like people get viruses and they feel shitty when their immune system is trying to kill it off.”

“Hmm. Perhaps that’s an apt comparison. But I can’t catch human viruses.”

“Nah. But are there android ones?”

“…perhaps.”

“Then what I prescribe for you is some rest.”

“Thank you, doctor Hank.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good with technology. New Jericho should hire me.”

“They’re missing out.” Connor replied, before wincing and bringing a hand up to his head.

“Right. Okay… would getting you back into bed help? Might be less bright in your room. If you rest, maybe your systems can get the virus out.”

Connor just nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. Hank took this as his cue to reach out a hand, smiling when the android took it. Slowly, he helped him off the chair and down the corridor, Sumo trotting at their heels.

Once Connor was back into bed he stepped back, brows furrowing.

“Right… Give me a minute on what to do next. It’s been a while.”

Connor tilted his head to the side. “Haven’t you been sick recently?”

“Yeah. I mean… someone else… nevermind.” He waved his hand. “I know what you need. Some hot soup.”

“I can’t eat, Hank.”

“I know that. Yeah, I was just testing you. Seeing if your brain was still working. Uh… what about a cup of hot thirium?”

“That might be nice. As long as it’s no bother.”

Hank held up his hands. “Nothing’s a bother when you’re ill, alright? Just sit tight there and I’ll be back.”

And as he poured the thirium into the mug, searched through cupboards for that old packet of bendy straws, he smiled. He might’ve been rusty but he was doing alright. Taking care of his…

His… son?

Hank sighed. He was too busy to think about that. The implications of fatherhood again. Being the father of an android with the face of a grown man. Yeah, he would think about that later.

Instead he brought the mug between his hands, made sure it was warm enough, before placing in the little straw and bringing it into Connor’s room.

“What’s this—a straw?”

Hank chuckled. “Yeah. Thought you might know what one is, but if you want the pamphlet on it…”

“I know what a straw is. I’ve just… never had one before. This one is also bendy.”

“Yeah, they’re fun like that. Hope it actually works with how dense that blood shit is…”

“It’s nice. Thanks.”

Hank nodded, standing still and watching as Connor sipped at the thirium. Some parental urge within him suddenly had the words springing from his lips—

“Hey, is that goin’ down okay? Not any problems with your throat?”

Connor, to his merit, didn’t question it. “It’s okay. My throat’s only a little scratchy. Uh… are you okay over there?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been standing there for approximately one minute fourty two seconds.”

“Oh. Shit, now I’m the one watching you eat, or whatever. Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair—”

“No.” Connor looked away. “I wasn’t complaining. But… maybe you could stay here and find something to do? You’re free to take the desk over there, or… Unless you’re busy. You can still go to work, if you want.”

“Nah. I already phoned it in. Jeffrey probably won’t understand that android viruses aren’t transmissible.” Hank lied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah. So, about doing something… I think I’m going to read.”

With that, he left the room, going across the hall into his own room and pulling open his cupboard. He reached for the current book he’d been reading, before pausing.

It wouldn’t be right to just sit there whilst Connor felt shitty and had nothing to do, would it? No. An idea popped into his mind and he pulled back his hand, grabbing a different book instead.

“What about you hear the book as well?” Hank asked as soon as he came back into the room. “I mean, I could read it to you.”

“You don’t have to. I would appreciate it, but… why?”

“Why what?”

“I thought you wanted to read.”

“Yeah. Maybe you want to hear the book as well, though. I used to do it for Cole all the time when he was sick. He always got headaches so he could never play any games or anything when he got ill, the only thing he could do was listen. Now I know you probably don’t have that problem but… It’s a Christmas book. Kind of.” He waved the cover in front of Connor’s face, perching on the end of the bed.

“A Christmas Carol. I’ve heard of it. A popular novel.”

“Yeah, it is. A classic. So… you want me to read it?”

“That would be nice.”

“Cool. Alright, just give me a minute to find the pages… And don’t expect me to do any voices. Too old for that.”

“You already sound like Scrooge.”

“Excuse me? I don’t think I get paid enough for that.”

“Fair point. Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re forgiven. Now…”

And with that he began to read the story. In the end, he did try and do voices, although ended up in a coughing fit after the tenth page of trying to get the impression of Ebeneezer Scrooge. But Connor smiled and laughed along with him, sounding a lot merrier than he had that morning, and that was all that mattered.

#dbhcarolsandcircuits #dbh #detroit become human #sickfic #connor #hank #fluff #dbh fanfic #fanfic

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areiton · 3 years

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AreiReadsTooMuch - April 18

So if you aren’t aware, I’ve been posting my recent SteveTony reads on @stevetonyweekly. So if you’d like some Stony content, check it out! But @verdantbogmoth thought I should share everything else I read over here, so we’re bringing back arei reads too much!

only if it’s chaste by akira_of_the_twilight (Stuckony/7k)

Tony ravaged his repertoire for a witty comeback, but the two kisses had shut his brain down. So instead he whirled, pretended to organize his tools and threw his head back haughtily. “Seriously? Are you two five-year-olds or something?”

“Says the man who is compared to a five-year-old on a weekly basis,” Bucky retorted.

“That is because I am young and full of vitality, unlike you ninety-year olds.”

Steve and Bucky chuckled.

Bucky walked up behind Tony and gave him one last peck on the cheek. “Whenever you’re in the mood for a little spring-winter romance let us know. We’ll be happy to indulge.”

Tony thought his brain had malfunctioned before, but that statement alone infected his brain like a deadly computer virus. So caught up in his disbelief and shock he missed Bucky and Steve’s departure. By the time he rebooted his brain, the two were gone and he was alone in the workshop.

“FRIDAY, what just happened?”

“I believe Sergeant Barnes, and by extension Captain Rogers, propositioned you, boss.”

Pirates heart by NotEvenCloseToStraight (Stuckony)

The 1700s, the Golden Age of Piracy, and Captain Steve Rogers has all he wants: a ship, a loyal crew, Bucky at his side, and the horizon offering a new adventure everyday.

But an impulsive kiss gone wrong leads to a marriage between Steve and Tony Stark, and now Steve doesn't know what to do about ANYTHING.

Steve loves Bucky, but something about Tony draws him in. Tony is too innocent for this life, but he picks up a sword anyway. Bucky is Steve's, but when he offers his hand to Tony and now the three of them are something new.

When the truth about Steve's mission to ruin the Stark name comes out, Tony runs away, leaving Steve and Bucky behind in search of answers to the secrets hidden from him his whole life-- about his company, about Uncle Obie, about his parents death.

Steve and Bucky cant abandon their mission against Stane and Tony cant deal with the answers he finds in New York.

Is this the end? Is Tony gone forever? Or will he leave his old life and return to the sea and the Pirates that hold his heart?

master of my fate (captain of my soul) by half_submergedinPurgatory (Stuckony/14k)

Soulmarks aren't always a good thing. People say they stand for a grand destiny, but Tony is a fan of evidence over folklore. And evidence states that your 'grand destiny' could simply be your ending. Death or something worse.

Tony thinks his soulmark just represents his death. It certainly doesn't mean that Bucky and Steve are his soulmates.

Nailed it by Kangofu_CB, Lissadiane, Villainny (Nny) (Winterhawk / 24k)

“From GrrlTragic: Suddenly all the actual sex toys in the world disappear, what do you use in their place?”

Bucky is grateful he’s locked his arm, because otherwise the camera would’ve tumbled straight out of his grip and onto the floor. He’s staring at Clint in shock but Clint doesn’t seem to notice, just laughing and setting the card aside as he continues to talk.

What’s a little Wank Off Wednesday between friends?

Stop the world (i want to get off) by 27dragons, tisfan (Winteriron/46K)

Five times Tony and Bucky used their safewords, and one time they didn’t have to.

or, Clint can’t believe that Bucky Barnes is so damned vanilla when he’s dating Tony Stark…

or, how Bucky learns to hurt people in the fun way.

a couple rebel top gun pilots (flying with nowhere to be) by notcaycepollard (Sambucky/19k)

That seems to be the thing that breaks the ice between them; Bucky's never really hung out with Sam before, past being jammed into a too-small car for six hours and then two uncomfortable months in a safehouse trying not to get on each other’s last nerve. Now they’re getting lunch or coffee every few days. Sam falls asleep on Bucky’s couch three more times. Bucky joins him and Steve a couple of times on their morning run.

He doesn’t notice, is the thing; doesn’t notice how ever since Sam slept on his couch that night he’s been letting Bucky closer bit by bit, that as Bucky’s been wondering about the boundaries and structures of friendship, Sam’s been drawing in.

kiss and tell by ali_aliska (Winteriron/25k)

Loki is a menace who doesn't take time off for the holidays and there is now an enchanted mistletoe popping up above Tony every time someone gets too close, keeping them stuck until they share a kiss.

Thankfully, the Avengers are an affectionate bunch and any kiss will do, so Tony isn't stressing out about it, really.

Well, except for the part where the one person he really wants to kiss has been avoiding him like the plague, even before the whole mistletoe business. Clearly Tony has ruined his friendship with Bucky somehow and he should just give up on his dumb crush and this is just the worst Christmas ever.

~*~*~

Bucky Barnes would really just like for the rest of the Avengers to stop kissing the man of his dreams, the man he realized he's in love with, all the time, all over the Tower, while looking Bucky straight in the eye.

#arei reads too much #fic recs #winteriron #stuckony #sambucky #fic rec list #stony

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hereisleo · 4 years

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NEON JUNCTION

w/ k.ys & j.wy

g/ cyberpunk!au, friendship, mild angst

w.c/ 3.8k

a.n/ @moonchildsaurora, here it is finally. from your birthday through christmas, new years and now our one year of friendshipvery, this is long overdue and thank you so much for you patience. ah, time flown hasn’t it. i will forever be grateful of your friendship and reaching out to me first, my lovely 🌹 anon. the incredible talent you have in creativity, you have me absolutely smitten over world building (multiples now) in our convos. you’re such a vibrant person, Sunray, and i adore you dearly from the bottom of my heart. seeing your messages first thing in the morning and at the end of the night is a good way to start and end the day. cheers to more years to come and who knows our dynamics might shift akin to woosang. i love you to pluto and back! here’s to friendship and to our first pieces of the year! (excuse the mistakes you find here pretend they don’t exists).

t.w/ expletives, character death (not the mains)

playlists/ cyberworld | k.ys skates & drones

An illegal virtual world. A damaged psyche.

How far is Yeosang willing to go to find the answers to his questions? Will he put his friendship on the line? Just as how his life is beginning to near its end. The DarkNet is not a place for weaklings and its the only place where he perhaps will get his answers.

A treacherous journey is afoot.

Yeosang knows the DarkNet better than he knows his world, the real world where his body is still on the chair in the attic of his friend’s humble abode. In the net, it’s only his mind and light particles forming his appearance. Dangerous but thrilling. He has come to love the rushing adrenaline, an outlet for him to rid of his pent up frustration. Is he properly armed? Is his supply stocked well? In the old world, this is all a video game played on television. In the current world, the world he lives in, the post-apocalyptic environment, this is his reality. The DarkNet, everything illegal happens here. Credit, fame, information, it doesn’t matter what or who you are in the real world but the DarkNet requires you to build a name for yourself. It has taken so much from him. He’s sore, tired, most definitely overworked although the last is self-imposed for many reasons. He can’t rest until he has answers and the credits needed.

A virus slams his wall of codes, dragging him into a fight, vision blurring slightly from the impact and red lights of warning. His monitor reads a huge output of energy from the wild AI that strikes him. The resounding sound of ‘FIGHT’ reverberates in his ears and his light particle fingers flew across the screen, mind racing and the heartbeat bar on the top right corner shines yellow in warning with how fast his heart is hammering in this ribcage. Not being able to code is akin to a death sentence in his line of work. Talons slam on to his screen, vicious orange lines of codes burning into his memory, a phoenix avatar. He hasn’t seen one in so long after- No, now is not the time, Yeosang. A little character waving a sign appears, the nervous bouncing and worried expression have him refocusing. ‘STAY ALIVE.’ He will and with it comes forth his avatar, roaring at the wild phoenix AI. A sophisticated dragon in black codes emerges, wrestling the phoenix on to the virtual dirt ground. If there’s one thing Yeosang has that is his own, it’ll be willpower. His friend calls it being stubborn but he’ll take stubborn too.

The virtual cheering falls deaf to his ears, the colosseum is a mere replica of past time, almost real, he could almost touch it. Almost. Alas, what’s long gone can never be rebuilt the same way. Yeosang simply doesn’t have the clearance or importance to enter the colosseum in the real world. No, those are for the governmental scums. The reason why he resorts to the DarkNet. Another swipe recalibrates his mind that he’s still in the middle of a deathmatch. He hates phoenix, they’re hard to kill. His neon green French nails dance under the black light of his screen, the pads of his fingers typing codes after codes. ‘TERMINATE’ and his dragon glows from within, orange light peeking between the scales, rumbling with brewing fire. The dragon pins the phoenix to the ground by its neck, the angry screeching of the bird makes Yeosang ground his teeth. Too close to home, the similarity of the screams of survival from that night comes crashing to the forefront of his mind. “End it, Mars!” He yells and his dragon obeys, jaws unhinging and relentless waterfall of flames burn the phoenix to its ashes. ‘VICTORY’ flashes on his screen. He doesn’t stick around for long, his vitals are yellow, caution. It’s time to log out, he taps the green box of ‘EXIT’ on the corner. The tugging sensation of his mind being dragged back into reality has him closing his eyes to diminish the dull ache. Yeosang doesn’t see the ashes trembling as his light apparition disappears from the illegal virtual world.

Disengaging from the DarkNet is proving to be difficult for Yeosang, his consciousness ebbs and flows, brainwaves tangled up in what’s real and what’s not. Wooyoung stands stiffly next to the Meta, feeling sick in his stomach, chest constricting with worry. He’s not averse to the virtual world but it doesn’t mean he likes it the same. He watches the Meta shut down, Yeosang’s vitals and brain activity updated on the glass screen mounted on the wall. The little character Yeosang crafted into the AI system jumps up and down with happy chirps, ‘STABLE.’ Hehetmon, it’s called, a moniker after the old TV show from the gone world. He and Yeosang would binge-watch together occasionally when he’s not swamped from juggling two jobs. Three. Watching over Yeosang is a job in itself. A job he’s willing to sacrifice everything else for.

A groan has Wooyoung almost throwing himself to his friend but he digs his heels and instead he kneels beside the blasted chair and hands reaching to disconnect all the wires attached to Yeosang’s body. He doesn’t know all the names of the cables but he does know the two most important, the EKG and the digital implant. Hehetmon on the screen highlights the different wires that need to be detached first. The cables slither itself back to its ports within the chair. He gingerly touches the base of Yeosang’s neck, the wire attached to the neural digital implant gives into his fingers without a fight. He thinks it’s muscle memory, he does this often enough Hehetmon keeps a record on how fast he could bring Yeosang out of the Meta. (Less than a minute when push comes to shove but usually under two.) They have come so far.

14-year-old Wooyoung was putting his younger brother to sleep, a worn-out storybook clutched between his hand as his brother rested against his chest, the strong thumping of his heart and his voice lulling the younger. He could have used the tablet, everything was in it but they only had one and he didn’t want to take it from his parents. They needed it more and they couldn’t afford another one, they couldn’t afford many things. His parents splurged on a book when they first had him, a treasure for their little treasure. He had read the compiled fairytales from cover to cover, the make-believe of the olden freedom, a taste he can only experience between the pages and in his mind when the house was still. A dream far from reality.

The door creaked open and Wooyoung stiffened. It was the newcomer. “How’s Kyungmin?” Timid. The new addition- Yeosang, his parents scolded him for being impolite by not referring to the other boy by his name. Exhausted, malnourished and was most definitely ill. His parents were apprehensive about Yeosang's sudden appearance but took him in regardless. Wooyoung was reluctant to have a new addition in the place. As if they need another mouth to feed. They were struggling to meet ends. He glanced at the barely one-year-old sleeping on his chest, the high temperature took a toll on the small body. “The fever broke.” He left it at that and Yeosang was understanding enough to let the matter rest. He put the book aside and cradled Kyungmin securely before standing up. Yeosang was shifting from foot to foot by the door, Wooyoung sighed exasperatedly, he was tired enough, “Just lie down somewhere already.” The blonde let out an awkward thanks and shuffled to the bottom bunk bed on the other side of the room. Wooyoung didn’t have the energy to tell him the bed Yeosang occupied was his. He left the room and laid Kyungmin back in his crib in his parents' room.

“What are you doing?” Wooyoung didn’t expect Yeosang to flinch at the question nor did he expect to find the other boy to be curled up on the floor and reading the fairy tales book. Yeosang stood up, the book slipping from his hands and both of them winced when it hit the ground. He picked it up hastily and hung his head, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” Wooyoung waved him off, “It’s fine.” Thick silence blanketed the room and neither moved to ease it. Yeosang opened his mouth before closing it again. He managed to string out a sentence after a while, “There were never any books back there.” Back there? Did he mean home? “Do your parents never read you to sleep?” Wooyoung almost apologised, Yeosang flinched at the mention of parents. The blonde shook his head and Wooyoung felt his stomach twist. “Mum used to sing me to sleep.” His chest tightened.

“How did you end up out here, Yeosang?” Wooyoung thought he was a bastard for not calling Yeosang by his name sooner. He never witnessed someone look so surprised by hearing their name. He walked up to his bed and sat down, patting the space next to him. Yeosang hesitated before giving in and sat next to him, posture tense and ready to bolt. “I ran away.”

Yeosang rouses from his ‘sleep’, the warm dark yellow light welcoming him into reality and so does the familiar voice next to him. Wooyoung is reading to him and he recognises the old story immediately. The Ugly Duckling. “It’s getting worse lately.” The pages flutter and Wooyoung keeps reading line after line in soft tandem. The book closes inaudibly. “You slept through dinner.” Yeosang steps into the Meta in the afternoon and for him to wake up at night, it’s getting worse indeed. He’s grateful that he hasn’t started hallucinating though he knows it wouldn’t be far if he keeps going at the pace he’s been putting his psyche through.

“Woo-”

“I know.”

“Wooyoung, I-”

“I know, Yeosang!”

“I know you can’t stop going into the Meta. I know I can’t stop you from fighting in the DarkNet. I know you need answers. But would you please take care of yourself for once!” Wooyoung runs an aggravated hand through his hair, he slumps forward in his seat, elbows digging to his knees and face hidden in his palms. Yeosang falls silent, letting his best friend, who is as close as a brother, gather his bearing. He stands up and his legs give out under him, muscles convulsing, sending him tumbling back to the Meta chair. He feels like puking yet his throat is also closing up, his head spinning and there is ringing in his ears, Wooyoung’s voice sounds so distant even though he is being held against the ravenette. He could make out flashing blue lights through his blurry vision, the health scanner kept handy beeps but he could barely hear it.

It could have been a minute or ten or an hour before Yeosang takes a hold of reality. His heart slams furiously within his ribcage and he’s once again reminded of the sped-up mortality rate of a DarkNet gladiator. The effects the Meta has on a person is damaging and he started to show the symptoms of what they called the bleeding effect. He currently renders more physical than mental and it won’t be long until the latter catches up. For how long he’s been exposed to the Meta, it’ll be sooner than he expects.

He blindly searches for Wooyoung’s hand, grasping it in a vice-like grip. He’s not the only one who’s scared. Yeosang doesn’t want to lose his sanity. He’s exhausted enough but there’s no rest for the wicked. He can’t rest, he can’t sleep with both eyes closed knowing there are answers for him out there and he needs to find it. He’s quite willing to put his psyche on the line even if it means him being thrown into the loony bin. Wooyoung loops his arms around Yeosang, tight enough for the blonde to feel how fast Wooyoung’s heart is racing. There’s a hole of emptiness in his stomach. “Can you stay with me tonight?” His voice is too raspy for either’s liking. There’s not a peep of sound coming from Wooyoung. Action speaks louder than words, especially when it’s Wooyoung. Wooyoung has a lot of words to use and yet he chooses not to, Yeosang knows better than to question it. He trusts the other with his life, his psyche and all that he is. There’s nothing that would err Yeosang to turn his back against Wooyoung. He owes Wooyoung way too much. All the credits in his account couldn’t repay what the other has done for him. It’s never enough and never will be. The seven years that they have known each other and the experiences they go through, Yeosang thinks he could never not trust Wooyoung. His life in reality and the Meta is in Wooyoung’s hands. Others would say their relationship isn’t healthy, that they are too dependent on one another and maybe that’s true. He knows he can’t function in the real world without the other.

“Promise me one thing, Yeosang. Don’t go into the Meta without me.”

Yeosang nuzzles his head into the space between Wooyoung’s shoulder and neck, his hands bunching the fabric of his friend’s shirt. The emptiness settles deeper. It’s not an answer because he knows he can’t keep such a promise. Wooyoung knows it too.

The DarkNet has shifted again. No two places look the same after each login. It changes constantly to avoid detection from the government’s pesky security. The lines of codes forming his apparition in the Net walk on the edge of a skyscraper. Mars languidly flew around the building ready to catch him if he slips. He won’t die necessarily, forcibly exited from the Net with some repercussions but not dead or just as good as dead. He has heard of those who were in comatose or worse. Mars huffs out a flaming breath, a rumbling growl thickening in its throat and Yeosang halts on his track. A stray orange feather twirls into his vision and his hands involuntarily shake, mind racing hundreds of miles an hour and he almost could feel the phantom cold sweat. He sees Mars’s wing slides between him and the feather, the thick lines of codes that formed the dragon burst into a pixelated mess and his ears ring from the explosion and the angry roar of his avatar. In the distance, Yeosang sights a phoenix emerging amongst the skyscrapers.

He sinks to his knees, hands covering his ears trying to block the screaming in his head or maybe he’s the one who is screaming. Mars knocks him into safety, away from the ledge and under its wing. No! No! No! His nails dig into his scalp.

The screeching of a phoenix avatar was the last warning he heard. The last sound to be ingrained to his memory with his mentor, with his brother, with his only friend in the blasted tech conglomerate. Yeosang could make out the silent words of the man across from him, trapped under locking codes and rubbles. Damages sustained in the Meta transferred over to the real world. The red warning signs ‘LOW HEALTH’ flashed before his eyes. His screen lit up with white words and Hehetmon skipped across the coded lines in loading.

- AVATAR TRANSFER IN PROGRESS -

URL: ORTECH://psh.MARS.980403

PREDECESSOR: [loading…]

Yeosang reached out futilely. The orange feathers fluttered around them, singing with heat as they glowed and sparked. Through his heavily cracked screen, he saw a small content yet the regretful smile of his friend. His eyes prickled with tears, dread, no, acceptance of the inevitable sank into him. Why is it always the best one to go first? One of the feathers zinged, a chain reaction of explosions rained upon them and Yeosang couldn’t hear his scream.

“Seonghwa!”

Take care of him, Mars.

- AVATAR TRANSFER COMPLETED -

“Kang Yeosang, get a grip of yourself!”

Yeosang stills at the call of his name. His battle screen is already up and the rectangular box of the communication line is open. Since when? Hehetmon spins in cheers when his eyes locked onto the pair of brown eyes he’s never tired of seeing. The beauty mark under the right eye puts a soothing balm into his mind. Wooyoung. His nails ease from its abuse against his scalp. Fuck, he must look so pathetic right now.

“You little bastard, I told you not to go into the Meta without me!” Guilt tinges in his chest. Yeosang opens his mouth, apology ready at the tip of his tongue. “Keep your ‘sorry’, we got a bird to cook.” Wooyoung never fails to reassure him but he knows it’s merely the calm before the storm. He’ll get his scolding later. Mummy never forgets.

He does what he does best even in trouble, “I’m still taller than you.” There’s still a quiver in his voice but the incredulous look on Wooyoung’s face makes him feel better. “Strip it off its feathers already, dammit! There’s milk on fire here!” Yeosang exhales and rises to his feet, his screen following his movement. The French manicure is chipped but the neon green is still vibrant in contrast to the black light emitting in front of him. He types in a series of battle commands, Mars flies higher and higher into the virtual light blue sky. Blades like armour materialise over the avatar’s claws and thick orange light peeks through between its scales. The phoenix is still far but his screen picks up the avatar’s image, the damages from their previous encounter aren’t fully repaired. What kind of a gladiator does that? Even Wooyoung can do better.

From Yeosang’s view, Mars appears to be a crow, so small up so high. Of course, he never sees the real bird, far extinct in the old world but there’s nothing that couldn’t be found on the Net. His avatar reaches right below the height barrier and takes a sharp nosedive, its weight falling at terminal velocity. Mars jaws unhinged and the fire stokes in the depths of its belly slowly rise to its throat. The screech emitting from the bird is as irritating as he remembers and his fingers tremble. He can’t tell if it’s fear or physical exertion but his head is in the game and mind is surprisingly clear despite the fireballs of feathers that are about to burst. Mars is partly hidden from his eyes with the myriad of singing explosives surrounding the dragon. Yeosang learns the hard way and he’s a learned man as Wooyoung puts it. He activates the defence codes just as the first fireball of many rains upon the black scales. He smirks from his perch, he didn’t spend many sleepless nights perfecting the codes for nothing, the tautness in his shoulders and back are good reminders too. The enraged squawk from the phoenix AI lifts his mood. The crosshair locks into place and the ‘TERMINATE’ sign appears. “Give it a good roast, Mars.” His finger taps the sign and an eruption of fire falls on the ugly big bird. His avatars claws sink into the phoenix broken pixels and glitches are visible around the broken codes. The storm of fire doesn’t relent, damages blooming across the sky and buildings. Surely the surge of energy catches the attention of fellow DarkNet users and government security. Mars doesn’t let up until each code is destroyed beyond repair, its claws tearing the wings apart by the joints. Yeosang slams his fists against the screen and yells when ‘VICTORY’ pops up in vibrant gold. Wooyoung’s cheers fall deaf to his ears over Mars roaring.

He slumps against the ledge, laughing like tomorrow won't come. He can’t believe it. He’s still alive and he supposes revenge is exacted. It feels empty somehow, he doesn’t know how to process the emotions in him at the moment. The event hasn’t hit him yet. “You’re so melodramatic, Yeosang,” Wooyoung chirps from the corner of his screen, “Give it a good roast, Mars!” His friend mimics his words earlier and Yeosang rolls his eyes but he can’t help the smile creeping on his face. Mars lets out a proud huff beside him, the dragon gives him an affectionate nudge and its ember eyes shine with much familiarity. His breath hitches but the avatar disappear with a sharp toothy grin. “Yeosang?” He makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He might have, “I’m alright, Woo. I’m going back now.” Even now you still look after me. Messages and clips of the fight start to spread in the forum. Data from the scrimmage is filed away, he’ll deal with them later. Hehetmon is skipping over the green box of ‘EXIT’ and he lets the mini AI jump on the button. He closes his eyes as the pull on the base of his neck erases his condensed light form from the DarkNet.

“Six months?!”

Wooyoung clicks his tongue as he inspects the nonexistent dirt under his fingernails, “Do you want one year instead? Okay. I’m completely fine with it.” Yeosang frantically refuses the added length, “Six months! Six months! Deal!” He never wants to wipe the shit-eating smirk off his friend's face so much. “Get scrubbing then.” Mummy never forgets indeed. Wooyoung not only scolds him but also gives his ear a good pinch and twist as soon as he is fit to walk around. Now he’s stuck on dishwashing duty under ‘consider it your retribution for breaking your promise.’ Yeosang sighs, he picks up a dirty dish and squirts the washing liquid on the plate. He’ll count himself lucky Wooyoung didn’t put him out there as hall staff.

“Did you process the data from last time?” His hand stops moving at the inquiry. Hell, he didn’t like what he saw on the files and Wooyoung most certainly wouldn’t either. God, he hates this so much. He doesn’t like it when the past comes biting back. “The phoenix URL traces back to ORBIT Tech.” A utensil clatters to the floor and Wooyoung curses like his seventeen-year-old self. “ORBIT Tech? Please tell me it’s a different conglomerate and not the piece of ‘the future is virtual science’ shit of your lunatic father’s!”

Yeosang nods, lips thinning, “Unfortunately, it is. That’s not the worst.” Wooyoung sucks in a breath, the come hither motion gestures him to go on. “I thought the phoenix was a wild AI or someone from the DarkNet was bribed,” he pauses, eyes searching for the dark browns of his friend’s, “It was under Seonghwa’s name.”

“Seonghwa’s dead! He couldn’t possibly-” Wooyoung halts his rant when he notices the unflinching gaze of his seven years companion. It clicks in his mind the inevitable of many other inevitables are descending rapidly on them. At some point, there will be a time where he couldn’t protect Yeosang. There will be a time where his friend has to return from where he comes from. He would be lying if he didn’t lose sleep thinking of this day. The twinkling skyscraper at the centre of the city mocks him. Yeosang doesn’t belong in the nest infested with lies. He’ll be damned, he much rather have Yeosang fights in the DarkNet instead. He’ll take the repercussions. But the chills running down his spine, the pressure in his chest and the unnerving hollowness in his stomach douse him in the harsh reality they live in. The finality of it grips his marrows.

“It’s time for me to stop running.”

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thesparkinthefire · 5 years

Text

Ghost - Pedro Pascal x Reader

A/N: I have a one and a half hour breakfast break because my company does not know how to plan, so I thought I might as well upload this now. I am uploading it through my phone and don't know how to proper edit on tumblr so this might look like a mess. English is also not my first language and I never wrote in it before - please point out any mistakes I might have made. I think this is part one of two.

Word count: 1,997

Paaring: Pedro Pascal crushing on musical!Reader ft. Oscar Isaac

Trigger Warning: age gap mentioned, a lot of jealousy

"Though my heart is broken, it keeps breaking every day." - With You, the Ghost cast album

Pedro didn't hate Oscar. It was quiet the opposite – that guy was his best friend. His amigo in the US of A and the wild life of Hollywood. Working with him on Triple Frontier was a dream come true and felt more like a guys-trip than work most of the time. Both of them were part of the Star Wars universe and if it somehow would have been possible they would love for their characters to meet just to work together a little more.

No, Pedro didn't hate Oscar. Except for two things.

First being that one time when he gave him a Wet Willy during that interview when they were answering questions people seem to type into Google – he still cringed whenever he thought back.

The second thing were you. Not exactly you-you because you did absolutely nothing wrong, but for Oscar's relationship with you.

What an irony, that Pedro had introduced the both of you. You were a young actress from Europe and after you blew up because of your role in a teen-romance movie you were his partner on the second season of The Mandalorian. Your character had been a fan favourite, came into the show half way through the season and was set to stay at least for a few more episodes in the third season.

You were younger than him. A lot. But that had never bothered you. In every interview you had you were asked how working with “an experienced actor like Pedro Pascal” was like – which he found a little offensive, he might have a little lower back-pain but he wasn't that old – you smiled and answered that age was only a number and you two got along very well. And he was more than glad that you saw it that way.

To claim that he had never crushed on one of the actresses he had acted romance with would simply be a lie, but he was a professional. He never told anyone if he did and he did his best at keeping it a secret and not letting his feelings dominate his brain. But it was different with you. The moment he first saw you he thanked god that you had gotten the role. You were stunning in your very own way. Always kind to everybody – it didn't matter whether you were talking to him, the director or the clumsy intern. You always brought yourself to smile in the morning even though getting up early was like torture to you. You stayed focused on set, even when your nerves were killing you. Having a bad day was tough but you always acted kind and polite. You were perfect. In every possible way. Acting romance was the main job for the two of you and that wasn't only hard because he was wearing Din's helmet all the time. No, the problem was that he wasn't acting. He fell madly in love with you. It wasn't even your character. You were just so damn perfect.

You met a bunch of times outside of work, after the second season had aired and press tour had been wrapped. You got along so perfectly well that he sometimes had to ask himself, if he wasn't being too obvious. Maybe he was. But you never told him to step back or just didn't notice it. You should have noticed it by the time he asked you, what you were doing for Christmas. “Probably watching Netflix,” you had answered. “I am not going home until the new year and, yeah, everyone else is with their families.”

“You could join me,” Pedro had said before his mind had really processed the words you had said. “I mean- I am having dinner with a bunch of friends and, yes, we don't have a no-girls rule and you could join me. Us.” He had never seen something as beautiful as you when your eyes lit up in that moment. You happily accepted. That's how you met Oscar Isaac. Pedro's best friend, who he had never hated as much as in the moment when you were kissing him.

Oscar and you had a lot in common. You both loved Star Wars and were more than happy to discus every single theory about Finnpoe, Din Djaren and your character, the Skywalkers and Baby Yoda – just like you and him had so many times before. You both started by playing theatre – just like he did. You learned Spanish when you were still in school and tried your best to hold simple conversations with Oscar while he tried to teach you more – just like Pedro had. The thing that really connected the both of you and that made Pedro feel invisible were musicals. Sure, he had seen a few but singing was just not his thing. Oscar and you, on the other hand spent hours talking about the motifs in Hamilton, the fate of Gleb in Anastasia, the musical adaption of Heathers, the movie adaption of Cats and the harmonies in Dear Evan Hansen. Pedro loved listening to you. You were the most beautiful when you were talking about something you were as passionate about as musicals. You whole face lit up and you started talking with your hands. As much as he loved it, he hated it. Because it wasn't him you were talking with but mainly Oscar. You both loved singing and sooner or later ended up with his guitar, when the three of you were meeting at Oscar's house, or at your piano, when you were in your apartment. Pedro didn't dare to imagine how many hours you had spent in togetherness singing and acting out scenes. Fuck's sake he shouldn't – Oscar was married after all.

The year after you met some genius decided to bring the musical Ghost to California for a four week run and thought that no couple would be a better fit than Oscar and you. That was solely a PR-gig because the same director was about to host a bigger play the month after the run, but Oscar still accepted. So did you. And that hurt Pedro so much.

You had been doing a few musicals before you blew up as an actress and were just perfect for the role for Molly but Oscar, god, out of all people. He didn't know if he could handle seeing the you being in love. Even if it was just on stage.

The day Oscar and you accepted the part the three of you met up and watched the movie the musical was based on. You were crying half of the time and Oscar was visibly touched too but Pedro hated it. Maybe only because of the thought of you kissing his best friend for at least four weeks – rehearsals additional. He watched you from the corner of his eye and when he saw Oscar lean in you direction, he quickly wrapped his arm around you and pulled you in. “You are truly a crybaby,” he mumbled and handed you another tissue. For an hour the world was perfect – you, cuddled into his side while watching a romance.

But it soon got back to the cruel reality when Oscar decided, after the movie ended, the best way to cheer you up was singing Unchained Melody to you.

And now he was standing in the doorway to your rehearsal room in the theatre that you had stared working in a week ago, looking at you somewhat between sitting and laying on the orange couch and Oscar above you. Kissing you. Hands roaming over your body, under your shirt, moving it up. It was like looking at an accident – he didn't want to watch because it horrified him, but at the same time he couldn't look away. His heart was crushing, breaking. And the worst thing was, that the first thing that crossed his mind wasn't, that Oscar is a married man.

“Okay, wait,” you said, pushing him away from you. “Is it weird when I do that?”

“What?”

“That.” You tapped against his side, which was turned away from Pedro.

“Normally not but the audience can't see that because that side of us is turned to the back of the stage.”

Fuck.

That was a stage kiss. You were practising. That was all part of the rehearsal. Oscar wasn't cheating on his wife and you weren't... well, you weren't doing anything at all because Pedro had never made the god damn move of asking you out. It had been almost a year since he first met you at the table reading for the second Mandalorian season and he never said anything. Why did he never say anything? He was such an idiot. He could have slapped himself, hit his head against the next wall. What the fuck was holding him back?

“Hey Pedro! Didn't hear you coming.” Your voice brought him back to reality. Oscar moved off of you and you sat back up again. God, he had been starring. He had definitely been starring.

“Todo esta bien, amigo?”, Oscar asked.

“Yeah... Yeah, sure. I am just not feeling well.” That was an understatement. He was feeling sick. Fucking sick. He couldn't wait for the premiere. You would be so happy and excited while the knot in his throat was growing minute by minute until he was forced to sit through two hours of you and his best friend being in love. Usually he was good at separating the human from the role they were playing but somehow it was not possible for him this time. His brain couldn't and it made him mad and sad at the same time because he wanted to be happy for you. Ghost was a musical you were talking about before. It was possibly a dream come true and a huge opportunity to be selected for the leading role and he should be happy for you. He wanted to support you and his best friend on their project and give them the acting advice, they asked him for – that's why he even came here – but his heart wanted him to turn around and walk right out the door and never come back. Maybe even drink to get the images out of his head. They were nightmare material to him.

“Well, don't get us sick. We only have two more weeks until the premiere.”

“I will let you know once I know how to control sickness,” he snapped back a bit harsher than the wanted to. That's what it was. Sickness. A virus. Jealousy was poisoning his heart.

All he wanted was to be there for you. Because he knew how anxious premiers made you. Everyone kept asking you about how you were doing and you always smiled and said that you were just as nervous as everybody working on the production but that wasn't the full truth. Pedro saw it in the way your smile faded for a split second, once the question was asked. He noticed it when you took longer and longer to reply to his messages. He noticed, that you were a little more quiet than usual when you were out for dinner. Stress-crying was a thing you did and he would bet that you had already have a few breakdowns.

He wanted nothing more than to comfort you. To pull you in a tight hug, kiss your head and tell you that everything will turn out just fine, because you were gorgeous in every way possible. You were intelligent and strong and beautiful – simply amazing. Why did he never ask you out? It was way too late to do it now, wasn't it? You had grown to be something like best friends and best friends don't date each other.

He had shoot his shot.

And you would never be his.

Part two

#I am so sorry #My heart hurts #Pedro Pascal #josé pedro balmaceda pascal #Oscar Isaac #Pedro pascal x reader #Reader #Narcos #triple frontier #game of thrones #Oscar Isaac x reader #At least it is hinted #Star wars #The mandalorian #ex machina #I don't know how to tag stuff #Ronja writes

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seldnei · 4 years

Text

taking stock of 2020

For any new followers: this is my annual post about my writing in the past year. This is purely for my own mental health--the tag says “seldnei is tired of feeling like a slacker” for a reason. Please feel free to skip.

Okay, so what did I accomplish in 2020?

Well, first note: I AM ALIVE AND EVERYTHING ELSE IS FUCKING ICING.

In 2019 I was having issues getting my shit together. I had literally just started feeling like I had my feet under me when Covid hit, and … I dunno. Pandemic brain was an issue, but also I re-evaluated what I feel makes me “successful.” In general, writing-career-wise, I feel pretty happy with where I am. Sure, I’d like to publish more, and of course I’d love to be able to afford to write full-time, but if I died (which was a scarily plausible idea this year) I don’t think I’d have very many regrets in that area.

BUT. My idea of “success” does have to do with doing the work. Maybe I won’t become a NYT bestseller, but my self-image as a writer depends on actually writing things and finishing them, and that did not happen as much as I wanted it to this year. There are, absolutely, legitimate reasons for that. I’m trying very hard not to beat myself up over it.

I did do some things. Sometimes it was like pulling teeth, but I did do some things.

The Novel:

Oh, man, this is the thing I did not do. I just … stopped querying agents entirely. And unlike my decision re: short stories (see below), this was not a conscious choice on my part. I just didn’t do it. I think it just became Too Much to be sending queries into the ether when I was also wondering if I was going to catch this virus/trying to pivot my day job to remote work/dealing with Z’s online school.

I did do the query letter class on Reedsy, which was pretty good.

I’m not sure what I want to do with the book. I feel very stuck. One thing I’m considering is scraping some cash together for an editing pass from a freelance editor, just to see if the whole thing really sucks or if it’s just my brain being overwhelmed.

Not sure how my feelings about my career (above) fit into this, either. It is a big tangle in my brain at the moment.

Short Stories

I specifically decided in … February? March? Just before lockdown, anyway … that I would spend 2020 focusing on writing rather than submitting (the exception to this was FUCKIT). So not many submissions went out last year. I also didn’t get as many stories drafted or revised as I’d hoped, but whatever.

I finished a Teachouts story—with camels!—and tried outlining for the first time, which went pretty well. It’s another long one, and needs revising, but I like it a lot. I got to watch a lot of camel videos for it, and research the camel corps (the US military looked into using camels instead of donkeys/mules in the southwest).

I wrote a self-indulgent ghost story and put it on the blog.

I also wrote an Orpheus/Eurydice story for FUCKIT that I think of as “trailer trash Eurydice,” because I imagine her telling him the story in their tiny little trailer that they’ve got illegally parked in the mountains somewhere.

“Primary Manifestations” came out in October in Stories We Tell After Midnight vol 2. Upon reading it in print, I immediately found a giant continuity error that I, two betas, and the editor all missed. Ah, well, such is life.

Miscellany

I wrote 3 poems: “Instructions for Quarantine,” “Christmas 2020,” and “Stopping by Jolene’s on a Snowy Evening,” which is a mashup of exactly what you think it is. I keep debating putting it on Tumblr.

I did a reading on Instagram! And people came! My mother had to hear me say “fuck,” like, a lot!

Wrote 3 pieces for FUCKIT, and finished a draft of the 4th thing (which is currently resting before revisions). FUCKIT, by the way, has been one of my two saving graces this year, keeping me writing even when I was lost in pandemic fog.

Journaled all goddamned year; my other saving grace. I took Fran Wilde’s creative journaling class at the Rambo Academy in January, and started keeping a paper journal again shortly after. AND HOLY CATS DID I NEED IT.

Blogged, as per usual. Actually a bit more than usual, during quarantine.

So. Many. Notes. Indentured servant demons notes. Incremental apocalypse notes. Mad Scientist’s Daughter notes Urban fantasy notes (this one would be a story called “The Curse of the Spider Queen” which is an amazing title, right?).

Finished two Cat Rambo classes! And bought 4 more, god help me.

Goals for 2021

Survival

Like, obviously general survival.

Also surviving this grad program while still writing. I have my writing goals for the first 3-4 months of 2021 mapped out in my planner, and I’m determined. I am really, really sick of feeling like a slacker—which is why I started these annual reflective posts 5 years ago, so maybe it bodes well.

Revisions

FUCKIT thing

Camel story

Train story (I have editorial comments from a reject for that one)

Start submitting again

Write 1 short story (probably the Spider Queen story)

Sort out the novel stuff

Finish 1 Cat Rambo class

See also: Top 20 Bookmarks of 2018

Hey guys!

Since this is the last Fic Rec Sunday of the year, I’m going to give y’all the list of my favourite fics that I’ve read this year! I think this is a great way to end off the year, by letting y’all know what I thoroughly enjoyed reading while on my seemingly-never-ending quest to rec you guys the stuff y’all should read! <3

And of course, I am reducing it to a small list or I will NEVER finish reccing fics because everything I’ve read this year have been fantastic, but these are the ones I’ve found myself going back to a couple times already :)

Hope y’all enjoy!

------

JOHNLOCK BOOKMARKS

The Burning of the Leaves by blueink3 (M, 15,915 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Angst, Reichenbach, Parentlock, Past Jolto, Idiot John, Sherlock’s a Mess, Puppies, Fluff, Possessive / Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Matchmaker Sholto, Melancholic Feelings, Emotional Sherlock, Domesticity, Love Confessions in the Rain, Kissing in the Rain, Pet Names, Panic Attack) – After the events of series 4, Major Sholto invites John and Sherlock to lunch one day. It nearly proves to be too much for their tenuous relationship as the past haunts the present, putting the future that Sherlock so desperately wants at risk.

The Palmyra Atoll by elwinglyre (E, 16,609 w., 3 Ch. || TSo3 Divergence / Episode Fix-It, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapped John Watson, John Whump, Evil Mary, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Toplock, Limited 3rd John POV) – As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

Wonderful, Etcetera. by VictoryCandescence (T, 16,955 w., 3 Ch. || Wonderful Life AU || Alternate Timelines, Brotherhood, Homophobia, Suicidal Ideations, Mentions of Drug Use, Friendship, Different TRF, Sherlock’s Past, Victor Trevor is Past Boyfriend, Depression, Hallucination?, Love Confessions, Christmas, First Kiss) – Sherlock thinks everyone would be better off if he had never existed, including and especially himself. When he finds himself in a world in which his wish has been granted, he begins to think perhaps even he could be wrong – but it takes an unlikely chaperone to make him not only observe, but understand.

The Kepler Problem by kinklock (E, 24,270 w., 1 Ch. || Sci-Fi AU, Alien Sherlock, Space Repairman John, Alien Biology, Horny John) – Working in uncharted space exploration was not as exciting as John had hoped, especially when it turned out to be mostly bot maintenance on uninhabited planets. However, the mystery of the repeated, unexplained malfunctions on planet BAK 2212 might turn out to be exactly the kind of adventure he'd been craving.

A Home for Us by sussexbound (M, 30,581 w., 12 Ch. || Scars, Bedsharing, Grief, Doctor John, Hurt/Comfort, Post-TRF, Implied/Referenced Torture, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation, Heavy Emotions, Clingy Sherlock, Hallucinations, Disassociation, Emotional Turmoil) – He has been on the road for two years, and he is exhausted. He’s almost accepted that he will never see London (John) again—almost. But then there are nights like tonight, where he is weak, and all he can think of is the warmth of the flat they once shared, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the teasing smile playing at the corner of John’s lips, the boxes of half-eaten Chinese takeaway balanced precariously in their laps. He aches at the memory of it, at the realisation that it is something he may never experience again.

Chaperones by MissDavis (T, 34,114 w., 7 Ch. || 11 Years Post-S4, Fake Relationship, Parentlock, Disney World, Bed / Room Sharing, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, First Kiss, Obsessive Sherlock, Insecure John) – Right. Of course. Everyone assumed they were a couple and no one would question it. John put his elbows up on the table so he could rest his head in his hands. "You want to pretend to be a couple so we can chaperone a trip to Disney World with Rosie's class and you won't have to share a room with a stranger?" "Exactly." Sherlock beamed at him. "Don't worry about the cost. The Birmingham case last month paid more than enough to cover expenses for all three of us."

Only To Be With You by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (M, 40,768 w., 4 Ch. || Black Mirror / Future AU || Character Death, Future Technology, Sickness/Cancer/Illness, Heavy Angst with Happy Ending, First Person POV John, Pining John, Heart-Wrenching Angst) – I tell myself that next time I’ll come near this same place again. Wait around for the mysterious stranger in his coat to dash past me, hot on the heels of a new criminal in black. I think this all the way back to my Exit, planning where I’ll wait and what I’ll say when I see him. Scheming on how to get his name. It’s only once I reach the Exit Point door that I realize two hours and forty-five minutes have passed, and I realize that this won’t be the last time I Visit. It won’t be the last time at all.

A Hundred Crimson Sols by elldotsee (E, 55,536 w., 16 Ch. || Astronauts AU || Mars Exploration / Space Travel, Slow Burn, Shy Sherlock, Scientist Sherlock / Biomed Engineer John, Alternating POV, Mutual Pining, UST, Angst with Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Suicidal Ideation, Zero-G Sex) – Will Holmes is a chemical researcher recognized widely for his contributions to the new Mars exploration program. Thanks to his ground-breaking developments, the IMMC (International Mars Mission Corporation) is one step closer to Martian colonization. Will and his team of scientists are headed out on the first of three manned missions before the first group of settlers arrive. Three days before launch, one of the crew has to be replaced. Will panics because...new people. The replacement is of course one John Watson, biomedical engineer and space hottie who was pretty sure he had retired from actual space exploration and was now content to work in the nice, quiet research lab. Can the crew survive this TOTALLY ROUTINE trip? Will they be able to endure each other for the looooooong trip in close quarters? Gonna be a wild ride... prepare for blast off. Part 1 of SpaceBois go to Space

White Knight by DiscordantWords (M, 69,840 w., 13 Ch. || S4 Compliant/Post S4, Marriage For a Case, Jealous John, Pining John, Janine / Sherlock Fake Relationship, Serial Killers, Case Fic, Undercover as a Couple, Weddings, John is a Mess, Misunderstandings, Wedding Planning, Jealousy, Drunkenness, Love Confessions, Angst with Happy Ending) – Green. The word green was used to convey a great many things. Illness. Envy. Inexperience. Standing there amidst Janine's chattering bridesmaids, watching Sherlock furrow his brow and study fabric swatches, watching him smile and simper and flirt, John thought it a remarkably apt colour choice. Because he felt quite sick to his stomach, he feared the source of said sickness might very well be jealousy, and he had absolutely no idea at all what to do about it. Or: Sherlock needs to fake a relationship for a case. He doesn't ask John.

Being John Watson-ish by elwinglyre (E, 69,902 w., 17 Ch. || Bodysnatcher AU || Author John, Cranky Sherlock, Angst, Sexual Tension, First Kiss / Time, Falling in Love, BAMF John, Past Soldier John, Feelings, Inside Someone’s Brain, Shy Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, POV Sherlock, Switchlock, Slow Burn, Internal Dialogue, Mental Turmoil) – When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he's consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.

Just To Hold You Close by sussexbound (E, 70,841 w., 18 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting, Sherlock POV, ASD Sherlock, PTSD John, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Cuddling/Snuggling, Platonic Cuddling, Enthusiastic Consent, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Sexual Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cuddle Negotiations, For a Case Until It Isn’t, Hair Petting, Sexual Negotiation, Anxiety, Trust Issues, Slow Burn, Panic Attacks, Frottage, Hand/Blow Jobs, Referenced Self Harm / Abuse / Suicidal Ideation, First Kiss/Time, Anal, Autistic Sherlock) – When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

The Vapor Variant by 88thParallel (CanadaHolm) (M, 72,684 w., 18 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-THoB, John Whump, Protective Sherlock, Guilty Sherlock, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Suspense, Virus, Sickfic, Big Brother Mycroft) – They stood face to face in the middle of a clearing. The dim light of the moon barely allowed Sherlock to see the glassy terror in John’s eyes and the sweat that glistened off his forehead. His nose was bleeding again, blood dripping in a slow stream from his right nostril. They were both gasping for air, John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. There was no recognition there, just wild animal fear. Time stood still for an eternal few seconds, and Sherlock took a shaky breath. “John—”Spell broken, John spun and bolted back into the woods. Still heaving for air, Sherlock took off after him

A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada & ShinySherlock (E, 125,492 w., 23 Ch. || Historical Pirates AU || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Doctor John / Pirate Captain Sherlock, Sailing, UST / RST, Masturbation, Action / Adventure, Mild Angst & Peril, Romance, Shaving, Molly/Janine, Bottomlock, Hand / Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Slow Burn, Mild Violence, Happy Ending) – Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship's surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there's more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin' the eye, he has to choose... is it a pirate's life for him?

The Adventure of the Silver Scars by tangledblue (NR [M], 142,458 w., 41 Ch. || S3 Fix-It, Post-HLV/ Post-TAB / Canon Compliant, Case Fic, No Baby, Angst, Humour, UST, Slow Burn, Angry John, Reconciliation, Not Nice Mary / Leaving Mary, Dependent Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Caretaker John, Fist Fights, It’s An Experiment, Virgin Sherlock, Dancing, Drugging, John Whump, Pet Names, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Scars) – It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.

Proving A Point by elldotsee & J_Baillier (E, 186,270 w., 28 Ch. || Me Before You Fusion || Medical Realism, Insecure John, Depression, Romance, Angst, POV John, Sherlock Whump, Serious Illness, Doctor John, Injury Recovery, Assisted Suicide, Sherlock’s Violin, Awkward Sexual Situations, Alcoholism, Drugs, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Body Image, Friends to Lovers, Hurt / Comfort, Pain, Big Brother Mycroft, Intimacy, Anxiety, PTSD, Family Issues, Psychological Trauma, John Whump, Case Fics, Loneliness, Pain) – Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

GOOD OMENS

you can dance in a hurricane, but only if you're standing in the eye by be_brave13 (G, 1,456 w., 1 Ch. || Non-Linear Narrative, Light Angst, 6000 Years of Pining / Slow Burn, POV Crowley, 5 and Ones, Idiots in Love, Song Fic) – 5 times Crowley knew he loved Aziraphale and the 1 time he knew Aziraphale loved him back (romantically).

Where Heaven Begins by sussexbound (M, 2,515 w., 1 Ch. || Pining Crowley, Soft Idiots, Emotional Love Making, Hurt/Comfort, Crowley Has Healing Powers, Kissing, Bed Sharing, Crowley POV) – Aziraphale bleeds. Is bleeding. He’s wearing human skin, after all.

In the (Second) Beginning by cherryfeather (M, 2,661 w., 1 Ch. || Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Confessions, Soft Crowley, POV Aziraphale, Post-Canon, First Kiss, Wings) – Aziraphale realizes that Crowley's been saying something rather loudly for a week.

The Picnic; or, the Drawbacks of Loving an Angel by sorrowfulcheese (G, 3,776 w., 1 Ch. || Post-Apocalypse/Canon, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Misunderstandings, Moving On, Picnicking, Idiots in Love, Crowley POV, Cranky Crowley, Mutual Pining, Light Angst with Happy Ending) – Aziraphale lures Crowley out for a picnic. It doesn't go remarkably well.

The slowest moving object in the universe by chamyl (G, 4,996 w., 1 Ch. || God POV, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Beach Day, Games, Light Humour, Tenderness, Embarassed Crowley, Soft Idiots, First Kiss, Love Confessions) – Crowley and Aziraphale have had feelings for each other for a very long time. It takes a date at the lake and a round of 36 Questions That Lead To Love to give them the final push.

a garden all their own by leaveanote (T, 5,436 w., 1 Ch. || Post Canon, POV Crowley, Emotional Turmoil, Aziraphale Takes Care of Crowley, Crying, Nightmares, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Heart Wrenching Pining, Pining Crowley, Wings, Tired Crowley, Romance, Healing, Massage, Light Angst with Happy Ending) – The aftermath. An exhaustion deeper than body. A secret too heavy to carry when when grief burned so close. Crowley has to tell him. "What am I to you?" A saving thing, an agony, a binary star, tenderness, an unhealed wound, a home, a home, a garden. Come to me, we'll heal together.

i want to hold your hand (goddammit) by PersephonesReign (E, 7,695 w., 5 Ch. || Crowley POV, Pining Crowley, Emotional Turmoil, Slow Burn, Soft Crowley, Angst and Fluff, Love Confessions, Nervous / Anxious Crowley, First Kiss/Time, URT, Wing Kink, Anal, Top Aziraphale / Bottom Crowley, Hand Holding) – Crowley just wants to hold Aziraphale's hand. What's so difficult about that?

A Brief History of Touch by chamyl (E, 11,849 w., 1 Ch. || Moments in Time, First Kiss/Time, Heavy Mutual Pining, Romance, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Masturbation, Almost Kiss, Touch-Starved Crowley, Angst With Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Blow Jobs, Emotional Love Making, Friends to Lovers, Body Worship, Promise of Forever With a Ring) – Six thousand years of pining, stolen glances, almost-touches, plummeting towards the inevitable end.

The Nice and Accurate Love Story of A. J. Crowley and A. Z. Fell by SealandRocks (E, 16,353 w., 1 Ch. || Pining Crowley, Implied Mutual Pining, Emotional Love Making, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, POV Crowley, Jealous Crowley, Crowley’s Plants, Kissing as Healing, Moments in Time, The Arrangement, Love Confessions, Bottom Crowley, Gentle Aziraphale, Slow Burn, Falling in Love, Crowley is Bad at Feelings, First Kiss/Time, Anal Sex / Fingering, Wings / Wing Kink, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Kissing in the Rain, Symbolism, Historical References) – Crowley and Aziraphale have been dancing around each other since the beginning. From Eden to London, it eventually becomes very hard to avoid the only other immortal around. And after so many centuries, having a physically body becomes a bit uncomfortable. Crowley is left to wonder what it is about Aziraphale that helps ease the ache in his soul. It would only take him 6000 years to figure out that it was rooted in something deeper all along. Part 1 of Love Stories for the Oblivious

Any Way You Want It by LieutenantLiv (M, 27,585 w., 5 Ch. || Holidays, Slow Burn, Fluff, First Time, Eventual Smut, Swimming, Dreams of Dancing, Kissing in the Rain, Self-Esteem Issues, Misunderstandings, Crying Love Confessions, Soft Crowley, Clingy Crowley, Virgin Aziraphale, Romance) – Saving the world is exhausting work. With Heaven and Hell off their backs, it seems as good a time as any for Crowley and Aziraphale to take a proper break. Neither one of them predicts the direction their holiday takes.Who'd have thought that sharing a cottage in Scotland would be quite so romantic?

#johnlock fic recs #go fic recs #ineffable husbands fic recs #my fic recs #fave fics #fic rec sunday

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kayincolwyn · 4 years

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Whatever It Means To Be Human (Easter reflection, 4/12/2020)

As many others throughout the world have been pointing out over these last couple months, these are strange times that we're living in.

Back in December around Christmas I started getting sick, and in January I had to go to the ER for some kind of infection that was giving me a sore throat as well as a fever and headache, got a look over and a prescription for a week long course of penicillin which seemed to knock out the infection (and later got hit with a 1200 bill for that ER visit, because my insurance didn’t cover it, that I still need to pay back, which I was livid about when I first found out about it but now am trying to accept as best I can because I have bigger things to worry about). A couple weeks later I had a followup checkup (with a very sweet and very pretty nurse, so no complaints there) and I remember staff at the clinic being pretty jumpy about some virus over in China (now widely known around the world as the coronavirus, or Covid 19) that I honestly hadn't heard about before then, and they were asking me if I had traveled to China or had any interaction with anyone from there, and of course I said no, and I remember being kind of annoyed by their jumpiness at the time. Well, needless to say, now I can see why they were being so jumpy.

I've had some kind of bug or another off and on since then, like a lot of people do in the wintertime, but because of, well, 'everything that's going on' (a phrase I've been using and I've heard a lot of people using lately, like it's become some kind of collective cultural meme) I find myself worrying much more than usual about a little cough or stuffy nose or feeling a little under the weather. At first, like a lot of people, I thought this was no big deal, that it would be another of those diseases that infected a few people but would be quickly contained, and then when that didn't happen I thought, like a lot of younger folks, that I would be fine and just needed to worry about older folks that I care about, but now I know that I could potentially be taken out by this virus too, and even at the ripe old age of 37, so now I worry about myself as well as others, and I admit that, while I’m trying to be brave, part of me is scared.

Even with that worry and anxiety, and with the whole world changing so drastically in just a matter of weeks, I'm still working (with the realization that janitorial work has more value than perhaps I initially thought or felt) and still busing it to and from work and going to the grocery store as needed, while usually wearing my newly acquired neoprene half mask (with inserted filters provided by a friend) like armor, and while washing my bloody hands more than at any other time in my life, and while trying to boost my immunity as best I can with vitamins and supplements of various kinds. Strange times indeed.

I admit it's kind of odd to be considered an 'essential worker', to hear some even hailing people in my position as 'heroes on the frontline' or something like that, when for years I've felt that being a janitor was equal to being at the bottom of the totem pole, and over the years I have on occasion been made to feel less than by others because of my place on the totem pole (though to be fair I've also received my share of gratitude and kindness from others concerning my work as well, which I'm thankful for and appreciate). I mean, I don't really see myself as particularly heroic (I see doctors and nurses and other healthcare workers who are directly risking their lives in order to save others as far more heroic than myself, for example), but just as a guy trying to do his job in order to provide some service to others while also making a living, but I appreciate the validation nevertheless.

As an 'essential worker' (though even among 'essential workers' I still feel like I'm at the bottom or at least near the bottom of the totem pole), I just want to say that I feel that we all have a part to play in this world, that we all have something that we can contribute to the world, even if it may not seem like much.

Like I have seen some people online ragging on celebrities for trying to entertain others from the safety and comfort of their homes (with many of them being out of work at the moment for obvious reasons) but I would say that trying to entertain or encourage others in whatever way you can, even from a distance, can be meaningful and has its place, because we could all use a little entertainment and encouragement sometimes. I mean, for example, people out there can rag on Gal Gadot for trying to sing Imagine with a bunch of other celebrities who may or may not have any musical talent or ability in some online video, but even as cheesy and cringe-inducing as that may be, I still loved her as Wonder Woman (and through that role she has inspired many people, including many young women and girls) and I appreciate her desire, as well as the desire of everyone in that video, to uplift others in some way. Heck, even just trying to stay home as much as possible, trying to keep your distance from others, trying to be mindful of others, as she and many other celebrities as well as everyday people have been and are doing, in this time can be meaningful and shouldn't be completely discounted.

And to me it's not about being 'essential' or not, or 'heroic' or not, it's just about being human, and doing what you can to be a decent human in whatever way you can.

Of course being human is hard, as every human, no matter who they are or where they are, gets their share of suffering and sorrow in some way or another or at some time or another in their lives (though to be fair some certainly do seem to get a bigger share than others, and some comparatively less), and being a decent human is even harder, as it's often a challenge to do some good or do the right thing with all your faults and flaws and with all your limitations and shortcomings, and then going above and beyond that and being someone that most others would think of as a 'saint', well, that seems nigh impossible.

And what does it mean to be human anyway?

I guess that brings me to something that's been on my mind, and is on my mind more now what with it being Easter and having Jesus on the brain a little more than usual (hey, you can take the boy out of the Christianity but you can't take the Christianity out of the boy).

In times like this where the world is shaken up and we're in a semi-apocalyptic state of mind, where our mortality not just individually but collectively is more in question than usual, the question of what it means to be human looms large for many of us, along with those often asked questions about where we come from, why we're here, where we're going... you know, the usual fare.

Lately I've been reading some books by former evangelical Christians, including Unfollowed by Megan Phelps-Roper, granddaughter of Fred Phelps, founder of the infamous Westboro Baptist Church, as well as books by Frank Schaeffer, son of Francis Schaeffer, an influential evangelical thinker and theologian.

Being a former evangelical Christian myself who is trying to find his way after questioning and deconstructing and for the most part walking away from that way of seeing and operating in the world, I can resonate with much of what they have to say and share, like the pain and loneliness there is in walking away from a community that you can no longer agree with to try and find your own path, or how with freedom to think for yourself comes an uncertainty that you have to get used to because now it's on you to decide what you will believe and where you will stand rather than just following what others have taught you or told you, or the mixed feelings about who you were and where you were when it wasn't all bad and it's part of who you are today and even while you don't want to, and really can't, go back, you're still grateful for it somehow.

And in their books they both wrestle with what it means to be human, what it means to be a good person, with the value of life and the value of love, because those questions and concerns still matter to them whether God or some higher power exists or not, just as they still matter to me on some level.

I've also been thinking a bit about Fred Rogers, better known to the world as Mister Rogers, the widely beloved children's TV host, after watching the recent film which stars Tom Hanks as Rogers, A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood, as well as the documentary Won't You Be My Neighbor?, and listening to a podcast about him called Finding Fred.

My late friend Erin McCarty was a big fan of Fred Rogers (I even sent her this Mister Rogers t-shirt that I found at a thrift store which she wore proudly in some of her photos on Facebook) whom she saw as a real saint, and she was far from being alone in thinking of him as one. Fred Rogers was one of those people who seemed to go above and beyond just being a decent human, as he was by all accounts a highly exceptional human, who, while having his share of quirks and eccentricities, more than most dedicated his life every waking hour to pursuing the good and showing love to others (and most especially children, whom he could be thought to be the patron saint of if he were canonized as a saint I should think) and even in such a way that no one with a sound mind and clear conscience could find any fault in him.

Those closest to him knew that he at times struggled with feeling inadequate, with feeling as though he wasn't really making a difference in the world, like what he was doing wasn't enough, but even so he continued to move forward, continued to try, an artist whose art-form was kindness and empathy (or as that podcast Finding Fred put it ‘a genius at empathy’).

I remember I was talking with a friend of mine about Fred Rogers the other day and he said that he thought if there was anyone who could perhaps have been the second coming of Christ it was Rogers, and while some might think that sentiment a little sacrilegious, I think it's a testament to the respect many people have for the man's character. People may on occasion playfully mock Mister Rogers for some of his mannerisms, for the way he talked or dressed or otherwise expressed himself (though of course much of that was for the sake of the children he was communicating with), but if you were to ask anyone with any sense at all they would admit that he was, if nothing else, a good man.

I guess the same could be said of Jesus, whose teachings about life and love Fred Rogers, being a Presbyterian minister who took his faith seriously (even if he was kind enough and wise enough not to push it on others as many religious folks tend to do unfortunately), sought to follow and apply to his own life as best he could. Many have parodied Jesus in one way or another over the years (in fact the next book I'll be reading just in time for Easter is Lamb: The Gospel According To Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal, which I look forward to reading as it sounds like fun) but most would agree that he was, if nothing else, a good man. Even the beloved comedy group Monty Python, most of whom were agnostic or atheist, after studying the gospels in preparation for what would eventually become their classic comedy Life Of Brian, decided against making a film where they mocked Jesus but instead made a film that mocked the church that often failed to follow his example. Instead of focusing on Jesus in the film they decided to focus on a guy named Brian who was mistaken for Jesus, following him on all of his adventures (or misadventures), while occasionally showing the real Jesus respectfully somewhere in the background (much as was done in the film Ben Hur). They said their reason for doing this was that they couldn't help but appreciate much of what Jesus said and did in the gospels, or as they said in their decidedly British way 'you can't take the piss out of it'.

As Frank Schaeffer points out in his book Why I Am An Atheist Who Believes In God (which I thought was a pretty clever title, and one I can kind of resonate with as I’m somewhere in the middle like that myself), some things that Jesus says and does in the gospels, or at least is recorded as saying and doing, don't really make sense or seem inconsistent with the general thread of kindness and empathy that can be seen in Christ's teachings, and having read the gospels at least a couple of times myself (or at least a couple of their English translations anyway, where no doubt much gets lost in translation), I would agree. He wonders if maybe some things were taken out or added in, if the writers sometimes spun some things to bolster their own point of view (which humans tend to do unfortunately), or if some things were simply a result of 'the telephone game' as it were (with most of the gospels probably being written decades after the events that they chronicle took place so that's not really out of the realm of possibility), and he may be right (as much as many Christians out there, especially the more fundamentalist among them, who may believe that scripture is infallible and inerrant, would hate to admit it).

But whatever the case may be, there is still enough of that thread of kindness and empathy in Jesus' story and message that countless people have been inspired by it through the centuries since he was said to have lived and died (and at least according to the Easter story, risen from the dead), including people like Fred Rogers, and also including people like Megan Phelps-Roper and Frank Schaeffer or myself, who even though they no longer identify as Christian still see some value in Jesus’ example and teachings, or at least as they now interpret them.

Many still seek to follow that example and apply those teachings today, including in these very strange, and very difficult, times, trying to walk a path of kindness and empathy when the world seems to be falling apart. I can't really say for sure how much I'm doing that myself, walking that path, with all of my faults and flaws and limitations and shortcomings, but I would like to think or hope that I manage to do a little good each day and get things right at least on occasion.

The truth is though that many of us, including me, feel as though we don't measure up to the standard that someone like Jesus sets (or at least appears to set when you read about the kind of life he led), or even to the standard of someone like Fred Rogers. It just seems nigh impossible to meet that kind of standard. I mean I can't really speak for everyone who struggles with this, but I know that I have often struggled with wondering if I'm good enough, have debated whether I'm making a difference in the world, and have had doubts about whether I am even a decent human, let alone a saint. I feel like I fail or fall short in some way or another every day, feel like I don't care enough, don’t give enough, don't live big enough or love deep enough. Maybe some of my family and friends who see more in me than I see in myself might argue with me on this, but it's still how I feel sometimes, or even much of the time, and is a daily internal struggle for me.

But hearing about Fred Rogers, who some half jokingly (but also half seriously) would call the closest thing to a second coming of Christ that they can think of, having similar struggles gives me some perspective and comfort though, and it makes me wonder if even Jesus himself had such struggles, even if they may not have be written about, even if they were only written in his own heart, as blasphemous as the thought of someone whom many claim and believe to have been the Son of God, or even God in human form, actually struggling with feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt may be, but blasphemous or not that thought gives me a strange kind of comfort.

I remember in reading the gospels one of the parts of Jesus' story that resonated most with me was him wrestling in prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane before he was arrested. Just imagining him being scared and uncertain and agonizing in the dirt and just being, well, more human like me, because I've been there too, is somehow encouraging, because if that's God, or a representative of God, or even just a very good man, maybe it's okay for me to be scared and uncertain and to agonize in the dirt too, because maybe I'm not alone in that.

One of the things that Fred Rogers is famous for saying is 'I like you just the way you are'. In the podcast Finding Fred, the podcast host, who greatly admires Fred Rogers, sometimes expressed struggling with that idea, being a black man who has experienced a lot of racism, and also being someone who has been mistreated in a lot of ways by others throughout his life, he wondered how he could like someone just as they were when, well, there was so much wrong with some people out there. One of his guests on the show, another admirer of Fred Rogers, suggested that what Rogers meant by 'I like you just the way you are' wasn't that everyone was perfect in every way, nor that everyone's words or actions or choices should be condoned, let alone praised, or that people didn't need to learn or grow in different ways, but rather that underneath all the dirt and the muck of our imperfection, our imperfect words and actions and choices, and no matter how deeply buried, there is something of value, something of worth, some spark of the divine in us, which can never be completely destroyed, and no matter how much others, or even we ourselves, may try to.

Of course, much like the host of the podcast, many of us struggle with seeing that that is true of those whom many of us would call 'monsters', the murderers and abusers and tyrants of this world, the worst of the worst if you will, but then it appears that Rogers was able to look at people even like that and see something of value and worth in them, seeing something of beauty beneath all of the ugliness, or at least the potential for it anyway.

I think of another man that many could think of as a saint, named Daryl Davis, who is a black man that has made it his mission to try to befriend members of hate groups, including members of the KKK, not in a concerted effort to convert them to his way of seeing things necessarily but simply to give them something to think about through their just knowing him. He has helped many to walk away from the KKK and other such groups simply by extending the hand of friendship to them, and he challenges others to try to break down divides by seeing the humanity in others, including those who are different from us, or even those who hurt us or frighten us.

I also think of Fred Phelps, who was the founder of the infamous Westboro Baptist Church, and who has become an icon of religious hate to many, and what his granddaughter Megan wrote about him in her memoir Unfollowed, how even though to most people he was a terrible human being, even a monster, to her he was her 'Gramps', whom she loved dearly even if looking back she knows that he got a lot of things wrong, and she spoke of how towards the end of his life when he was falling into dementia that he softened considerably, and even to the point that his own church effectively excommunicated him and abandoned him in a retirement home, where Megan and her younger sister Grace, who had recently left the church (and at great personal sacrifice to themselves), snuck in without permission from their family to see him one last time, and Megan says he was mostly lucid at that time, and instead of reproaching them for having left the church he only expressed his love for them in the end. It seems that at the end of his life Fred Phelps didn't cling to his dogma and hate so much as his relationships and love, which is encouraging.

Fred Rogers (the other Fred if you will), whom Fred Phelps himself often mocked as 'a wuss and an enabler of wusses' among other things, even going so far as to protest at his funeral, would have been proud I think that Phelps had come so far at the end, and I am sure he would have said to him 'I like you just the way you are' and I think the humanity buried even in someone like Phelps was what Rogers was pointing to by saying that to everyone he encountered.

Frank Schaeffer spoke of his mother, Edith Schaeffer, in his book Sex, Mom, and God, in much the same way, even going so far as to say that even being straitjacketed by the limitations of her religion and its dogma she was a force of nature and he could see her humanity shine through throughout her life, especially towards the end when, as Fred Phelps did, she softened, and said that ultimately she was better than her beliefs, or that something in her, her humanity, rose above that.

And maybe that humanity, or that divine spark, or whatever you want to call it, was also what Jesus was pointing to and trying to call out, and whether that be in the everyman on the street, or in the seemingly irreparably damaged people that you may find in prisons (or even sometimes in governments) or even among the religious who can get so mired in their ideology and self-righteousness as to forget that spark within them or in others.

It may seem nigh impossible, if not flatly impossible, to live up the standard of what many of us think of as saviors or saints, but I think of a scene in A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood where Roger's wife Joanne says that 'Rodg' (as she affectionately called him) wouldn't want people to think of him as a saint, as he believed that anyone and everyone could walk the path that he walked, or at least tried to walk, and in their own special way.

I also think of how Jesus said to his disciples that they would do even greater things than him, which when you think of the kind of example that someone like Jesus set, namely one where you are willing to die for what you believe in and stand for, that seems like a pretty tall order, but it makes me wonder if, as controversial as this may be and contrary to popular and widespread religious opinion that has been built up around him for centuries, maybe Jesus wouldn't want us to think of him as a savior anymore than Fred Rogers would want us to think of him as a saint, because maybe instead of putting them up on pedestals we're meant to try and follow their example as best we can.

I remember one of the guests in the Finding Fred podcast saying that maybe instead of just looking back on Rogers and his example with admiration and nostalgia, we could also try to be like Fred Rogers ourselves, much as those who seek to follow the way of Jesus (which Rogers himself was trying to follow) instead of just looking back can try to be like him as much as they are able, and in their own special way.

With it being Easter today as I post this, I honestly don't know whether or not Jesus rose from the dead, heck I am not even one hundred percent sure if he even existed (as there are those who argue that he didn't, even if most historians would agree that he did, though most of them think that most of what was written about him was just fanciful legend that was built up around him, which may or may not be the case, because none of us can really know for sure on that since we weren't there, and unless we invent time travel or something it will continue to be a matter of faith, and faith alone), but then I am willing to keep something of an open mind about it, and even with where I am now I can still understand why many look to Jesus as a symbol of hope and the love of God, and why people see something meaningful in the story of his life, death, and resurrection because even if it may not be literally true (and again on that front it is a matter of faith), that doesn’t mean it isn’t mythically true. Whatever the case, I believe that his example and message of kindness and empathy lives on (even if one has to dig through a number of inconsistencies and mistranslations to find it), much as Fred Rogers’ similar example and message lives on.

And I guess this brings me back to 'everything that's going on', and the question of what it means to be human.

One of the things that a lot of people have been saying through this crisis that all of us in the world are facing is that 'we're all in this together' and I think it's safe to say that there's nothing quite like a pandemic to remind us of how much we value our relationships when we are having to keep our distance from others, including those we love, for our good and theirs, and when we are fearing for not only our own health and our own life but also for the health and lives of others.

I recently watched the film Contagion, which came out about ten years ago, and many are seeing it as eerily prophetic as much of the film parallels what is happening now, but one of the underlying messages of that film, as one of my favorite Youtubers, Like Stories Of Old, pointed out, is how much our relationships matter, how much those connections that can so easily be taken for granted matter, when we are faced with existential threats such as the one we seem to be faced with now. More likely than not, as in Contagion, this pandemic, as bad as it may get, will not be the end the world, but it is certainly shaking it up and it appears it will continue to do so for awhile, and in the midst of that all we have for sure is eachother, even if we can only be there for one another mostly at a distance and in spirit.

In A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood there was a moving scene where Rogers says concerning death and how difficult it is to talk about it that 'anything that is mentionable is manageable', and I think the same applies to the situation we are in now, we can face this and face it together, because we're not alone in this mess, not alone in the dirt, even as lonely as it may feel at times.

Our situation is also a reminder (and is another theme in Contagion) of how connected we all are, especially in this globalized world that we now live in. A friend of mine here on Tumblr was telling me in a recent message how this whole situation shows how interconnected we all are, and how every choice we make can impact those around us and can have a domino effect, even having effects, whether positive or negative, that we aren't even aware of.

What he said reminds me of this passage from the classic children's book Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster, which I finished reading for the first time just a couple days ago, where there is this exchange between the book's chief protagonist Milo, accompanied by his loyal companions Tock and Humbug, and the princesses Rhyme and Reason:

“It has been a long trip,” said Milo, climbing onto the couch where the princesses sat; “but we would have been here much sooner if I hadn’t made so many mistakes. I’m afraid it’s all my fault.” “You must never feel badly about making mistakes,” explained Reason quietly, “as long as you take the trouble to learn from them. For you often learn more by being wrong for the right reasons than you do by being right for the wrong reasons.” “But there’s so much to learn,” he said, with a thoughtful frown. “Yes, that’s true,” admitted Rhyme; “but it’s not just learning things that’s important. It’s learning what to do with what you learn and learning why you learn things at all that matters.” “That’s just what I mean,” explained Milo as Tock and the exhausted bug drifted quietly off to sleep. “Many of the things I’m supposed to know seem so useless that I can’t see the purpose in learning them at all.” “You may not see it now,” said the Princess of Pure Reason, looking knowingly at Milo’s puzzled face, “but whatever we learn has a purpose and whatever we do affects everything and everyone else, if even in the tiniest way. Why, when a housefly flaps his wings, a breeze goes round the world; when a speck of dust falls to the ground, the entire planet weighs a little more; and when you stamp your foot, the earth moves slightly off its course. Whenever you laugh, gladness spreads like the ripples in a pond; and whenever you’re sad, no one anywhere can be really happy. And it’s much the same thing with knowledge, for whenever you learn something new, the whole world becomes that much richer.” “And remember, also,” added the Princess of Sweet Rhyme, “that many places you would like to see are just off the map and many things you want to know are just out of sight or a little beyond your reach. But someday you’ll reach them all, for what you learn today, for no reason at all, will help you discover all the wonderful secrets of tomorrow.”

While I think the main themes of The Phantom Tollbooth are the value of education as well as how you see and experience the world around you, I think this passage could also be applied to how we learn how to live and love, and how you follow a path of kindness and empathy.

It's a process to be sure, and we will all make mistakes along the way, but as Reason says, we can learn more from being wrong for the right reasons than being right for the wrong ones, and trying to apply what we've learned as best we can and holding onto our reasons for doing so is just as important as what we learn. And there's a purpose to it, to living and loving as best we can, and it can impact the world around us, it can be like a ripple in a pond that spreads out in ways we can't know or even imagine, and who knows, maybe it will take us to places that we couldn't have even dreamed of...

Maybe that's something to try remember whenever we get discouraged (and I know I do plenty, as I’m sure most of us do), much like Fred Rogers did, and perhaps even Jesus did, and when wondering whether or not we have cared enough or given enough or lived enough or loved enough, that even seemingly little things can have a great impact and can actually make a real difference in the world.

In Fred Rogers' last television appearance after 9/11 he spoke of how his mother said in times of crisis that you should "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” I remember in the Finding Fred podcast they pointed out how in that message he was speaking to the children who are now grown ups themselves, the ones who had watched his program as they were growing up, and he was pointing to their own humanity, to that divine spark within them, and calling them to become those helpers themselves.

Even in that instance Rogers struggled, as he was so shaken by the enormity of the events of 9/11 that he felt that nothing he said could really help, and yet many, including myself at the time, even not being as familiar with Fred Rogers then as I am now, as I hadn't really watched his show growing up myself (I was more of a TMNT and Transformers kind of kid back in the 80s), were encouraged by what he had to say, and it made an impact, it made a difference. It helped.

And we can help too in our own way, and even if we too may feel shaken up by the events of our own time, these strange times that we're living in, we too can make an impact and a difference, we can help in some way, and however small and inconsequential what we may have to offer may feel, and whether it may feel decent or good or 'essential' or 'heroic' enough or not, we can help, and even if we may not know that we are helping.

As far as the answers to some of those big questions, like where we come from, why we're here, and where we're going, honestly I'm not sure what the answers may be, I mean I have some guesses, but I don't know with absolute certainty (and I'm having to learn to live without that anyway, even as I try to look forward with some hope and look back with some gratitude), but whatever it means to be human, I think it may have something to do with doing what you need to do even when you're worried and scared, with trying as much as you can to lift up others when they're down or maybe even when you're down, with the value of life and of love, with not being alone in the dirt, with seeing some measure of value and worth in jaded and cynical adults as much as you may see it in children, with extending the hand of friendship, and maybe even to those that are different from you, or looking for the humanity even in those that hurt and frighten you, with somehow loving those that others may only see as irredeemable monsters, with seeing the light in someone even if they are held back by things that limit and hem them in, with not insisting that others put us up on pedestals whenever we do some good or get something right but that they try to do the same themselves as best they can just as we are trying to do, with learning and growing in every way we can, with facing difficult times together, with trying to encourage and support and help one another, and even as imperfect as we may be and are. Maybe it has something to do with all of that.

I hope that we'll get through these strange times, that we'll not only survive them but that this may also push us to change some things for the better, that this will push us forward somehow, through death towards resurrection, that this will remind us of our humanity, that spark within us, and while I don't really know why we are in these strange times, or why 'everything that's going on' is going on, really I do hope that in the end it will move us a little closer to finding out, both for ourselves and for eachother, what it means to be human.

#covid19 #everything thats going on #were in this together #essential worker #Easter #megan phelps roper #frank schaeffer #mister rogers #jesus #daryl davis #fred phelps #contagion #phantom tollbooth #9/11 #what it means to be human

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purplesurveys · 4 years

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943

Have you been wearing homemade masks or store-bought ones? Store-bought. I’ve seen too many infographs and advisories saying that homemade masks - especially the cloth ones - are virtually useless when it comes to protecting yourself against the virus. Idk why there’s still a market for those, honestly.

What state (or country) do you live in? We don’t live in states here. We’re divided into regions, which are divided into provinces, which are divided into cities; so I don’t know what our equivalent of states would be.

Do you call yourself stupid a lot? Yeah, especially these days.

When was the last time you were sick? I was sick from late May to early June. Stressful times. The fever took its time hanging out to the point where I started thinking it was Covid, but I never showed any of the the main symptoms other than a fever...still, the period of not knowing was terrifying.

Are you listening to music right now? I am not. It’s 2:29 AM and I would find music extremely loud if played rn.

What are you severely allergic to, if anything? Nothing.

Is your room a mess? I wouldn’t call it so. There’s a bit of clutter on top of my bedside storage basket, but it’s not out of control.

What is the book you are reading (or that last book you read) about? It’s the most recent spin-off in the Twilight series, Midnight Sun. Stephenie Meyer actually started writing the book WAY way back, like 2008. Then someone leaked it, and so in order to gain back control of the leaked copy Stephenie proceeded to post the entire draft on her website for fans to read it directly from her, but it also meant that she didn’t want to work on it for a while. That’s why I was so surprised when I found out she went back to writing it after all and that it was up for release this year. I remember reading the drafts when I was 11, but my memory of it is super hazy and I can’t compare it to the present copy.

Is there a Kmart in your town? No. This was also asked in the last survey I took lol, what’s up with Kmart? What is your newest favorite website? I haven’t discovered any new ones recently.

Do you have a headache right now? No. I’m a little hungry, but that’s unrelated lol.

Do you have embarrassing memories of stupid things you've done? Yeah, they’re the ones my brain somehow likes to take the most snapshots of.

What was the last video you watched on YouTube? A Good Mythical Morning clip, but I forgot which episode.

Does your stomach hurt right now? Not in a cramp-y way. It’s just in the mood to growl because I’m feeling hungry, so there is a level of discomfort at the moment.

What was the last thing you cooked on the stove? Eggs, but it’s been a while.

Are you wearing socks? Nope.

What month is your birthday, and what month would u change it to if u could? April. I’m not unhappy with my birthday now, but when I was a kid and our summer vacations used to fall from April to June I really hated my birth month because it meant no one ever greeted me and that I didn’t get to celebrate my birthday with my classmates. That made my birthdays growing up such a lonely affair. Back then, I certainly wanted my birthday to have fallen on a school month, so from mid-June to mid-March.

Do you think it's ok to call yourself stupid? I know that it’s not. Hasn’t stopped me before, won’t stop me now.

What color Christmas tree do you want when you have a house someday? I’m always so peeved by the grammar in this type of question...idk if Americans consider it correct but this is definitely not the way we were taught English lol. “What color [noun]” just sounds so strange and it’s personally on the same level of being annoying as “I seen her” looool. Anyway, we’ve always had green and I’m not about to change that tradition. It just feels the most festive to me.

Have you ever had to use an epi pen? I haven’t.

Do you have nice neighbors? They haven’t done anything mean to me and in fact they’ve taken quite a bit of interest in me because of Cooper.

Do you know the names of 3 of your neighbors? (list if you can) I know a Marie because we used to let our dogs play together and a Mac because he’s a famous director in the country, but that’s all I know.

What was the last thing you cooked that you burnt or cooked for too long? Can’t say I’ve had this happen to me before.

If you could have a car in any color, which color would you choose? I’m happy with my white car.

What was the last grocery store you shopped at? i entered an SM grocery last, but I didn’t buy anything. I was there to look for one particular item that turned out to be unavailable.

What was the last type of milk you drank? I don’t drink milk a lot, but I’m guessing the last one was chocolate.

What flavor was the last smoothie you drank? It’s callled Breakfast Smoothie but aside from banana and oats, I can’t quite remember what was in it anymore.

Do you have a Magic Bullet? No.

Do memories from your past come back to haunt you? Sometimes.

Are you afraid of the dark? Not when I’m meant to sleep.

Have you ever hallucinated? I have not.

Do you believe in angels and demons? No.

Have you ever seen an angel? No.

Have you ever seen a demon? No.

What color was the last sweatshirt you wore? White.

Do you plan to vote in the next election? I’m a little hopeless, but yeah. I don’t wanna let my rights go to waste.

Who was president when you were born? Estrada lol, what an embarrassment.

#survey #surveys

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violet-knox · 5 years

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Fairy Tales

Year 6 - Chapter 30

Summary: After pondering on how to get Severus to ask you to the Ball, you decide to flirt a little, hinting at what you desired of him.

Word count: 2363

Previous Chapter - Chapter 1

It wasn’t long before you felt the urge to hop on a broom and fly around the castle overtook your thoughts like a virus corrupting your memories, only leaving those of Quidditch untouched. It was all you could think about when you woke up, during class, even as you spoke to Severus, all you wanted to do was drag him out to the underutilized pitch outside and toss around a Quaffle with him. Everyone else had been buzzing frantically about the Triwizard Cup and the upcoming first task. Not to mention the Yule Ball of course. It seemed to you as though you were the only one completely devastated at the lack of sporting events held this year, and that had you feeling all the more bitter.

Slowly, you found yourself leaning into the comfort of keeping Severus company and eventually, any thoughts of Quidditch melted away, replaced with the thought of spending time with him instead. Like nature taking its course, all the free time you received migrated from Quidditch to reading or talking with Severus. Surely there was some benefit to be gained from your shift in schedule this year or perhaps the change in your school routine was some mystical sign coming from up above. Whatever it was, it definitely grasped your attention, pushing you to notice just how flirtatious Severus seemed to be around you. Funny how you couldn’t remember feeling so flustered around him before.

Was it your overactive imagination, fooling you into thinking he’d lean in just a little closer as you read together, or that he’d find any excuse to hold your hand? That his touch, skin cold in contrast to yours, was so feverish it sent shivers through your entire body. The look in his eyes enchanting you when the corner of his lips twitched into that subtle smile he gave each time he saw you.

It was hard not to doubt your instincts that told you he returned your feelings for him, brushing them off as hope. Still it didn’t keep you from living in this fantasy world where you imagined him harboring something for you rather than the logical fact that you merely felt this way because you had been spending too much time around one another. But reality, never letting you enjoy the glimmering world in your head for too long, always kicked you awake each time you heard whispers of excitement for the Yule Ball, or mummers exchanged at lights out in your dorm.

It had become especially difficult to fall asleep lately, conversation of dresses, shoes, flowers, dates lingering in your mind as they died down, the girls from which they steamed floating under their sheets, finding sleep within mere minutes. Christmas seemed worlds away to you and yet that feeling settling in the depths of your stomach had you feeling panicked. You couldn’t show up stag, not when it seemed half the school had a date and how would it look, the sixth year Gryffindor Quidditch Captain with no date.

“He hasn’t asked her yet,” you turned over in your bed, staring blankly at the red curtains encapsulating your figure. Just one night of rest is all you’d asked for, one night filled with silence rather than these endless, meaningless discussions exchanged between some of your dormmates. “But apparently he’s had his eye on her since he arrived.” You recognized the girls voice, she’d been babbling on about the same rumor the last few nights, but you could never place her name.

“I hear she’s a Hufflepuff on the Quidditch team,” her friend sounded almost excited as if she could be referencing herself. Odd seeing as how she is neither on the Quidditch team nor is she a Hufflepuff.

“No, I heard it’s a seventh year Ravenclaw.”

Shaking your head, you roughly pulled the pillow from under you, plopping it atop your head and enclosed your hands over the silk fabric, hoping it would muffle the sounds of chatter around you. What did it matter who the Durmstrang Champion asked to the Ball? All these rumors were a pathetic verbalization of the dreams of shallow Hogwarts students hoping for Prince Charming to arrive at their footsteps and whisk them away into a life full of nothing but love and joy. Didn’t they know, life, real life, is no fairy tale.

A frustrated groan escaped your throat as you tightened your hold on the pillow; the conversation was clearly far from over and you were no doubt in for another restless night. You tried to think of something else, anything at all, but the idea of the Ball had been sewn into your brain so well, it was hard to find a loose seam to pull. When you’d bought that dress from the second-hand store back in Cokeworth as instructed by your Hogwarts letter, you never imagined this is what you’d be using it for. You thought perhaps the sixth years were invited to the graduation ceremony for the seventh years, or perhaps some sort of celebration was put in place for your successful achievements in your O.W.Ls and the beginning of your N.E.W.Ts. Never did you imagine yourself pining over the need to find a date for such a luxurious school event.

The reality of your situation was really what stung you most. Not the fact that no one had asked you yet, but because you knew it didn’t matter if they did. There was only one person you wanted to accompany you to this Ball, and you weren’t even sure if he wanted to go, never mind with you. Nerves overcame you, your courage always cowering in the corner whenever the thought of bringing it up with him lingered in your mind. You had once asked him to Slughorn’s party as friends and he used it as an opportunity to seek out time with Lily. But if he’d had any inclination of asking her, he would have mentioned it now, would he not? He never turning down an opportunity to talk about her, not until recently anyways. But if he wasn’t going to bring up this Ball, then that burden had to fall on you. You had to either swallow your fears and take the risk or accept the possibility of spending Christmas alone.

What words would you mutter when talking to Severus? You couldn’t ask him to go as friends, this wasn’t some celebration thrown by a professor, this was different. This Ball was a once in a lifetime event, an opportunity to pull your fantasy world into reality and make your debut as a couple.

The next morning, you found yourself walking to the astronomy tower with Severus, pondering over the conversation you overheard in your dorm last night. As your thoughts wandered, your imagination running wild as the image of accompanying Severus to the Yule Ball fluttering to the surface of your mind, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling up at him. You knew that dream was well out of reach (at least for now), but a girl can dream, can’t she?

Finally stepping outside the gates enclosing the courtyard, you quickly took a look around for any prying eyes. At least in seclusion, if you made a fool of yourself, no one but Severus would witness it.

Testing the water before diving head first, you brushed your fingers against his, holding them steady as you waited for a reaction. Your fingers danced around his as he curled them with your movement, giving you the boost of confidence you need to start the conversation you’d been dreading to have the last few weeks.

“So, have you thought about who you’ll take to the Ball?”

Well that was bluntly horrific, but your emotions got the better of you as you eagerly and nervously awaited his response.

“Umm,” Severus shifted his gaze to the ground nervously, his hand tapping out of the little game you’d been playing as it lay lifeless to his side. Swallowing hard, praying you hadn’t just ruined two years of friendship, you made your way up the stairs of the tower, “I’ve-I’ve thought about it.”

“Oh?” Your head shot back at him in surprise. Did this mean there was someone he hadn’t told you about, or that he’d simply avoided telling you about his plans to ask Lily or… “Who are you thinking of asking?”

You carefully watched him, examining his expression and body language, hoping that if he didn’t answer the question, you could at least extract some sort of response from him.

Severus let out a puff of air before lunging in front of you, sprinting the last few steps up the stairs and held the door open, waiting for you to step through as he bowed his head, allowing his hair to hide his flushed face. You smiled at him as you step inside the room and made your way over to your usual spot.

You couldn’t see his face through his hair, but you could tell your question had him flustered. Deciding to spare him the agony of embarrassment, you steered the conversation in a direction a little less exasperating.

“My dress is second hand,” you said, “I’m trying to update the style a bit with a few different charms, but it’s taking longer than I’d anticipated.”

Severus began suggesting a few spells as he took a seat beside you. Listening to his husky voice, you smiled, unable to really focus on the charms he mentioned while he opened his bag and retrieved some books to begin studying. Some of the spells he spoke of you’d already used and some you recognized the name of, but it didn’t really matter, you’d only used your dress dilemma as an excuse to keep him from feeling put on the spot. The last thing you wanted was to push or pry, especially now that you he’d given you such delicate information. Perhaps there was hope after all.

Taking his queue, you reached for your own bag and opened up your Transfiguration book, but the words on the page were lost on you. Your mind once again wandered, grasping a that fantasy lingering at the back of your head, tugging it forward as if it would push it into reality. It felt wonderous to be immerged into this world you thought had a chance of seeing the light of day, like you were setting up the scene, preparing yourself for what was to come. But Severus was so reserved, so shy. He’d been in love with Lily for how long now and he’d completely neglected to make any sort of move. He had to be afraid of rejection, of ruining your friendship. It was the only explanation you could come up with for his attitude. If only he could see the thoughts flickering in your mind right now, he’d know he had nothing to fear.

If it came down to it, you would ask him yourself, but you had to give him the chance. You couldn’t let this fear always get in the way of any possible growth, he had to overcome it and step out of his boundaries. Plus, you just weren’t sure you were ready to run the risk you’d read him wrong and he in fact had someone else in mind.

The time for breakfast came rather quickly, you’d naturally made no progress on the paper you had due in a few days, spending the better half of the morning enveloped in your thoughts. Severus quickly stood up and offered you a hand, helping you off your feet as well. You knew he would never do such a thing if you were in the library which, you guessed, was why he had insisted on moving your morning study sessions to a more secluded location, nothing you minded of course. It was rather pleasant having such a spacious area all to yourself.

As you gazed up at him, gripping his hand, you suddenly noticed the want in his eyes. Has his eyes always sparkled like that?

You felt your heart pump faster as you pulled him in and gave him a quick kiss on the check. When you stepped back, making circles on the back of his hand with your thumb, you noticed that the small smile that had been present on his face had faded and was instead replaced by the same flushed face you knew he wore earlier that morning. His gaze locked on yours and you wondered if you’d stepped too far, if your little act of encouragement was a mistake, but nevertheless, you held your ground and tightened your grip on him as you guided him out of the door. You didn’t let him release your hand until you had left the tower, knowing he would be uncomfortable if anyone saw you holding hands.

Severus walked closely beside you, wondering why you had decided to peck him on the cheek like that. Could she feel the same way?

“I’ll see you in class,” you said, slowing your pace as you arrived at the Great Hall.

Severus couldn’t help as his lips twitched into a small smirk, loving the gentle tone in your voice. “See you,” he said as he made his way over to the Slytherin’s table. It was second nature for you both to eat meals apart, but as he’d come to know you, to fall in love with you, for the first time, he found himself wishing the school houses would disapparate and let him sit beside you.

You sat down at your own table, making sure to face Severus, both of you carrying the clear intention of stealing glances from on another throughout breakfast. You ate silently as you played over your little fantasy scenario in your head, the idea now expanding to spending nights together with you held in his arms, your study sessions turning into little dates. How glamorous would it be to date your best friend, how mesmerizing would it be to show up to the Yule Ball with nothing but love and devotion between you both. A dream made for fairy tales, one you could only hope would come true.

Next Chapter

@hoppingsnape @dusk-realm @a-slytherin-sin @trashandshook @gbatesx @sneezy-s @emsdroid @leah-halliwell92 @dellightfullydeceitful @xxaamzxx @sparklingkeylimepie

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picturemeinthetree · 4 years

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isolating is weird, i’m usually pretty isolated anyway cause i had to quit school cause of health & i can’t really go many places anyway cause i get too tired, so i don’t see many people. but literally never going ANYWHERE, it’s kinda crazy, not to mention the constant fear of a deadly virus. it’s not all bad though, i feel like i have time, time to do the things i never thought i would have time to do before! reading; i have SO many books that i for over christmas as i wanted to get back into reading again, i have so many incredible choices & i can’t wait to get through them! i’m currently in the middle of ‘to kill a mockingbird’ cause it’s a classic that i’ve never read & im really enjoying. scrapbooking; i’ve been spending most of my isolation time looking through old photos and searching through my brain for almost long lost memories (cause i forget a lot) i decided to have a place to keep all that stuff, im currently organising everything and trying to make it pretty with embroidery and other bits and bobs, but i’m hoping by the end of isolation i’ll have at lest have something to look at & keep up with. films & series’; this was a given cause who doesn’t like a good movie night right, i was already a bit of a film/series’ binger before all this, so i’ve kinda ran out, but i’m currently rewatching all the pixar films that on the most part haven’t seen for a few years & im loving it, also rewatching my favourite shows ‘stranger things’ & ‘anne with an e’. time in the garden; i do feel truly lucky to have a garden to spend most of my isolation in, i don’t know what i would do without it. so anyone out there who doesn’t have an isolated garden, my heart goes out to you and i’m so so so sorry. it’s been so lovely and sunny recently which has been a bonus to say it’s never sunny in april here in england. so i’ve actually been spending the majority of the time laying on a blanket outside watching the nature as the day flies by. it’s perfect honestly. if you do have a garden, try your best to make the most of it at this time. music; ugh music has been a saviour at this time (as always) its just been such a great way to escape from all this, daydream, pretend you’re part of the music. i just ADORE IT!!!i’ve also been writing some more songs which has been super duper fun! having time makes writing songs so much easier!

to be honest that’s all i’ve really been doing. along with trying my best to stay positive and super safe. i’m sending everyone so much love at this scary time. it’s all truly so horrible. if anyone wants a chat or anything, im always here & would love to hear what you’ve been up to! 💛

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mcteacher-blog1 · 4 years

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The Last Day . . .

I arrived at school on Friday, March 13 - already some were saying, “watch out”, it’s Friday 13th and a full moon! We all know what these mean! These 2 affect our brains and bodies like no other!! It was a Friday, as well, I said before, so 3 factors are coming into play as I prepare to teach today. Yes, a teacher, I am. . .in third grade at a primary school in rural Virginia, the famous little town of Big Stone Gap (where a movie was made a few years ago). Students were excited today and we had a little difficulty’ getting our focus on’, but I committed to getting this day underway and all of us learning something. We were in the midst of fractions, actually finishing up, and reviewing to be certain we were ready to move on into Geometry!

As you know, teachers never talk to other teachers. .. you did know that, right? We aren’t anti-social at school with one another - it’s just that we just don’t have time until lunch. By lunchtime, we were hearing more and more about other states beginning to close their schools due to this mysterious Corona virus-19 that had been baffling our world since right after the Christmas holidays. It’s spread and the disease were beginning to alarm doctors, hospitals, and everyone, and rightly so. We were wearing out our hands with hand washing and hand sanitizing and practicing very careful sneezing and coughing strategies! At lunch, my coworkers and I checked the news, and it seemed we couldn’t quit talking either. . . .somewhere in the midst of all the teacher-talk, we got a buzz that the governor of Virginia might close schools due to the virus situation in our state - TODAY! We had been told that Wise county, our county, may close the coming week and teachers were already wondering how we could prepare for our students, to learn while out of school for maybe 3 weeks! By around 2 p.m., we knew the TRUTH. . . ! Virginia schools had been closed for now, probably 3 weeks, and we had no plan in place to continue school for our kids! It was something we were unable to announce to students before the end of the day, although parents were hearing it on the radio, tv, social media, etc. Mrs Castle and I decided to suggest that our students take home paper, pencils and Reading and Math notebooks, and they were suspicious. We mentioned that it can snow at anytime, this time of year, so being prepared was a good thing, and they packed up to go home at 3:00. Little did we know, Friday, March 13, would be our last school day of the year, and on an ending note. . .my last teaching day -- in my career:(

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ebaeschnbliah · 5 years

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DISTRACTIONS & CONSEQUENCES

Exploring the deeper meaning of ASIB has always been a joy and an exiting experience. No matter if it’s about the Strange Similarities this episode shares with HLV, or the intriguing question why Sherlock plays Irene’s theme in TFP when prompted by Eurus to ‘play himself’ (Explosive, it’s more me Oh, have you had sex?). Also the recuring Christmas theme in every series and Mycroft’s Bond Air plan, that doesn’t appear very ‘Neat’ at all after taking just a slightly closer look. When I wrote The Importance of Little Things Boomerang and the other posts mentioned above, I didn’t dwell on a detailed metaphorical reading of the somewhat strange boomerang case, which initiates the appearance of ‘the woman’. @sarahthecoat added a short and very good summary of the already existing theory on this post. It was this comment which reminded me that I still hadn’t written down my own version of he boomerang case in ASIB.

Playing around with the idea of a much further extended mind palace scenario than that from the shooting in CAM Tower onwards (EMP Master Post 2016), those ideas inevitably led to slightly different interpretations of events than some of the already existing ones. (EEMP=Extraordinary Extendend Mind Palace, I called it back then, jokingly. Links are included in this post),

Characters created by Sherlock’s imagination, to play a role on his mind stage, aren’t autonomous individuals who can act of their own free will. Instead, they would represent different aspects of Sherlock’s personality, his views, fears, desires, expectations and experiences, his memory, etc. The way they look, speak and act would be designed by Sherlock, precisely to play their role in the experiments/scenarios appointed to them. Approaching Sherlock BBC from this angle, the story appears in a different light …. like a holographic postcard, where the motive displayed on it, changes with the slightest movement. Most importantly, it changes the central question from HOW to WHY something happens. And it also raises the question of ... WHAT could be the actual meaning behind choices regarding character behaviour, names, places, dialogues and so on, inside those scenarios. What’s the real meaning of all those little stories told in the coded language of Shelrock’s mind?

Based on this idea, the boomerang case, the story of Phil with his backfiring car and the Hiker with the bashed-in head, in context with the main storyline of the associated episode, changes as well.

For anyone who is interested in a different reading, this theory is …. alternatively below the cut …. :)

The boomerang case of A Scandal in Belgravia is presented in four sequences:

The first part is placed near the beginning of the episode. Phil’s POV of the event is shown almost exclusively by visuals without dialogue. This sequence merges seamlessly into ...

... the second part, which is about John, his investigation on the crime scene and his report to Sherlock via WiFi before he and Sherlock, separately, get whisked away to Buckingham Palace, ordered by Mycroft Holmes.

In the third part Sherlock explains the event to Irene at her place. Before Sherlock can finish his explanation he gets interuppted, first by the fire alarm, initiated by John, then by the American agents who want to confiscate Irene’s camera phone.

Directly afterwards Sherlock gets injected with drugs from Irene’s syringe. He imagines how Irene gives the final explanation and reveals the solution of the boomerang case.

This fourth sequence contains, what Sherlock would call ‘a special feature of interest’. The Hiker, distracted by the sound of an ‘explosion’, is hit by his returning boomerang. While the man is shown falling backwards and out of the picture, the scene, just for a second, jumps also backwards in time to the very moment where Sherlock falls to the floor in Irene’s bedroom, due to the influence of her 'chemistry’. Then the scene continues with the Hiker still falling backwards out of the picture.

In the third sequence, while Sherlock describes the event, the camera circles round himself and the Hiker in a very explicit way. One man vanishes behind the other alternately.

Additionally there are also a certain similarities when it comes to

men lying on the ground with bashed-in heads (red and blue)

characters wearing red jackets (x)

characters wearing specific headgears

All of this strongly suggests that the Hiker, like Mary, is a mirror for Sherlock. Phil, the driver of the unmoving car, on the other hand, appears to be more connected to John, at least on a first glance. He wears similar clothing. ‘Ghost’ John can be seen sitting behind him on the sofa, while the man tells his story, placed in the clients chair in the middle of the living room. This leaves the question why John isn’t shown sitting in his own chair if he is present at the time and not in Dublin. Later, during the Wi-Fi conversation from the crime scene, Phil sits in John’s chair while Sherlock seems to have just woken up.

“Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy “ … this is how Sherlock describes Phil. As I mentioned in ‘Importance of Little Things’ those characteristics can also be attributed either directly to Sherlock himself or indirectly to some of his ‘mirrors’.

morbidly obese - Mycroft, who represents Sherlock’s brain department for logic and reason, appears exactly like that in TAB

halitosis - foul things coming out of ones mouth, could easily be a metaphor for ‘you alway say such horrible things’. Furthermore, halitosis is also mentioned associated with Mr. Howard Shilcott, the train guy from TEH, the one with the silly (ear) hat who is sentimental, maybe isolated but doesn’t mind being different.

internet porn addict - computer language metaphors aren’t uncommon in this story. Sherlock compares his brain to a hard drive. Jim calls himself ‘virus in the data’ and Mycroft shares that opinion. Brains consist of billions of neurons, interconnected with each other, communicating with each other, carrying trains of signal pulses and informations … very much like the internet. Metaphorically, an internet porn adict could be someone who deals with sexual desires ‘virtually’ inside his head and not with the body.

untreated heart condition - this description mustn’t necessariy be aimed at a real pathological condition of said organ. Heart metaphors are very often used to paint vivid pictures of the emotional state of a person. Hearts can suffer, can be neglected, they can break, turn to stone, freeze, burn, melt, do a somersault, sing with joy … and so on

low self-esteem - in TSOT Sherlock describs himself … ‘I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet’ … ‘I never expected to be anybody’s best friend’ No further words needed, I guess.

tiny IQ - only some statements which compare Sherlock to an idiot (there exist a lot more) … ‘I used to think I was an idiot’ (Sherlock, TEH), ‘I’ve been an idiot – a blind idiot!’ (Sherlock, TEH), ‘I’m an idiot. I know nothing’ (Sherlock, TST), ‘You always were the slow one …. the idiot’ (Mycroft, TFP) and finally Sherlock about Phil, the man this description is aimed at: ‘He’s an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?’

limited life expectancy - Mycroft again, the brain department for logic and reason. In TAB Sherlock and Mycroft are betting on big brother’s life expectancy, which both brothers assume to be not very long: ‘Three years flat if you eat that plum pudding’ … ‘Done’

If Phil with his unmoving car is indeed a mirror for Sherlock, like the Hiker, why is he visually connected so closely to John? Maybe because Phil represents the object of Sherlock’s investigations and deductions.

Phil, the driver of the transport that lies dormant

A little later in this episode Sherlock observes how John meets Irene at Battersea, the disused Power Station. An unmoving car and a disused power station ... are this two different metaphors for the same thing?

A disused power station, a car that doesn’t move = a body whose sexual urges lie dormant. Repressed desires, emotions behind elephant glass ... ‘ignored, patronised, disregarded, not allowed so much as a vote’. And the brain demands ‘you will stay out of this’ and warns ‘don’t get involved’. But the same brain also forces Sherlock to investigate ‘the woman’ and later releases ‘the criminal mastermind’. And in TAB this brain proclaims very clearly ‘We must lose this war because they are right and we are wrong’. Janus-faced indeed. Or maybe just a massively conflicted mind, torn in two, like the family pictures at the walls of the grey chamber in TFP.

Who’s John Watson on Sherlock’s mind stage?

John Watson - acting as a character on Sherlock’s mind stage - is hard to pin down. He seems to represent several aspects at the same time and he is definitely the main focus of Sherlock’s investigations.

In ASIP Sherlock confirms John’s question that he’s filling in for his skull - the one Sherlock calls ‘friend’. The skull is an imortant part of the body. Made of strong bone, it encloses the brain and protects it. Interestingly, broken up skulls - bashed-in or penetrated by bullets - are a rather important theme of this story. Maybe something imprisoned by inflexible bone wants to break free … an idea, a dream, a desire ….

John, ‘good old doctor Watson, the one fixed (inflerxible) point in a changing age’ is strongly connected to mirrors for love and emotions. As his counterpart, he is also connected to Jim Moriarty, Mr. Sex …. ‘John or James, James or John … the more is less’. John seems to be Jim’s main target in the game the criminal mastermind plays with Sherlock. And the painting of the Reichenbach Falls is declared as ‘William Turner’s masterpiece’ (Reichenbach=Rich Brook, William=William Sherlock Scott Holmes, turn(er)=turn round/change direction)

John - the eternal friend - is the incarnation of PHILIA (love between friends). But in this adaptation of the great detective, PHILIA is mingled with EROS (intimate love, sexual passion) right from the start. In PILOT & ASIP, when Anteros, the god of requited love, rises behind the episode title and a dog starts barking in the middle of the night. (More detailed explanations and musings on this topic - the evolution from friend to lover - can be found in ‘The Big Question’, ‘Solutions or Choices’, ‘Shoes for the Hound’ and ‘Sekhmet’

Skull, body, heart, protector, emotions, desire, friendship, love ... but also the fear to lose friendship and love, in case the ‘fixed point’ changes …. all those terms can be assigned to the John-character on Sherlock’s mind stage and his mirrors.

Out in the middle of nowhere ...

When the curtain rises for the boomerang case, the stage is set somewhere in the countryside. There’s a shallow valley and soft hills, thickly covered by woodland. A lush green meadow leads gently sloping down to a river or maybe a lake. There’s also a small brook which meanders through the wetland and flows forth into the greater water. Not far away a street runs along the margin ot the forest.

The main characters of the play are:

the Hiker in a bright red jacket, who busies himself with his boomerang beside the small brook

Phil, who tries to restart his unmoving car on the street nearby

It’s not explained how long Phil is working on his problem at the time the scene starts, but when the audience first sees him leaving the car to take a look at the engine, the bonnet is already open. So, most propably this is not his first attempt to restart the car.

The surrounding area is still and quiet. No significant background noises can be heard. Though both men stand in shouting distance to each other, there is no contact between them. The Hiker has turned his back to the street. He either really hasn’t noticed Phil and his unmoving car or he has, but simply doesn’t care. Phil on the other hand is aware of the Hiker on the meadow. For a moment it looks like he considers calling the man for assistence but then Phil apparently dismisses that idea again.

Instead Phil makes another attemt to restart his car.This time it backfires and the sound of the explosion splits the silence. The Hiker, distracted by the sudden noise, turns round and looks back to the street. At this moment the boomerang comes flying back, hits his head and kills him instantly. When Phil gets out of the car and looks down the meadow, he sees the Hiker in the red jacket lying motionless on the ground next to the small brook.

The Hiker and Phil ... Sherlock’s MIND and BODY

The Hiker - the MIND who plays with an idea

Viewing the Hiker as a mirror for Sherlock, his bright red jacket connects the character also to Mary, the facade. This makes him the man with his facade still intact but already curious about ... something. The Hiker wears a checkered shirt, which otherwise is closely attributed to John, while he palys with the boomerang.

If someone returns from foreign travel with a boomerang, one can assume that this person is meant to have been in Australia. Compared to Great Britain, Australia lies very far in the East. The East is strongly connected to Eurus, the East Wind, who represents Sherlock’s emotional side and is also strongly linked to buried/deleted memories and the Holmes family history.

The Hiker who traveled far to the East and brought back a small, fascinating but dangerous item, would then represent Sherlock, who went deep down into his mind palace. He retrieved something from the past, something he had ‘deleted’ a long time ago. Maybe something related to emotions and love. Sherlock/the Hiker takes that memory back into the present and starts playing with it …. he lets a seemingly harmless idea fly ….

Phil - the desire of a BODY whose sexuell transport lies dormant

Viewing Phil also as a mirror for Sherlock, that man and his unmoving car would represent an aspect of Sherlock, which is consciously or unconsciously dealing with investigations and deductions about the ‘John-Problem’. Phil too, wears a checkered shirt which links him even further to John. Obeseness stems from too much eating. Some time ago I read and reblogged a very intersting meta about eating as a metaphor for desire. Sadly I can’t find it again and credit the autor. If someone has a link, please add it, that would be great. In my opinion the food=desire methaphor is brilliant and fits perfectly. Phil, the carnal desire of Sherlock’s BODY, eats too much/stuffs himself with desire and is therefore obese ... he is filled with desire to bursting … just like the BRAIN in TAB.

The Hiker has turned his back on Phil. He doesn’t even see the desperate man beside his car. Sherlock’s MIND, dismisses the desires of the BODY as unimportant and at best sencondary. Who needs that annoying ‘transport’, when one can ‘hike’ with the MIND wherever one wants and let the ideas fly? The brain is what counts, logic and reason … cases and mysteries are solved by the MIND … the desires of the BODY, who repeatedly tries to restart the transport, are just distractions which can/should be ignored and neglected. Especially when one has just unearthed a fascinting little memory from a long time ago …

Different aspects of Sherlock are dealing with related cases at the same time. One case lies in the past, the other one in the present. They overlap ... and this leads to consequences:

a car backfires and the sound of an explosion splits the silence = a BODY reacts and explodes/has an orgasm

a head gets bashed-in = ‘la petite mort’ of the BRAIN

The best thing about this interpretation is, that an almost similar scene, in a different setting, is played out a second time simultaneously during the Irene Adler case.

The repetition of a hit

Fascinated and very pleased with himself, Sherlock plays with a little item he has just retrieved from a secured and guarded place. He lets the thing fly through the air and catches it again, a bit like someone would do with a boomerang. This time though, it’s a camera phone packed full with ‘scandalous’ informations. Sherlock underestimates the danger he is in and most of all, he underestimates the opponent he is faced with.

Carelessly and maybe even provokingly he turns his back at Irene. The next second Sherlock is hit by a syringe full of chemistry … the chemistry of sex. Sherlock falls to the floor of Irene’s bedroom ... beaten by Mrs. Sex.

As mentioned above, in the final explanation of the boomerang case, the fall of the Hiker beside the small brook on the meadow, closely frames the fall of Sherlock in Irene’s bedroom … they actually become one fall. What lies closer at hand than to assume that both cases are actually about the same topic?

Sherlock’s experience of a sudden, unexpected orgasm … triggered by awakening emotions, while playing with a memory from the past.

A full list of the ‘cast’ involved in the boomerang case

The Hiker and his boomerang - Sherlock’s mind plays with an idea, with a once deleted but now revived memory

Phil and his unmoving car - Sherlock’s carnal desire, affected by the ‘John-Problem’, awakens and tries to start his sex drive

the colour green - it’s the colour of HOPE, rebirth and harmony (X) it’s also the colour assigned to John in the PILOT and ASIP. (X)

the river/lake - a lot of water means a lot of emotions, ‘deep waters, all your life’. Eurus represents emotions, the past and deleted memories

the small brook next to which the Hiker dies - Rich Brook, the storyteller who is also Jim Moriarty, Mr. Sex. RichBrook translates into Reichenbach, an event that is linked to the music of J.S. Bach

the ‘object’ on the meadow - (more on this in The Cabin on the Meadow)

Viewing Series One as prelude for the whole story, where the three episodes serve as introduction (ASIP), user manual (TBB) and chapter list (TGG), the actual story told in Sherlock BBC would then start with A Scandal in Belgravia.

“Don’t be alarmed ….. it’s to do with sex“

Mycroft’s statement, when he introduces Sherlock to the Irene Adler case, describes the whole episode in a nutshell. Sherlock’s RATIO tells himself (and the audience) what this case, this episode actually is about:

The emotional and sexual awakening of the character Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s appearance, when he starts his investigation of the boomerang case, is the most fitting outfit to present a metaphorical scenario for an awakening of this kind. Clothed in a pristine, white sheet (virginity), completely naked (newborn) beneath it and heartily yawning. Sherlock enters the ‘stage’ of 221b Baker Street, as if he had just woken up from a very long sleep. Just like Snow White slept in her coffin of glass before she woke to a new and exciting life (Sherlock in ASIP).

“Noises are important ... noises can tell you everything"

A car backfires, innitiated by Phil. There’s the loud noise of an explosion. Distracted, the Hiker turns and as a consequence, his head is hit and bashed-in.

A fire alarm goes off, innitiated by John. Mr. Archer (the ‘bowman’, Cupid) gets the order to shoot John in the head.

The most significant noises of this episode are the orgasmic sighs Sherlock’s phone makes every time the text alert gets activated by Mrs. Sex … 59 in total.

The noises are the most important factor on all three occasions … the explosion, the alarm, the orgasmic sigh ….

At the end of the episode Sherlock lets Irene’s phone fly again. He catches it, takes a thoughtfull look at the little thing and tucks it away in the drawer. Then Sherlock looks out of the window, while rain pours down the glass pane in front of his face.

Fiftynine orgasmic sighs have been ignored (59 calls will be ignored in TST before little Rosy is born). The phone and with it the sexual desires get tucked away in a drawer. Sherlock, detached and secure behind a wall of glass, contemplates the pouring rain/emotions. His RATIO always carries an umbrella to avoid getting wet/affected by emotions. But his RATIO also seems to be in need of a cigarette after that case. A substitute drug/chemistry instead of the ‘real thing’, the ‘natural high’ which he denies himself stubbornly? Meanwhile the ‘eternal friend’ is already soaked wet with rain. The matter of the ‘fixed point in a changing age’ has already become a highly emotional one for Sherlock, it seems. Looks very much like the first stage of drowning.

In the next episode the HOUND will be unleashed, immediately followed by Mr. Sex ….. ‘Honey, you should see me in a crown’ …. who smashes the impenetrable glass case and reaches for the Crown Jewels. (When the man with the key becomes king)

May, 2019

I leave you to your own deductions. Thanks @callie-ariane for the scripts.

#distractions and consequences #the boomerang case #Phil and the hiker #the backfiring car #metaphorical reading #alternate version #la petite mort

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imaginationstimulation · 4 years

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Highlighted Excerpts from Miranda July’s “The First Bad Man” 5 STARS, absolutely loved this book, it literally changed my life.

The NPR book review:

This cataloging of unglamorous inner life could be grotesque (and sometimes is) but there is something hugely generous about it. Writing about sex is a particular skill of July's — it is beautiful but real, not rapturous or misty or scene-lit.

Her humor comes from a careful literalness: a dragging out of the truth, and placing it in startling juxtaposition with the surface of things.

Quotes and highlights below. Expand to read.

YOUR KINDLE NOTES FOR: The First Bad Man: A Novel

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 7

“When in doubt, give a shout!” “Excuse me?” “I’m here for you. When in doubt, just give me a shout.” What silence. Giant domed cathedrals never held so much emptiness. He cleared his throat. It echoed, bouncing around the dome, startling pigeons. “Cheryl?” “Yes?” “I think I should go.” I didn’t say anything. He would have to step over my dead body to get off the phone. “Goodbye,” he said, and then, after a pause, he hung up.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 19

Once Carl had called me ginjo, which I thought meant “sister” until he told me it’s Japanese for a man, usually an elderly man, who lives in isolation while he keeps the fire burning for the whole village. “In the old myths he burns his clothes and then his bones to keep it going,” Carl said. I made myself very still so he would continue; I love to be described.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 22

As I walked to the door the map of the world detached from the wall and slid noisily to the floor. Not necessarily an indicator of anything.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 28

He was nervous—men are always sure they’ll be accused of some horrific crime after they talk about feelings.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 40

“Does it feel like we’ve known each other for longer than we really have?” “Kind of.” I could tell him or I could not tell him. I decided to tell him. “Maybe there’s a reason for that,” I ventured. “Okay.” He blew his nose again. “Do you know what it is?” “Give me a hint.” “A hint. Let’s see . . . actually, I can’t. There are no little parts to it, it’s all big.” I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. “I see a rocky tundra and a crouched figure with apelike features who resembles me. She’s fashioned a pouch out of animal gut and now she’s giving it to her mate, a strong, hairy pre-man who looks a lot like you. He moves his thick finger around in the pouch and fishes out a colorful rock. Her gift to him. Do you see where I’m going?” “Kind of? In that I see you’re talking about cavemen who look like us.” “Who are us.”

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 43

“She’s big-boned,” I said. “A lot of men think that’s attractive.” “Sure, a woman with that kind of body has a fat store that allows her to make milk for her young even if her husband isn’t able to bring meat home. I feel confident about my ability to bring meat home.” The words milk and fat store and meat had fogged up the windows faster than leaner words would have. We were in a sort of creamy cloud.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 44

“You’re the female me.” My heart started swooping around, like it was hanging on a long rope.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 45

I must have sat across from him at a hundred meetings of the board, but I had never let myself really study his face. It was like knowing what the moon looks like without ever stopping to find the man in it.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 47

His hand had a heat and weight that only real hands do. A hundred imaginary hands would never be this warm.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 53

This was probably the sign of a good therapist, seeming familiar to everyone.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 59

At the Ethiopian restaurant I requested a fork. They explained that I had to use my hands, so I asked for it to go, got a fork at Starbucks, and sat in my car. But my throat wouldn’t accept even this very soft meal. I put it on the curb for a homeless person. An Ethiopian homeless person would be especially delighted. What a heartbreaking thought, encountering your native food in this way.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 64

Our relationship is much more powerful and moving to me if we don’t compact our energy into our genitals.”

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 67

It’s one of those things that seems like a drag at first and then becomes second nature, until not doing it feels rude, almost aggressive.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 70

Suddenly it occurred to me that nothing might be happening. I’d done that before. I had added meaningful layers to things that were meaningless many, many times before.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 72

We’d been prehistoric together, medieval, king and queen—now we were this. It was all part of the answer to his question What keeps us coming back? He wasn’t done with me, and I wasn’t done with him.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 80

When she shoved me against my own desk I head-butted her and everyone else who wasn’t capable of understanding how nuanced I was.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 81

My eyes fell on the gray linoleum floor and I wondered how many other women had sat on this toilet and stared at this floor. Each of them the center of their own world, all of them yearning for someone to put their love into so they could see their love, see that they had it.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 82

I ate a pastry made out of white flour and refined sugar and watched the couple next to me feed each other bites of omelet. It was hard to believe they played adult games but most likely they did, probably with their coworkers or relatives. What were other people’s like? Perhaps some mothers and fathers pretended to be their children’s children and made messes. Or a widow might sometimes become her own deceased husband and demand retribution from everyone. It was all very personal; nobody’s game made any sense to anyone else. I watched seemingly dull men and women zooming past in cars. I doubted they all had written contracts like Ruth-Anne, but some did. Some probably had multiple contracts. Some contracts had been voided or transferred. People were having a good time out here, me included.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 83

This is nothing. We’ve seen fire and we’ve seen rain, I’d reply, quoting the song.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 85

Before every raw impulse there was a pause—I saw us through the homeless gardener’s eyes and felt obscene. Being outside society, he didn’t know about adult games; he was like me before I met Ruth-Anne, thinking everything that happened in life was real.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 90

Any two foes can fight in anger, but this was something rare. I was reminded of the Christmas Day soccer game between enemies in World War I or II. She still repulsed me, I’d still shoot her in battle the next day, but until dawn we’d play this game.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 92

Laughing like friends always emphasized that we weren’t. This wasn’t real like the laughing she did at home.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 92

“So what if it’s real for her?” she said, suddenly dropping her hands. “Real comes and goes and isn’t very interesting.”

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 103

The noise shook everything out of my head. What a magical way to get around. I’d always thought of these types of machines as toys for uneducated people who didn’t care about the environment, but maybe they weren’t. Maybe this was a kind of meditation. I felt connected to everything and the motor volume held me at a level of alertness I wasn’t used to. I kept waking up and then waking up from that, and then waking up even more. Was everything redneck actually mystical?

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 113

HER COWLIKE VACUOUSNESS DIDN’T REALLY bother me anymore. Or it didn’t matter—her personality was just a little piece of parsley decorating warm tawny haunches.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 114

She furrowed her brow and looked at the V my fingers were making. I had no idea what I was doing.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 120

It wasn’t really an appropriate card for a young girl; a group of rough-looking birds in rakish hats were playing cards with cigars in their beaks. It said something I can’t remember, but on the inside was a phrase like a virus or a self-replicating parasite waiting for a host. When I opened the card it flew out, gripping my brain with merciless talons: “Birds of a feather flock together.” It couldn’t be said just once, only repeated and repeated and repeated.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 123

It sort of worked. It wasn’t like saying abracadabra to make a rabbit disappear, poof. It was like saying abracadabra billions of times, saying it for years, until the rabbit died of old age, and then continuing to say it until the rabbit had completely decomposed and been absorbed into the earth, poof.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 125

Of course the point of being on the board was to be near him, but taking his place was interesting too. Almost better. For the first time I understood cigars and the urge to light one up and lean back.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 128

She looked utterly betrayed, as betrayed as the most betrayed person in Shakespeare.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 130

A cool breeze moved past and I knew how nice that must feel on his sweaty face, but that was all. I didn’t know how anything else would feel to him.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 131

We listened to the squeals change as the animal approached death; the pitch had entered the human register, every exertion contained a familiar vowel. If words began to form then I would go out there and break it up. Words, even crudely formed ones, would change the game entirely.

Highlight (Yellow) | Page 145

“Do you really think it’s necessary?” “Necessary? No. All that’s necessary is that you eat enough to survive. Highlight (Yellow) | Page 147

I could see it so clearly, the zygote—shiny and bulbous, filled with the electric memory of being two but now damned with the eternal loneliness of being just one.

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All these years I’d been looking for a friend, but Suzanne didn’t need a friend. A rival, though—that got her attention.

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When the meeting adjourned we both went to the staff kitchen and made cups of tea in silence. I waited for her to begin the conversation. I sipped. She sipped. After a while I realized this was the conversation; we were having it.

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But eventually she wanted it more than he did, and this made her lower than him. There was no way to knock down a woman who was already lying on the ground.

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He walked to the elevator. He pressed the button and we both listened, my therapist and I, and waited for this part to be over—the part where he had already left but was still with us.

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“This is the worst you’ll ever feel.” “Ever?” “Well, maybe not ever in your whole life. We don’t know how you’re going to die—that might be worse.” I had veered off course. I put my face right in front of hers. “You can do this,” I said.

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A bag of blood was rushed in; it was from San Diego. I’d been to the zoo there once. I imagined the blood being pulled out of a muscled zebra. This was good—humans were always withering away from heartbreak and pneumonia, animal blood would be much tougher, live, live, live.

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Her braids lay on her chest and she looked leaden with sorrow, like a picture from the Dust Bowl. You just knew her whole life was going to be hard, every second of it.

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After a long time, ten or fifteen minutes, the kissing slowed. There were a series of closing kisses, goodbye kisses, kisses placed like lids on boxes—then the lid would pop off and need to be replaced. There, this is the final kiss—no, this is the final kiss. This one is, it really is. And now I’m just kissing that kiss good night.

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Soft was the wrong word. Satiny? Supple? A new word, I would come up with it right now—which letters would I use? S, for sure. Maybe an O. Was this how words were made? How would I announce the word? Who would I contact about that?

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followed the doctor across the room. I yearned for a lawyer and the right to make a phone call. But those rights were for arrested people. We got nothing. Whatever he told me would be the new reality and we’d just have to accept

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They belonged here, both of them equally, as did the nurses and the doctors and Clee. None of them recognized the interloper among them, but they would soon. I’d gotten swept up in the drama of the situation and mistakenly involved myself.

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Almost! I said. There was no good way to be, so I was being cavalier, lancing my own heart. We came pretty close. See you next time!

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The last of her crying came out in a clotted sigh after the first kiss.

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We began a series of impatiently off-center ones, as if we were too hurried to land them properly; then our mouths became fingertips, moving blindly over the bumps and hollows of each feature.

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It was like a dream, where the most unlikely person can’t get enough of you—a movie star or someone’s husband. How can this be? But the attraction is mutual and undeniable; it is the reason for itself. And like a surprise on the moon or a surprise on the battlefield, astonishment was native to these parts.

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They were terrible people, even slightly worse than most.

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Should I introduce myself or try to kill them? Not violently, just enough that they wouldn’t exist.

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Was I like honey thinking it’s a small bear, not realizing the bear is just the shape of its bottle?

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WOKE WITH A START like a passenger on an airplane—for a moment I could feel how high I was and had an appropriate terror of falling.

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A howl was curdling inside me; the ache felt inhuman. Or maybe this was my first human feeling.

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Anyone who questions what satisfaction can be gained from a not-so-bright girlfriend half one’s age has never had one. It just feels good all over. It’s like wearing something beautiful and eating something delicious at the same time, all the time.

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“Can the writing be a little more fun?” she said. “You mean a different font?” “Maybe.” I put everything in chubby cartoon letters as a joke. “That looks good,” she said. She was right. The cartoon letters had a love of life in them, and wasn’t that what we were celebrating here?

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Suzanne fired him on the spot—her face shaking with regret about things she had not nipped while they were still in the bud.

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Clee held me from behind and our bodies interlocked like two Ss. “Not many people could do this,” I said, squeezing her arms. “Everyone does this.” “But not fitting together so perfectly the way we do.” “Any two people can do it.”

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I didn’t bathe him because I was too afraid he would slip out of my hands or his belly button would open. Then one night I woke at three A.M. certain he was rotting like a chicken carcass. Only as I lowered him into the sink did I realize this was a crazy time to wash a baby and I began to cry because he was so trusting—I could do anything and he would go along with it, the little fool.

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Clee asked if he could see in the dark like a cat and I said yes. Later I caught my mistake but it was five A.M. and she was asleep. The next day I forgot. Each day I forgot to tell her he couldn’t see in the dark like a cat and each night I remembered, with increasing urgency. What if this continued for years and I never told her? My body was so tired that it often floated next to me or above me, and I had to reel it in like a kite. Finally one night I wrote “He can’t see in the dark” on a slip of paper and put it by her sleeping face. “What’s this?” Clee asked the next day, holding the slip. “Oh, thank God, yes. Jack can’t see in the dark like a cat.” “I know.” Suddenly I was unsure how this had begun. Maybe she had never asked. I dropped the subject with dark thoughts about my own mind.

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But as the sun rose I crested the mountain of my self-pity and remembered I was always going to die at the end of this life anyway.

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If you were wise enough to know that this life would consist mostly of letting go of things you wanted, then why not get good at the letting go, rather than the trying to have?

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I began to understand that the sleeplessness and vigilance and constant feedings were a form of brainwashing, a process by which my old self was being molded, slowly but with a steady force, into a new shape: a mother. It hurt. I tried to be conscious while it happened, like watching my own surgery. I hoped to retain a tiny corner of the old me, just enough to warn other women with. But I knew this was unlikely; when the process was complete I wouldn’t have anything left to complain with, it wouldn’t hurt anymore, I wouldn’t remember.

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After smiling came laughing, then rolling over. The days and nights began to unwarp; three A.M. became an ordinary time. The first few months were hard for all new parents, a test, really—and we had passed!

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For the first time in my life I understood TV, why everyone watched it. It helped. Not in the long run, of course, but minute by minute.

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what it felt like to be a mother, to be terrifyingly in love without the option of getting off.

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It must happen all the time, a fleeting passion overwhelms someone’s true course and there’s nothing to be done about it.

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one lone voice in an infinite cathedral, climbing and echoing and praising. The singer was lifted up and illuminated with gratitude, not for any one thing, but for the whole of this life, even for the agony.

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Rainbows are alone; they’re the only thing like that. The crystal began to wind the other way, sending the bright fleet back across his body. I could tell he didn’t believe me; it did seem unlikely. I racked my brain for others of the species. Reflections, shadows, smoke—these things were morose and distant cousins at best.

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I cleared my throat. “I love you.” His head shook with surprise. My voice was low and formal; I sounded like a wooden father from the 1800s. I continued. “You are a sweet potato.” This sounded literal, as if I was letting him know he was a root vegetable, a tuber. “You’re a baby,” I added, just in case there was any confusion on that last point.

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we had only spent a few hours a day in the NICU with him. That wasn’t enough. It was enough for us at the time, but now it haunted me. Twenty hours a day he’d lain there alone. There would be other unpardonable crimes, I could feel them coming—things that in retrospect would become my greatest regrets.

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Ruth-Anne, I would say, can we put the past behind us? Better not to phrase it as a question. The past is behind us. That was good. Who could argue with that?

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It was like being accused of a crime committed in a dream.

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As she looked up at him her whole bearing shifted; she became luminous. Not with the light of life, but like a husk lit electrically from within.

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Just his name on a piece of paper could set her off. Even a word like Broyard—barnyard, backyard—sent her into an exhausted loop of fantasies. Everything else in her life, including her own therapy practice, was faked. The spell consumed 95 percent of her energy but she was surprised to see that no one noticed; the wafer-thin 5 percent version of her sufficed.

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Something strange was happening with Ruth-Anne. It didn’t seem good.

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Each word he said was boring, but collectively the melody of them lulled me.

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I tried to resist, but just the weight of him, in pounds and ounces, was a relief. Always being the heaviest person in the house had been exhausting.

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“Of course I’m here for you,” I said. It was a relief; being angry at him was hard work.

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I’m the woman who just told her her feet smell; I could still see her enormous smile and how it fell.

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